SPEAKING IN TONGUES

GROUP-MINDED: Conclusion

2006-06-21T23:53:00.000-07:00

In the beginning, DMS was a tool to publish my stories. But, somewhere along the way, like a great character, it became sentient – alive, breathing, and out of my control. It found me unworthy and left, but not without showing me exactly what I had lost.

It began just before production was to start. I’d put the book through rewrites, adding over ten pages. Bloody Pencil had done work on the character’s design, but I wanted it redone, emphasizing changes I’d made. I would have gone through Glasshouse, but I wanted to see Lazarus in a different style, and previous attempts were unsuccessful. Neil tried, but I wasn’t happy. I emailed Draxhall to “draxify” the character, but they couldn’t do it in the week I had to get it done. I mentioned my problem to Bloody Pencil who wanted to help me out. I was hesitant at first, but I had no other choice, but to let him try and knock it out. What an understatement – Bloody Pencil knocked it out the park!

It was the best thing I’d seen him draw in months. One of the best things I’ve seen from him in years, going back to those first illustrations of angels that sparked imagination ten years prior. That image was to herald a new stage in Bloody Pencil’s life. With me he was reduced to a child, crying in the corner, afraid of the luminous shadow of his drawing desk that blinded him. Without me, he pushed forward. In no time he was taking freelance art gigs from smalltime caricatures to television, then film. While my star dwindled, I watched as he soared.

I’d always believed that Bloody Pencil and I were like the same person from different realities. Choices I’d made, he turned away from. Corners he’d turned, I refused to encounter. And now, it was as if we couldn’t both succeeding without the other. We shared the same space, energy, place in time. Someone had to fall for the other to rise. Karma would dictate whom. I’d betrayed my friend. Let temptations come between us. I’d listened to the opinions of a stranger and let him lead me away from loyalty and friendship. This was my punishment.

I watched as my energy dwindled with every problem I endured through production. I watched as my chosen artist chose not to do his best work, ignored the script, proper references, and instructions. As I drowned in corrections I wished I could go back in time and undo the mistake I’d made, with Bloody Pencil, and with Merlin.

Merlin had resigned and I’d done nothing to stop it. I wish I had. I wish I ripped his virtual resignation in half. Writing became a lonely practice without Merlin to bounce ideas off and find the right paths. And, I must admit, it made me feel good when I wrote a scene that hit him in just the right way. There was a time, back in the earlier days, when I wrote an issue of Qabbal, and Merlin read it, looked at me and said I was becoming the writer he knew I could be. That gave me a tremendous feeling of accomplishment. The same way it feels when you impress your kung-fu master.

Despite Merlin’s hard hand at times, he kept me going, gave me encouragement, and made sure the shadows of my mind didn’t consume me. Without him, I was left alone as the darkness swallowed me whole. Melodramatic, I know, but true all the same. The fatality that did me in was Merlin and Bloody Pencil teaming on a project. I must admit, I was jealous. I missed both of them, and I worried they would recapture that magic without me. In my depression, I feared perhaps that I was never a necessary ingredient of DMS at all. It, they, never needed me. Perhaps it was I all that time, the one that held everything back. The one that kept DMS from rising. As I searched for a name for myself, I wondered if they would call themselves DMS. It’s a hard thing, when you need someone, to know they don’t need you.

I played with names, trying to find ways to describe myself. I asked Bloody Pencil and Merlin surprised me when they suggested I take DMS for myself. I thought about it, and sometimes felt lazy enough to go with it, but it didn’t feel right. DMS was more than just I, and calling just myself that was amputating. Not knowing exactly what to do, I forgot about the whole thing and pushed forward.

I can’t remember exactly how or why, but after months, the lines of continuous communication opened between Merlin and I. It was weird at first because I wanted to pick up where we left off, bouncing story ideas, talking comics and movies. But, I also wanted to show him that I had grown a bit. I was weak, but not as weak as before. I wanted to dazzle him. So, things were awkward, but got better over time, progressing gradually from dinners to a night out or chill’ in front of the tube.

But, It wasn’t who first suggested a DMS reunion. It was Bloody Pencil. Out of the blue, one night on the phone he wanted to get DMS back together, and right then we both thought of Merlin, but he had a publishing deal in the works. We asked why he would even need us anymore. We met once; at a Denny’s restaurant in Highland Park we discussed the future, our future together. It was the last either of us spoke of it.

Life can get in the way of so many things. Bloody was working two jobs and taking freelance gigs that were coming in one after another. I was sinking more and more every day into my own lake of fire. No matter how much we both wanted to restart DMS, it just wasn’t the right time. But, the seeds had been planted. The desire was there. I was too far-gone to notice. And, further I sank.

Immersed in the Twilight of the Soul, I went into, what would come to describe as, emotional shock, manifesting in a waking coma. Like a schizophrenic coming into his or her disease, I turned to drugs for relief. Unfortunately, I went to a psychologist instead of a psychiatrist, and therapy became my junk. In that small room I’d get my fix. Where once writing relieved all my ills, now I was hooked on that hour-long crap I took on myself. But, I got over that, and I still see myself in the midst of a withdrawal. But, I’m coming out of that too.

I remember the good days, when DMS was strongest. I would imagine us like wrestlers, walking down a stage to the ring with the DMS music playing from everywhere. Everything became DMS. The DX theme from the WWE, the DMX song that was popular. I’d switch the letters, subtract one, and add two. I’d see us at the Eisner Awards:

Announcer: And the winner for best comic of the year…

Wait for it.

Announcer: Danse Macabre Studios.

The room would go dark; spotlights would come on, moving form side to side in a chaotic, indecisive back & forth. A voice is heard of the loud speaker.

Voice: Are you ready?

The music would start with a heavy base, a video monitor would appear, showing people running in a riotous panic. The DMS emblem, a cross and pentagram joined in a westernized yin & yang union would flash between shots. And finally, a screaming voice that sound too similar to Zack from Rage Against the Machine would scream-

Voice: DMS!

Yeah, it’s the opening to Degeneration X. But, for that time, in my mind, it was our entrance music, and I switched between that and DMX’s video, with the three of us in the center of a round stage, gangsta rapping.

One of the last good memories I have in my old house was the first DMS reunion in three years. Merlin, Bloody Pencil, and I on a Saturday night, doing what we do. An old fashion jam session, tossing around ideas. It felt so good, I wanted to blurt out right then: “Hey, lets get DMS back together!” But I kept quiet and watched them walk away, wondering if they felt the same way I did. Did they feel the magic? Could we get it all back? When I emerged from Twilight, the first thing that came to me was putting DMS back together. When I think about it, I get so pump, full of spit and fire. I want to pick up my phone, call Bloody Pencil and Merlin, and ask them – no, tell them – I’m putting DMS back and I want you. I need you, both of you. You’re my muses and doing this, creating this, isn’t the same without you. I need you. Come back. Lets do it again. Lets do it right this time. I’m sorry I failed you, both of you. I won’t let that happen again. I promise, no talk of quitting, no surrender, no more twilights and goodnights. I’m in to win.

I got nothing to offer you, either of you. Honestly, you’re both better off without me. But, if we do this, and we will, I guarantee you’ll have the time of your life doing what you want to do, the way you want it done. Image shouldn’t be the only publisher not ass-raping new creators media rights. They shouldn’t be the only one still daring to be unique, eclectic, and original. Comics are boring, men. Big business has taken everything over. Characters are being destroyed in the name of Entertainment Weekly and USA Today articles. Goddamn it, the fans are screaming. Merlin, you said what separated me from someone’s work that shall remain nameless is my honesty. No one is being honest anymore. Sure, I still have insane ideas, but it’s no longer about destruction, but revolution. A superhero, comic book revolution. Our devil’s dance won’t be about darkness, but light and revelation.

That’s a lot, I know. Coming from nothing, with nothing, and promising everything. But you know, that’s how I got my first real girlfriend, resulting in my wife of eleven years, my two kids, and my family. I’m going to have DMS back. I need it. It’s a part of me, just like breathing. I can’t write without or outside of it.

And, I’m a fucking writer. Like it or not. I can’t run, fight, or hide from who I am. Ultimately, in my world. A writer is someone who does it against his or her will, regardless of material gain.

The last time I looked, I was the only one here.

JPG.

GROUP-MINDED Pt. 7

2006-06-21T01:40:00.000-07:00

And then, there were two.

Two of the weakest.

Two of the most misguided.

We were the only ones left to fulfill a dream and we failed miserably. Perhaps I’m being too hard on Bloody Pencil and myself, but this isn’t about more excuses. It’s confession time. And, for my part, I was all talk and no action until it was too late; then I had the gaw to turn my back on a friend guilty of no crime I hadn’t committed myself.

Merlin left, Bloody Pencil and I renewed our vow to a dream. We slammed ourselves full throttle into Qabbal with no hesitations. I triple the number of scripts I’d finished. We put together a proposal that is still the best we’ve ever done. Bloody Pencil invested in a Mac computer for the artwork. We brought in Rob for colors and reconnected with Juan to get our website done, finally.

But it all fell on deaf ears. When the rejection letter came, we had the guts to shelve Qabbal for something more commercial. That was the birth of Lazarus. We talked about joining Marvel’s Epic line, and started developing a Dr. Strange script that still amazes me. We put together a ten page Lazarus story for Digital Webbing. Came up for a web strip series called Sinful Siblings, a mixture of Raggedy Anne and Andy with goth subculture.

For a while, it was beautiful. I developed the Four Month Plan, a detailed outline of what we had to get done each month. In four months, we’d have an operational website, with a blog, forum, and web comics; a ten page story published in a growing anthology, and I was in communication with an editor who coached us through the process to give us the best chance of acceptance. It had taken over five years, but I had finally taken DMS by the reigns.

We failed the plan, not once, but twice.

By this time Lazarus: Immortal Coils was complete. The first story I ever complete from beginning to end, and it looked like it would never get done. I’d pushed away all the obstacles I let getting the way between Bloody Pencil and I. We avoided talking about his wife, and when we did, I didn’t flood his ears with talk of divorce and disrespect. I even went so far as visiting his home, just to squash it. I fell in love with his art again, accepted him for the artists he is, and not who I wanted him to be, fulfilling my own grand delusions. And still we had nothing. My wife was pregnant. I was older. I had to do what I could to get my dream off the ground, but that meant saying goodbye to DMS.

Years earlier, my father had said he would support me in my writing endeavors, but I had to go it alone. He didn’t want his money profiting anyone except me. Especially, not if I could some day have a company I established taken from away. The possibility hung over my head for years, but I never acted because it was a betrayal to me. I couldn’t abandon my crew, but it was also about giving up that security and support, and I wasn’t ready. But this time the offer was too good to ignore. My father remembered his words and agreed to help. Instead of starting fresh, I went to the same person I always did to draw the book, Bloody Pencil.

It wasn’t all me. When he heard my father had approved me, Bloody Pencil put in a bid for the work. $10 per for a ninety-six-page book, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse, and the thought of refusing never entered my mind. It made sense that once I started paying for the work, Bloody Pencil would produce the art in on time. After the first deadline was missed, I extended and re-set to allow for more time, but it didn’t matter. The final straw came when I started looking for an inker. I’d communicated with everyone, including Dani Miki. But it was Dave at Glasshouse that responded to an ad I’d placed. When I showed him the pages, he slammed Bloody Pencils work – hard.

An offer was made from Glasshouse to produce the entire book, and I was temped, but stuck with Bloody Pencil, until, at the most crucial time in our business relationship, he missed another deadline. I didn’t have to fire him, thank God. Bloody Pencil quit for the good of the book. To the very end, he was thinking of DMS.

But DMS was already dead. The very names alone inspired bad memories and misappropriated time. I didn’t want the name. I didn’t want to think about it, or jinx my chances now that I was working independently. Things were good at first. I was real busy, and I took pride in what I was doing, Things were finally looking up. I had a book in production. Professionals were doing it. I was closer than I’d ever been to realizing my dream.

Ironically, that’s when the first sting came, like a fast and sharp jab to the chin, gone before you realize you’ve been hit. I knew something was wrong the first time I went to Comics Ink. DMS was put to bed. I was alone, the first time I’d walk through those doors alone in ten years. The place was full of memories. I went home with two bags of comics and read them by myself. It was midnight on a Saturday, and I was alone. It felt like I hadn’t been alone in years, and I hadn’t. Everything lost its thrill. As the time drew closer for me to reinvent myself, I wondered what name I would embrace. I’d been known as DMS for so long, anything else didn’t fit, but neither did DMS, not anymore.

What would I become?

JPG.

GROUP-MINDED Pt. 6

2006-06-20T02:29:00.000-07:00

In Arthurian legend, Arthur was the king, but he was nothing without his mentor, Merlin. And, despite how we view the events, it was the loss of Merlin that signal the fall of the kingdom. Without Merlin, Excalibur would have stayed with the Lady. There would be no knights, no table round, and perhaps Arthur and Gwenivere would have passed each other by. Maybe that would have been for the best.

I met my Merlin at a comic shop, Comic’s Ink. I’d gone in the store a few times, never speaking, but always aware. I’d listen to Merlin talk to his customers about comics, movies, music, and quantum physics. Always wanting to join in the fun, but too afraid. Trying to remember in my old age how we met exactly, I think I owe it all to one stranger who approached Merlin for advice on a script. When I saw that, I saw an opportunity, and I was always anxious to have someone praise my work. This was back in the day when my only feedback came from friends and girlfriend.

I remember only one thing from our first conversation. Merlin asked me, “What books are you reading.” I don’t think he realized just whom he was dealing with or he would have simply said, “Looks good.” Leave it at that. But right there our relationship was formed. I was squire, and he was wise man. It’s for that reason I asked him to join Gothic Studios. I knew nothing of the comic industry, and I’d heard Merlin speak enough on the subject to know how aware he was of the ins and outs. Besides, when forming a comic studio, it doesn’t hurt to have a retailer in on the ground floor.

At Merlin’s first meeting, he hipped us to the facts and killed all enthusiasm when he gave us his only condition for joining us. We had to realize that breaking in would take five years minimum. He couldn’t have picked the wrong bunch of kids to tell. Alex and I dealt with it, but used it as a tool to procrastinate. Neil saw it as a hurdle to jump, and when he couldn’t, he blamed the industry and us. But, that didn’t change the fact that Merlin was right. It takes five years, minimum. We accepted, Merlin joined, and without his guidance many thing DMS accomplished would have never happened. We probably wouldn’t have known or gone to the San Diego convention, put proposals together, had business cards, met professionals, and made ashcans. Qabbal would still be Dead Souls and I’d still write anything but full comic strip format. But, probably the biggest thing we owe to him is keeping DMS alive much longer than it would have been had he not been around.

DMS needed a leader, and I was so afraid I often ran away when the group needed me most. At those times, Merlin was there to grab the reigns. He was the leader I should have been, and there were times I saw it, knew it, and envied him for it. But, it was the quiet moments, when it was just the two of us, when I’d let my ego take a rest and we’d talk about everything, every problem I was having in and out of the studio. There were times he was an understanding friend, and others where he was the crabby old kung fu master. Because of him I started reading books I’d never pick up. I discovered Phillip K. Dick is the driest writer on the planet. His stories are the only ones better on screen than paper. I read about nanotechs in Blood Music. African magic in Blood Brothers. I read about junk from Burroughs and more junk from HST. He took away my reliance on inspiration and gave me control of my imagination. But, while I became a better writer, I was becoming a worse person.

It’s all about timing. Meet the right person at the right time and you could create an independent nation. Meet them at the wrong time, and you’ll find yourself in San Diego, dead in a bunk bed. I met Merlin shortly after I was married and we became friends real fast. Alex, Neil, and I hung out, but Merlin and I practically lived together. We’d see each other every single day almost. We’d go to movies and dinners with our wives. We traveled together. Smoked weed together. Sometimes we just hung out. But I was going through changes, and there were thing in Merlin’s life that was too dangerous for me at the time. The shiny loaded gun in the shoebox a child can’t imagine would blow his or her head off. It doesn’t take crack to make a junky. Anything is narcotic for someone with an addictive personality. It started at the con with porn stars, went so far as strip bars, and became obsessive with nudie magazines. Funny, unjust though it may be, I seem to remember myself in the same way I watched Johnny Cash destroy himself in Walk the Line. It all started with a “pick me up.” Merlin was going through his own tribulations, but I won’t assume to know what they were. I’ll simple say things were out of balance.

While I drowned, I forced myself on Merlin all the more. I went from Arthur to Uther, always relying on Merlin’s magic for everything. Then Merlin began to pull back. Perhaps he felt taken advantage of, and that wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Or, per chance he knew I relied on him too much. Hell, he could have just gotten bored and tired of seeing me every day. I knew things were different when I went into his store one night with the usual “I suck” look on my face. I opened, looking for the usual pat on my back. Instead, I was given a verbal slap across the face. A “get off your ass” speech that sent me back. It was a wake up call on several levels.

It’s very hard to change anything once it’s become a habit, and both of us fell into that trap. The days between meetings were full of decisive decisions, but every Saturday just saw more of the same procrastinations. It got to a point when Merlin would not come to every meeting because there was nothing to do. I knew there was something wrong, bnut I did nothing. I was enjoying my newfound body and ego too much to care. Merlin started drifting. And then, he was gone. There were only two of us left. And we started strong, in the beginning. But, Merlin was the driving force. The meme of DMS that kept us focused. Without him, we became lost, uncertain, and fear would eat us alive.

JPG.

CHARACTER ASSASSINATION

2006-06-15T02:36:00.000-07:00

Have you heard the BIG news?

Marvel’s Civil War # 2 hit the direct market today and it’s ending is one EIC Quesada has been pumping for weeks now. Normally, about this time, would do a “SPOILER WARNING!” But, I’m not that big an asshole.

For those who don’t know, Civil War is another attempt by Mark Millar to exterminate American comics. In this attempt, the US Government passes a registration act forcing heroes to make their identities known to them, receive training and funding if needed, and become answerable to the law if something horrible happens as a direct result of their actions. In the first issue the “superhero team” The New Warriors attacked recently escaped villains living in a small town. One of them was the man who called himself Nitro, with the power of detonating himself at will. Nitro’s big claim to fame is he indirectly killed Captain Marvel. This time, he directly kills a shitload of civilians, including a school full of kids.

“The lines are drawn” as Marvel’s been saying, and there are those heroes who side with the government, agreeing to sign the act. And, those who are against it, becoming federal criminals. In # 2, Spider-Man, who’s sided with the government, reveals his identity to the world in a press conference; and just like that, forty-four years of comic and character history goes to shit.

When I first read the news, I wasn’t floored. I simply asked my why Marvel was doing this? Why would they allow anyone to do this? Not that the comic fan in me was questioning this; it was the writer. In my gut, which is still twenty-five percent a writer, I knew something was wrong, but couldn’t put my finger on it. The whole thing just felt empty and without meaning. I didn't care, and that alone made me curious. The question of why just kept repeating in my head. Not until I spoke to Alex, did it become clear.

Anyone who knows the character, knows how important keeping his identity a secret is. In the character’s history, anyone who’s ever learned his identity has either killed or been killed because of it. He’s made the question of his identity more than just a gimmick, it’s part of the character’s choices that define him. Stripping him of his secret identity doesn't destroy four decades of history, but it does remove a lot of the value and emotional investment. More, devalues of Peter Parker as a hero, a man who's suffered for so much, only to get so little in return, just because it's the right thing to do, and he's one of the few who can do something. It robs the supporting characters, alive and dead, of their sacrifices. It mocks the efforts of his wife, Mary Jane, who's sacrificed her life in the name of Peter's morality, and the concern of his Aunt May, including what it meant for her to find out his secret life after years of secrets, and her choice to support him despite her objections.

The point has been made that now, more than ever, Peter and his family are the most protected they've ever been. And, with the Registration Act requiring him to reveal himself, now is the time. You know what I say? Bullshit. There comes a time for every person who lives a lie when they reach the point of no return. When keeping the lie alive is actually the right thing to do, because revealing the truth would be too destructive. Peter Parker had reached that point, and gone beyond it. Safety is an illusion, 9-11 taught us this. It's when you think everything is okay that everything goes to shit. No one knows this more than Peter Parker. After forty-four years, he's become a walking banner for such twists of fate. He finally finds his one true love, only for her to die at the hands of his best friend's insane father. His Uncle Ben was killed after he received his powers - a nerd's dream comes true. Just when his star is on the rise, J.J. Jameson launches a smear campaign against him. And, every time it looks like Spidey is going from vigilante to bonafide super hero, someone in a copycat suit frames him for a crime he didn't commit.

I keep writing about this form the character's point of view because it proves that this is completely not in character. It's so much outside of character; it's not even in the same universe. You almost wonder if it's another fucking clone, or if Iron Man has brainwashed Peter somehow because Spider-Man, a counterculture icon, joining "The Man" is too out there. If Superman represented the "Might Makes Right" ideas of conservatism in the 1960's and even today, then Spider-Man is definitely the "hippie" superhero. This is the guy who now joins the gov'ment, not to mention Tony Stark.

Again, I ask the question "Why?" What's the point? Juice? Media? Attention? Is this what its come down to, people - fans of the comic medium, my brothas and sistas? Is this what we're left with now, characters and books that are nothing more than tools for media hype. All this to draw in new readers who only care about dollar signs and future investments. The same people who nearly broke the industry ten years ago.

My people, my family in mythology, I'm preaching to you again about the industry taking us for granted and treating us like crack whores and junkies, a guaranteed sale. We keep this industry alive. We put asses in the seat of those comic based movies. You know we make up over 50% of those ticket sales. We're the reason there were three X-Men movies, and the third Spidey on the way. Hollywood knows what publishers have forgotten - loyalty.

This is coming from the guy who writes about making Batman gay, I know. But, while I'm all for character change and growth, I'm a big believer in continuity and a disbeliever in many ideas that following a character's history is limiting and damaging. It's the history of these characters that make them exciting. The main reason I'm reading DC right now is because of the history. The reason I'm dropping Marvel books, one after the other, is their disrespect of history.

Maybe Marvel is doing better financially, but its stuff like this that make it seem as if they're still struggling to rebuild after the bankruptcy. And DC needs to stop trying to play their game and stick to what they do best, well-written stories that have substance.

JPG.

GROUP-MINDED Pt. 5

2006-06-11T02:34:00.000-07:00

While Neil’s departure was unfortunate, it was necessary. Neil had become a shadow, never truly making his feelings known, just staying in the background where, once, he had been in the forefront. Neil blamed us for his misfortunes, his lack of money, food, and his suicidal tendencies. And, for this, we’ve been “blackballed.”

The subject still makes me very angry. How can someone blame another human being for choices they failed to make or made? I would like to stay home and write all day, but I can’t. Even before I wanted a family, I wanted a life. I like eating. I like having money in my pocket. There is no reason in this day and age, or yesterday’s, for a “starving artist.” If you decide to travel that road, it’s your choice to do so. Neil may have been “incapable” of working a small job for cash, but that was his choice, and everything that came from that is on him, not me, or us.

Despite that, he was right, we did fail him.

That left three of us to carry on DMS and take it somewhere. Here is where I should have stepped up to the plate. My connection with Bloody Pencil and Merlin were a little bit stronger because we shared many of the same interests. Neil was always one foot in and another out of the geek world. But, Bloody Pencil, Merlin, and I were all the way in. Bloody Pencil was the heart of DMS. No one believed more than he did. Believed so much he put a few thousand dollars in the business account we started. Here I was, the “founder” and I hadn’t put in a dime. I tried to stop Bloody Pencil; I knew what would happen, I would almost foresee the road ahead and I knew asking or even accepting the money was a gross manipulation.

I was always doing stuff like that and I wonder if it made me seem schizophrenic. I knew what we had been getting thinner by the moment. It was only a matter of time before it vanished before our eyes. Magic had been lost. A fire that we thought was unquenchable. And, in it’s place, was pragmatism and procrastination. Saturday nights saw us meeting at my place, buying comics, food, dvd’s, and spending the evening talking a little business and a whole lot of pop culture. My wife didn’t even know what to make of these “business meetings” and told me on several occasions that I needed to get serious.

But I didn't listen; even though I knew she was right. There were times I tried to take the reigns. Those small-unexpected times when I would gain strength from some unknown place, but it never lasted too long. I'd damaged my own credibility.

Bloody Pencil was going through his own hell at the time, courtesy of yours truly. Being around artists for most of my teenage years and young adult life, I felt I had a smidgen of artistic know how. But, this perception was misguided by my own grand delusions. I dreamt of stories, my stories, drawn by people like Andy Kubert, Jim Lee, and Tom Raney. That's who I compared Bloody Pencil's work to every time I saw it. If it didn’t match up, I'd get upset - very upset. This built up a low artistic esteem that was never missing before. There was also the subject matter. Dead Souls had changed into Qabbal, and the story became a very dangerous one to tell. As it got better, Bloody Pencil felt the need to succeed at it. Fueled by my anger and dreams of artistic glory, he needed every page to be gold. Deadlines were missed; pages took forever to get done.

It was an unending circle of events, the longer it took pages to get done, the more time I had on my hands. I tried several different projects, but was unable to comfortably switch between the two. I went back to my first script, found holes, and went to fixing them. That led to the first re-write, but with every reading, I found more things, or things I wished I'd thought of earlier. I'd see a movie and walk out with two or three ideas for the book. The longer the pages took, the more I re-wrote the scripts. Pages that Bloody Pencil had already finished had to go back to pencil to make the changes in the script. Things were deteriorating on a personal level too, our friendship and partnership was under fire and in jeopardy.

Before Neil's departure, Bloody Pencil said, after years of nothing, he wanted a relationship. When I worked temp, I met this girl who seemed nice and I set her up with Bloody. This relationship started becoming an unnecessary diversion, and there was nothing I could do because it was my fault. I brought her into the mix. So, on top of everything Bloody was dealing with - his own doubts and insecurities about his art, fears of how the story would effect his strict Catholic family, and a partner who's constantly using him to make real his delusional fantasies - now he has a girlfriend who put him through the emotional ringer not even three months after their first date.

Neil and I were still talking, because no matter what we are still friends, and it became a running gag to imagine twenty years gone by and still no issue one was complete. I'd often joke that the humans of the future would open a time capsule and there would sit an incomplete copy of Qabbal # 1.

In retrospect, I think it was all a symptom of fear and uncertainty from all of us. Here we were on this endeavor with no idea, really, how to get it done without failing like so many others. Every idea we had was a crapshoot. All we could do was follow the rulebook, but others who failed wrote it. The comic industry can be truly frightening. It's not like movies. Movies, no matter how bad, have an audience. Someone will buy it. Hell, some of the worst movies in the world become cult classics. Movies have several lives - theatrical, video, dvd, television, cable, etc. Comics only have one market, the direct market. Everything goes through one guy, the retailer. If he doesn't like it, he won't book it. If he doesn’t book it, no one buys it. They won't even know you exist. And for this, we were willing to risk everything, even money we didn't have, and had no idea how to get. After five San Diego conventions and two rejection letters, it was hard to have high hopes.

But, I was the leader. It was my job to keep hope alive. Instead, others had to keep me afloat. If the leader is afraid, the army runs for the hills. Merlin's departure was inevitable.

GROUP-MINDED Pt. 4

2006-06-08T02:25:00.000-07:00

Letting Dave and his book Glacier join our ranks was the first bad moves in a long list of to come. Things changed. Neil and Bloody Pencil looked behind the curtain of the Great Oz and just saw a man who didn’t know what he was doing, and didn’t have the balls to do what had to be done.

The lines between business and friendship started to blur. We did less and less work each meeting. We brought more of our personal lives into the mix. I became too comfortable, and exposing my Charlie Brown-like persona made me a target for disrespect. That’s not to mean anything was done maliciously, but even if you’re friends with your supervisor, you don’t cross a line that would impair his image with others.

I became too pragmatic, a result of my growing concern for the essentials, like money. No matter how many cool ideas we had, I would always find a reason why we couldn’t do them, or couldn’t do them right then and there. I called myself being realistic, but that realism killed the impulsiveness that brought these men to me in the first place. Essentially, the Man with No Name became William Munny.

It wasn’t long before things started to fall apart. Neil got a job with Lucas Arts and told everyone, but me, because he felt I couldn’t handle it. It was obvious Neil would be the first to go. Out of all of us, he seemed most effected by the addition of Dave and became the most annoyed and vocal about our “careful planning.” He had a deadline for how long it would take him to explode, and we were slowing him down. But, in our defense, we were not his only obstacles.

Neil was starving, literally. Several nights, Bloody Pencil or I would take him food, or drive him to McDonalds for ten orders of the one-dollar special. We coaxed him into getting a job to bring in some money, but it didn’t take. While multi-capable, Neil is very single minded. Once he sets a goal, nothing really can be allowed to get in his way. Everything else becomes an annoyance; you can imagine what it’s like for that kind of person to do telemarketing. It nearly killed him.

What no one knew until years later was Neil was so bad off, he considered suicide. And by “considered”, I mean he came too close to an attempt. The experts say those people who are contemplating suicide with no one knowing are the ones to be worried about. Well, Neil said nothing to no one. On the surface, his life was hard, but he was smiling through it. None of us knew how close he came to ending it all.

Neil was the first to get a real gig as an artist, doing designs for a horror movie. From there, he started networking and other jobs popped up. One minute he was designing werewolves, the next he was illustrating an album cover. Finally, the money started rolling in… Or it would have, had the people who hired him actually paid the money. What Neil didn’t get in cash, he made in connections. Soon, he was doing design work on Stephen Sommer’s The Mummy.

The last summer we were all together, we went to the San Diego Comicon with a proposal for all of our books: Qabbal, Clan of the Vein, Glacier, and a new addition – Doc Abraxas. For the previous four years, we went to the convention with proposals to look warm response. That year we were finally getting some notice. Or, rather, Glacier was getting noticed.

Never in my life had I seen karma strike so hard, fast, and cold. Everyone we showed our proposal to did bug-eyes for Glacier. Neil and Bloody Pencil were floored. After all the crap they’d spewed, payback was unkind. I felt unjustly vindicated for letting Dave in the grou and for all the words I knew Neil and Bloody Pencil shared at my expense for "picking up" Glacier. Merlin and I took great delight in watching their display – it was the funniest shit I’d seen in a long time or since. For two nights we relived a day of dissappointment and laugh as Neil and BLoody Pencil died in front of us. Mean, right? Well, by then, that was the kind of gorup we were. Unfortunately, it's not the kind we should have been, and it proved destructive.

That night, I delivered my best speech yet, the “Put You dick on the Chopping Block” speech. I can’t even remember what I said, all I can remember is I said the phrase: “We have to put our dicks on the chopping block!” repeatedly for an hour. I still consider it one of the best sayings I ever had, even if it is a little gay and masochistic.

Soon after, Neil left to focus on his acting. Ironically, the art jobs became more illustrious with the switch, and he even worked on a few books set for publication. Neil was one of the best artists I’ve seen and a damn good idea man. Together, in the early morning hours, chilling at his condo or talking on the phone, we came up with ideas that would have been amazing to see realized. I often wonder about getting him back, but I know it won’t happen.

The foursome became three. Soon, we’d lose another.

GROUP-MINDED Pt. 3

2006-06-07T02:16:00.000-07:00

In the beginning, Gothic Studios had two books: Umbra and Clan of the Vein. Umbra later became Dead Souls and the story went from a game between Jesus and Lucifer, to five evil as fuck people being the only ones who can save humanity from the End Times.

Those were good times. Weeknights found me at Bloody Pencils house cranking out character designs and having general discussions on story and comics. Saturdays, we crashed at Neil’s condo in Silver Lake, before it became the gay man’s new Mecca.

One character, Priest, Bloody Pencil must have drawn twenty times, each time a new variation on the design. The cool thing about the character was these two ponytails the came down from his head like twisted devil horns. His head was completely bald, except for those two tails. A lot of things happened in those days to change things around. Gothic Studios became Danse Macabre when, at a convention, I found a comic by a company with the same name. Neil was the one who suggested Danse Macabre or Devil’s Dance, and it stuck. Later, with the emergence of DMX, I started referring to us as DMS. Are focus went more from horror to alternative, and are dreams a small group of artists publishing comics, went to dreams of being a publishing company with huge offices, movie deals, and millions of fans. But, for those first few months, it was magic.

The ideas flew fast, so fast we forgot more than we remembered. We were ahead of our time. The internet was new and we already had plans for a website. We had cinematic dreams before comic movies went blockbuster. And, to this day, we still have the best add complain ever…

Imagine four guys standing buck naked except for socks on their feet on a grimy street in Downtown Los Angeles. Each is holding a comic book over their private parts. Now, picture that as a poster and over their heads it reads: “Buy Our Comics…please.” I had another idea of the four of us chained to drawing and writing desks in a dungeon, with a dominatrix whipping our asses as we make comics. Similar tag line: “DMS – She’s Busting Our Asses for You.”

Our ideas were all over the place. I really miss those days of pure inspiration and uncensored dreams…. Never lasts long, though.

Like this whole thing started, the failure is on me, and its time I owned up to it. I never liked being a leader. I’ve done everything in my life not to be a leader. When our group came together, I tried to swing the responsibility away from my as often as possible. I claimed that this endeavor was a partnership, and so we all shared equal parts. What I was really doing was spreading the blame for any fuck ups as far from myself as possible. It was also my way of covering up that I knew nothing about the business or how to break in. I think that, despite my efforts, they still looked to me for leadership. Each with their expectations of what a leader is supposed to be and do.

My first mistake was growing too fast and not having balls enough to be exclusive. After I found the others, I added Vidom and Jonathan. That turned out to be a waste of time. I don’t even remember how the dropped off, but they did. Jonathan never was interested in American comics, and why he agreed to join us I still don’t know. Vidom wanted to join because Dark Shadows was on the cusp of disbandment. His mother and older brother had taken control of everything and he wanted that freedom again. He also wanted to work with me. But he had other problems, namely, a teenage girl pregnant with his child. I often wonder how he’s doing. Later came David, or Dave – I don’t remember which - and someone I had first met at Vidom’s, another artist, and they brought their book to us, Glacier. I think this is where things went bad. Bloody Pencil and Neil had no respect for Dave, his artist, or their book, and it was obvious form the start. I should have done something about it, told Dave we weren’t interested. After all, what had we done? Who were we to accept submission when we hadn’t even published a book and had no idea where we’d get the money? I was scared. Too scared with a low opinion of myself to do what had to be done. I kept asking myself who was I to be so righteous to deny someone anything. Besides, it was this “holier than thou” thing I wanted to get away from, give some guys a real chance. But, it was really about my fear. I couldn’t look someone in the face and tell me we weren’t interested because their work was sub-par. What if they said the same thing about mine?

PLAYING CARDS

2006-06-06T00:53:00.000-07:00

Today I was reading the latest edition of Living in the Gutters at Comic Book Resources (comicbookresources.com), and there was mention of DC releasing a Batwoman series. For those not in the know, Batwoman is Kate Kane, and Kendra Kane is a lesbian. But, that’s not what pissed me off; it was this…

“The resulting coverage of the new Batwoman character over the last week has been surprising to some. Not so much the coverage, but the generally positive tone. Aside from a few cracks like the above title, criticism of pandering and a small minority of bigoted commentary, the coverage has been generally positive and welcoming. Some have seen this as indicative of a sea change, especially in American society. It's certainly different from the mauling Marvel received over "Rawhide Kid" which made them rather risk-averse in this area.”

“Small minority of bigoted commentary”, huh? Gee, how objective of Mr. Johnston.

Is it “bigoted” not to wave rainbow flags, pin red bows to our chests, and see DC’s latest shocker for what it is? I’ve made my feelings known when it comes to this orientation, but as a seeker of truth my argument is never one of hate, but honesty. Cut the bullshit out and put the real deal on the table. Don’t make us swallow it if we don’t want to, no one has to like or accept everything. Most of the world’s problems come from this need to make people accept one another. My motto is: Fuck acceptance, just don’t fuck with my shit or me and we’re cool.

Making that clear, it’s not bigoted commentary to stand against DC’s decision to use lesbianism to make a profit. And, if if you're swallowing DC's bullshit, then ask yourself why there aren’t more gay and lesbian characters in comics in their universe or any other? Probably the only time this maneuver was daring, and perhaps sincere, was the first time it happened with Marvel’s Northstar, but now it’s just a publicity move. This is the third time DC has played a gay card. The first was in Green Lantern. The second was giving Green Arrow’s sidekick the “gay disease.” Now this, a lesbian Batwoman, made all the worse by hiring a bisexual Devin Grayson to steer the course. Grayson destroyed Nightwing, and now she’s being given a high profile book - I wonder why? Since when has DC ever staffed a book according to the best person for the job? How many white writers wrote for black characters? By their past experience, DC should have hired a heterosexual man to write the book. I guess anyone can write for a black man, but not a gay person. Unless you knew one that died, right? Then you can write a graphic novel, do interviews, and write a major comci book series, but don't forget to play that gay card every now and then. After all, it’s not about the character’s sexuality, but their heroism that should take center stage, right?

It’s really pissing me off that ethnicities and sexualities that are shunned are being played for creativity when it’s nothing more than popularization and marketing. What’s really infuriating is the desperation of these interests groups for any kind of recognition. Doesn’t matter how obvious the ploy, anything with gay, lesbian, black, etc is automatically rewarded. Greed wins out and no one cares about the fallout. No one cares that, when you popularize something, it gets misused, misjudged, and mistreated.

When Fresh Prince of Bel Air hit the scene, everyone fell in love with it and rap went mainstream. It wasn’t until then that white America youth really went niggarish with hip-hop. 21 Jump Street and Booker put motorcycle jackets on the map. Michael Jordan sells shoes, and Melrose Place changed Melrose boulevard from edgy underground rock to preppy pop culture. So what happens when Dawson’s Creek, Will & Grace, and Queer as Folk took center stage?

I was on a bus heading to work and two girls no older than sixteen were sitting in front of me. I thought they were friends, until one got off the bus, and the other screamed out the window: “You better be a good girl, bitch! You’re my woman!” Now, I know with every generation the window of innocence shrinks, but I’ve yet to see when sixteen year olds have amassed enough self knowledge and discovery to determine their sexual orientation. Television and music has replaced the aged, but oh so young at heart physical education coach that initiates your boys and girls into alternative sexual lifestyles.

The inside joke about all of this is these shows do nothing, but promote the stereotypes. They don’t further understanding and acceptance. They give the truly fucked an excuse to become even more fucked. If gay men were obnoxious, they became more so thanks to Will & Grace's Jack because it became what was expected. They became impersonations. Worse, it made it easier to discriminate because they ceased being people and became television personas, caricatured versus paintings and portraits.

Don’t even get me started on pornography becoming mainstream, the ever-increasing number of young and beautiful girls who see it as an acceptable alternative to a legitimate career thanks to Jenna Jameson. They see Jenna as the norm and not the exception. They think if the become a centerfold will bring fame and glory. If I’ve learned anything watching Actor bounce from playmate to centerfold, it’s that Playboy only leads to the grotto and some 40-something actors’ lists of conquest. Better that than the ignorant females who gangbang liquor store attendants and rapers of Brazilian ass thinking it’ll lead to co-hosting gig on E’s Wild On.

I’m not against comic book characters being gay, I just want publishers to either be honest about their intentions, which they’ll never do, so they can just stay quite, or do it for the right reasons. Marvel not only has Northstar as a gay man in the regular comics, but in the Ultimate universe, and it’s never a big deal, but it should be. Because, while I’m not a big Marvel fan, the character is more sincere than anything I’ve seen to date. Where’s the article on Colossus being gay in Ultimate X-Men? Nowhere in the book does Peter come out and say I’m G-A-Y, but it’s mentioned, obvious, and true to that incarnation of the character. In fact, it raises a good point because Nightcrawler, the guy with blue fur and a tail, is homophobic and their already butting heads.

If DC is really all about being diverse, how about making one of their big moneymakers an example? What about Wonder Woman, that’s true to character. She was raised on an island of amazons, after all. How about having Tim Drake experiment in high school or question his sexuality. He’s at that age when boys and girls start to wonder, but not necessarily commit. How about an openly gay villain, or exploring the male victims of rape by either sex? Hey, Superman isn’t even human, shouldn’t he be a little “open” about his preferences? And Martian Manhunter can and has been anyone. If he’s been a woman, shouldn’t he be a little feminine at times? Not flaming, but able to “girl talk.” What about Green Arrow? He's a big ladies man. Used to be those were they ones who use dot get busy with the same sex behind closed doors. How about putting Steel or Black Lightening on the downlow? Hey, I can do this all day - Wonder Girl just had her boyfriend, perhaps her first serious love who she slept with, die. That usually sends girls screaming to the "carpet." And look at Raven, with an origin story like hers, you'd think she'd be put of by men. What about the Legion, all those planets and their all heterosexual? How much better would ID Crisis have been if the big secret wasn't the classic victimization of a woman, but the death of a hero who was killed because he or she was gay and a villain (or villains) found out? How cool would it have been to see the majors stunned to find out the secret this character hid for years and choosing sides between keepeing the secret hidden or exposing the truth , bringing them all under speculation. Plus, they have to catch the bad guy(s).

You’ll never see any of these because it’s all about money. If a publisher won’t take risks, put their dicks on the chopping block as it were, then how can you trust their sincerity? Answer: You can’t. Sure it's all about money to them, but don't stand on the soapbox if that's the reason. And for god sakes, all you bleeding heart, desperate utopeans,like Mr. Johnston, stop putting them on one. Let them be they are and say, "Gay folks, not black folks, equal book sales."

In almost everything I’ve ever written, there’s been at least one gay character in it because it’s been a major part of my life, negatively and positively. In Lazarus, my villain is gay and it’s part of his character. It’s part of his self-degradation and continuing sexual trauma. And, it’s never mentioned once. He's gay at the beginning, and he'll be gay at the end of the stroy. It’s true. It’s sincere. It’s real. I didn’t do it for the money; I did it to say something. It’s not about money. It’s about having something to say.

And that’s the end of today’s bigoted commentary.

JPG.

GROUP-MINDED Pt. 2

2006-06-02T01:10:00.000-07:00

At heart, all I ever wanted wasn't to just create comics, but to create comics with friends. This wasn't something I always knew, I discovered early one.

When I learned I wanted to write comics I went ape-shit. At first, I thought it would be easy, but I learned otherwise. I started digging up anything I could about the industry, and that led to a seminar by Scott Rosenberg, formerly the owner of Malibu and now Platinum Studios. I made the mistake of making my presence felt, and that I was a writer. Afterwards, artists descended upon me from every direction. I remember one who was so full of attitude, he stood in front of me and said: “So, you gonna talk to me or what?" I did meet with one artist there, and we proceeded to work on a few ideas I was writing out. Nothing ever made it past pre-production, but what I remember and enjoyed most about the experience was the camaraderie and those late night meetings. The lived east of Crenshaw with his mother and did his art work in the downstairs garage. At midnight, he'd open up, turn on the light, I'd crash on the couch and he'd hit the drawing board. I wrote. He drew. And, we discussed the story, character, and brainstormed. The guy drew all the time, and I'd flip through his boxes of art while he drew up character designs. Eventually, he introduced me to another group of dudes who met in Pasadena. They had the Image dream; every one did back then. I remember that night because one of the members had read the script from Pulp Fiction before it's release. I remember feeling pretty superior when it came to the ideas floating around, but one guy had a story that really made a mark on my work from that point on. He called it The Gaius.

After I lost touch with that artist, I looked for another and found a guy at the Graphitti comic store in Westchester. That didn't work well. The guy was talented, but a complete egomaniac. That doesn't mean he was wrong when he shot my work to shit. Still, he was one of those people who have a wealth of knowledge and do nothing with it. We parted ways pretty nasty. I'd just come back from an anime convention. I had this great idea - I still think it's pretty damn good - about a group of damned souls escaping hell and protecting the Christ from the anti-Christ. As crazy as it seems, I got that idea from reading an issue of Uncanny X-Men over and over again. A Jim Lee issue no less. I came back energized and bossy. I demanded him to do what I said and he looked at me like I was insane. In fact, he asked me if I was insane. I wasn’t mental, I was just trying to take control of the situation and I went overboard, became full of myself. I lost a great artist and friend.

Next was an artist from El Camino College. I met him through a friend and we started working together. The boy, because he was barely into his twenties, had moved here from Hawaii. We met at night all the time; sometimes going for drives at three in the morning for inspiration. The guy was so immature, I knew it wouldn't last, and it didn't, not even a month.

I think I met the crew at Comic's Paradise after that, two artists who I never worked with, and I'm glad for it. I'd become determined to see myself as a writer and get a job that way.

Somewhere along the way I met an artist named Vidom, and that was an experience. Vidom lived in an LA apartment that was infested with Mexicans and roaches. Anywhere you went in his apartment or neighborhood, you were bound to bump into one of the other. I opened his refrigerator one time, and saw more roaches crawling around than I’d seen in my whole life. Normally, roaches stay away from the cold, but this had jackets, ski jumping off chicken giblets. His mother, Sugar, was a weed-smoking egotist who thought she was too fine. One time, she confided in me that my wife was an attention hound who was distracting the other people Vidom and I worked with during our meetings. I remember being hit in the face with the obvious jealousy this old woman had towards my young wife. I’m horrible at reading signals, but this was so plain and strong it made my face wince. Vidom was excited to proclaim his grandmother was psychic, but I believe the medical term is senile and delusional. That combined with her not speaking a word of English led to some interesting evenings. She’d walk up to me, I’d greet her, and she’d rattle off something in Spanish. And every time I asked what she said, it was like playing craps, never knowing what the roll will bring.

Now, in my most imaginative times, I never lived in a world as colorful as Vidom. His father was a werewolf, his mother a witch, his grandmother an oracle, even his cat was a reincarnated something or other. Still, being with him was like gasoline on a campfire. He sparked my creativity into something massive and rampant. Partnered with him, I created Umbra, my first foray into playing off biblical characters. In Umbra, the fate of humans was determined by a game played by Lucifer and Jesus. Each chooses a champion and sends them on a quest that’s meant to end in a battle that will decide the victor. I did some of my best work writing that story, and I began feeling like I was really on to something dangerous and new. Then Vidom ruined everything by involving his family.

One minute, it was Vidom and I, the new Vigil and Quinn. And then, it was Dark Shadows Production and I had a group of people who had to approve of my work, and most of them were spiritual in several ways. It amazed me how people could play the rebel role, but back peddle when you mention God and Jesus. Here was a family, supposedly, so dipped in dark shit they should have no problem with my story. But, when I read one scene from my book, I had them all speechless. They were in awe, not from my talents, not totally, but the subject matter in combination with my skills at dialogue really got to him. There was one guy, Condor, who created a book called The Four Horsemen, and despite the obvious reference it wasn’t as dark as you think. He sat across the room from me and went on a long monologue about how gifted I was, God had given me this gift and I should use it to promote his shit – blah, blah, blah. My wife and I left that night, and I knew Dark Shadows wouldn’t last long. They wanted to sell the comics in schools for Christ’s sake. What kind of book could Dark Shadows sell in schools?

I left of my own free will, and that’s when I thought up Gothic Studios. I was gonna do dark comics my way. No bullshit. No excuses. No fancy tricks. No sheep made up like wolves. That’s when I met Juan. He knew me and I didn’t know him. We went to the same high school together, and he told me about a friend who was a comic artist looking for an open door. That’s how I met “Bloody Pencil.”

Bloody Pencil was the exact opposite of Vidom. Talented, spiritual – a goddamn saint – and completely open to my ideas. In retrospect, we were the perfect combination, he had the knowledge and artistic chops, and I had the perverse ideas and cinematic writing. We were the new Stan and Jack. The line was so blurred; you didn’t know where the ideas started. Was it his or mine? The first night I met Bloody Pencil, he brought two others with him: Phil and Neil (a.k.a Actor). Both were artists and all three went to USC. I met them at my dad’s restaurant. We sat at a booth, my wife sat beside me because…well, she made me look good. And with her by my side, I laid a layer of bullshit that would do Mel Gibson proud. To hear the story, Phil was the only one gung-ho; Bloody Pencil and Neil had their reservations. But, of the three, it was Bloody Pencil I targeted. I remember seeing his art, the first thing he showed me were illustrations of angles. I sat and imagined these glorious creatures holding automatic rifles, with these huge wingspans. I looked at Bloody Pencil like the snake in the garden. But, this altar boy had a dark side all his own. He was I, just different. He asked the same questions I did. Wanted to know the reasons for it all, just as I did. In the end, we were drawn to each other, brothers in arms, with one vision: to set the comic world on fire with something they’d never seen before or again.

GROUP-MINDED Pt. 1

2006-06-01T01:59:00.000-07:00

Months from my matrimonial vows were taken, I met a group of young men, and we shared one dream…

To get my work published.

The anniversary of that union’s disbanding is fast approaching, and while we all remain friends and hold no grudges, it’s about time I did something that’s needed doing fir years.

Take the blame.

DMS was Danse Macabre Studios. And, Danse Macabre Studios was once Gothic Studios, and its mission was invigorating the horror genre in comics. Even now, horror comics are a dying breed. The most successful in recent memory was Chaos! And they didn’t do horror stories. They took superheroes, dressed them up as ghosts and goblins and put them in a world where they were the heroes because the opposition was so much worse (seem familiar). The one exception was Evil Ernie, but he was symbolic of counter culture sticking it to the man. Today, Steve Niles is blazing a trail all by his lonesome, but if he goes anymore mainstream he may dry up.

Gothic Studios was going to push the envelop in a lot of ways. A lot of what’s done today we thought of years ago. We were innovators. But we lacked the prime ingredient, money. Gothic Studios changed to DMS when another company took the name. With the name change came a new mission statement. This time, we abandoned horror so much, but stood for breaking barriers in subject matter and content. Fueled by the British invasion, we got deep and weird with our books, heavy in science fiction and the supernatural. We got deep into researching our topics. Gone were the bursts of inspiration and we became practical. We also became highly selective.

We started excluding other creators and judged their work as unsubstantial. Perhaps our lack of humility spelled our demise. The first member left and it was down from there. Soon, another parted and a group of four dwindled to two. Not even a year later, two went to one, and that’s when I closed the door.

In the last year or so, I’ve done my very least to get them back, and now, perhaps I understand why my efforts have failed. I was the leader, head of the table, and I failed them. I failed to lead. I failed to be strong. And, I’m still failing.

STRANGE VISITOR Pt. 2

2006-06-01T01:13:00.000-07:00

What makes a hero?

This is the question on my mind for years as I wrote my own character, Lazarus, and now develop another, Scratch. If you read the funny books, one publisher says it all comes down to power and responsibility. The other, will power. But, as I watched Rescue Me, I came to the conclusion, one I’ve had for quite a while, that true heroism comes from the darkest shit humanity has to offer. Those “people” who walk the fine line between society and utter chaos.

Our heroes of today are too clean and we’ve outgrown them. Of course, perhaps I’m aspiring too high. Ultimately, these characters are product manufactured for profit. But, once, a long time ago, heroes taught us valuable life lessons. They were more than product, they were living, and breathing people who transcended to godhood because they were challenged by the same things we mere mortals faced everyday, besides the occasional Kraken. They fought against, or with, the same gods and demons we believed in. The walked the same city streets, fought in the same wars. They were we.

In Rescue Me Denis Leary portrays fireman Tommy Gavin, an alcoholic chain smoking asshole who doesn’t even live by the coeds set forth by his fellow firemen, despite that being the only real consistent positive thing in his life. And yet, he risks his life gladly to save total strangers. Isn’t that true heroism? A total asshole risking his life to save someone versus a Kansas farm boy who, by his upbringing alone, couldn’t have gone any other way.

Let’s bring our heroes into the real world.

Marvel is having a major crossover event called Civil War where heroes are fighting each other against a registration act. The crux is, in registering, they lose their secret identities. At its core, it’s just another hero vs. hero smack down, but what if we injected some reality into it, got some hands dirty? Instead of the Civil War being about some registration act, what if it had to do with the war in Iraq? Follow me: The Trade Center comes down, Bush make the big push, and just like the decision split this nation, it splits the Marvel Universe. There are those who not only want to support the troops, but fight in the Middle East. Take it further and maybe they believe in concentration camps like The Siege. Then, take a small group of heroes - because the odds can never be fair and we’re assuming the liberals are the good guys – who believe in turning the other cheek. And, make Captain America one of them. That’s a fucking Civil War I want to see. Just like in Greek mythology, the gods fighting over the same problems facing mortals.

DC just finished Infinite Crisis where three threats, all engineered by the same man were rocking the universe. It was good. Hey, I read and loved it. But, if you’re talking about a crisis on a universal scale, what if the heroes had to band together to stop the fucking Apocalypse? Think about it: the villains are drafted by the by God, their loyalty in exchange for salvation. If superheroes are all about maintaining the status quo, then let them face the ultimate entropy force of destruction that will bring everything to an end. If Superman is all about humans being inherently good and finding their own way with just a little assistance, how would he feel about God wanting to bring them to an end unjustly? Yahweh vs. Superman. Religion vs. Science. The Beginning and End vs. The Man of Tomorrow. You can eve tie it into current event because, if you notice, Bush Jr. is doing some scary shit in the Middle East that is straight from Revelations. Couldn’t you see the Specter or Phantom Stranger figuring that out?

How would they’re hands get dirty? Because these superheroes have to pick a side. They have to pick an ideology in either case and fight for it. How would you feel if Cap fought against the war because it was against what this country stands for, men manipulating a country for their own gain? And superheroes against God – nuff said.

I remember when I was a kid, too young to know the difference between New York and Los Angeles. I would ride in the passenger sit of my mother’s car headed to downtown, looking up at the skyscrapers and wondering if I would see Spider-Man. Because, back then, the heroes lived in our world; but thing s were simple back then. Heroes related through supporting characters dying or getting hooked on drugs. Now we have these insane things and I wonder where our heroes went.

Maybe it’s not about the heroes, but us. The reader, the writers, and the publishers. Comics are one media unlike others that doesn’t hold up a mirror to our faces. Looking at MI-3, I can’t pretend to be Ethan Hunt, because that’s Tom Cruise and I look nothing like him. It’s hard to pretend your Batman when you see Christian Bale. But any 230lbs. fat ass can believe himself Superman when reading a comic.

What do I want?

I don’t want to read about the man with more money than god, traveling the world for training, and returning to civilization to fight crime with advance weaponry and a people to bring to his cause. I want to read about the guy without a pot to piss in, dressing in a jacket and pants, and going out to face down the underbelly of a city all alone. During the day, he’s that guy who cut you off on the freeway, the pedestrian that crosses against the light, the meter maid that wouldn’t give you a break, the customer service rep that gave you too much attitude. But, at night, he’s the one who beat five men to save the five dollars in your wallet.

Maybe it’s all about guts. No one has the balls to write those kinds of stories. Or, no one wants to read them, because that’s too real. Where’s the enjoyment? But where’s the enjoyment in watching the Joker get the shit kicked out of him for the 100th time? In the real world, the Joker would have his ass capped, Lex would be another Enron exec on trial, and Dr, Doom would get “sniped” by a Seal Team (or falsely accused of having weapons of mass destruction and funding a terrorist).

Don’t take this to mean I’m not into superheroes; I love Supes, Bats, and the X-Men hold a special place. They could be better though. I just want to feel that way again, just like I did driving in the car, looking up, and wondering…

JPG.

STRANGE VISITOR Pt. 1

2006-05-31T02:32:00.000-07:00

Today, I was listening to Tom Lykis who questioned why we keep rehashing an “old and tired” story like Superman. Of course, being a shock jock, he pushed the extreme. Usually, it’s not so apparent as it was with this topic. But, amongst the drivel, he did ask a pertinent question: Is Superman still relevant in today’s world, post 9-11?

Lykis made the comparison that Superman made sense in the 1940’s, when all you had to worry about were gangsters and madmen with guns, but in a world where planes are crash into buildings in the new day sun the concept is dated.

I have to admit, the man makes a point. The more the fantastic becomes reality, the more we need a superhero, the more blatant their non-existence becomes. Compared to Bin Laden’s crew, is the Joker that big a deal? It all goes back to questioning the nature of heroism. Are these heroes truly heroic? Are they making the big choices, or reliving past glories over and over again? Sure, stories are updated. Just recently, Brain Azzarello had Superman going into a Middle East type place and taking away all the guns, which led to a series of other actions that resulted in the same point: Superman can’t intercede all the time or risk making things worse. But, is the real? How many times have we read that story, or watched it in a Superman cartoon?

How long can superheroes refrain from involving themselves in real life events? Asking that question, and thinking of how most comic reader are adult men in their thirties and up, and how they prefer their books be frozen in time without development or maturity – people still bitch about Superman and Spider-Man getting married – I pondered if comics would never truly crossover to a younger readership because they aren’t real enough to interest the younger generations. Surely, the themes are timeless and the characters mythic, but the stories are limited. It’s as if the characters are begging to grow, but they’re kept in place by fearful parents afraid of the worst.

SNIKT!

2006-05-29T23:20:00.000-07:00

What’s the point of confronting someone when you can’t take it to the ultimate conclusion?

I was in the drive-thru of a fast food joint when a lady who came in from another entrance cut me off. I pull out of line, park my car, and walk to hers with a pissed off look. I ask her if she saw me, and she asks if I saw her. She claims to have been waiting since before I showed up, but I looked and saw no one. What could I do? Nothing, but tell her she was wrong and walk away. I would have liked to drag her form the car and beat the shit out of her, but I couldn’t because I’d end up in jail.

That’s when I learned there’s no point in facing conflict. What would be the point of threatening a person if you can’t follow through? It’s like children standing toe to toe, each daring the other to throw the first punch, because they know that person is the one who will get the brunt of the punishment for fighting.

At my job, a service tech fails to deliver the equipment I ordered. I call him and ask what’s going on and he claims to never have received it. It’s done in such an arrogant manner that I want to respond aggressively but can’t. I have to work with this person, and what if I’m wrong. What if the printer broke or ran out of ink? How stupid would I look charging someone with laziness? As I’m trying to decide what to do, he just cuts in and tells me to re-send the infogram. I want to beat his head in, but what would be the point if it leads to my termination?

All my life I’ve avoided conflict, and now that I feel I have the strength to fight for myself, there’s nothing I can do. I remember when I was young, very young, I was living in Hawthorne and there were two black girls who I would play with, but one day they turned violent (a common trait amongst African American women). I was in a standoff - them pushing me to take action and fight, and my own fear. I don’t remember why I was afraid. It may have been because they were girls. Or, maybe I was afraid of losing. My mother was watching this whole thing from the bedroom window and she called me indoors to chew me out for letting girls push me around. She worked me into such a bother – and my fear of her outweighed my fear of them – that I tore out the house and back to the two girls who were waiting for me. I was ready to fight, and they were already bored. Still, I pushed it, accepting their open invitation to a brawl. They backed down, but they’d gotten what they wanted. They proved their superiority.

After that I wouldn’t back down from fights, but would lose them before anything could happen. To me, it was all about visuals. The look of anger in a person’s eyes. The clenched fists. The body quivering with anger so powerful they begin to cry from it all. I tried to immolate movies I had seen where the hero made this grand stance, but it never worked. Instead of striking fear into my enemies, I was a big crybaby. The final result also mattered to me, but no one else. As long as I was on my feet, I didn’t lose. In high school, I was fighting this one student who I had a “friendship” with; that is to say, we weren’t friends at all. We were “play fighting”, but soon emotions took over and it became very real. My first act was to start kicking, using what I’d learned from Doc. He made me refrain from kicking, and stick to arm strikes. Neither one of us got a winning blow, but he did push me back. Just then, two other boys who I knew showed up. They cheered us on, and I thought they were with me, but then the started cheering for my opponent. Why? He hadn’t knocked me down. If anything, it was a stalemate. Why root for him?

Perhaps violence is just another thing I see differently than anyone else. Some would say that modern warfare technology is to save lives, but I see it as man dehumanizing it. Making it easier to kill someone from a distance because we lack the courage, strength, and reason to look someone in their eyes before taking their soul. War is deterrent for violence, but we’ve taken the bite out of it. Soldiers understand this, but they aren’t the ones making policy. And then, there are those who just don’t get it.

So, why do anything? Why get in someone’s face? Why defend your rights? Ultimately, what does it matter, unless you’re willing to take the risk of losing everything? People think the law protects them, but it doesn’t. The law doesn’t promote justice; it’s a set of rules, that’s all. Its purpose is maintaining order, nothing more. A person can treat you like shit, but as long as you don’t hit them, it’s order. Why do you think a person is presumed innocent? If not for that rule, you could lynch a known criminal in the streets. Of course, being human, we’d fuck that up and kill someone wrongfully accused.

What hope is there in the meantime for people like me? People who want to stand up for ourselves, but can’t? What can we do for justice?

Absolutely nothing. Just accepted that in this life, we are cowards. We are the weak. Our weakness is our lives, what we have, what we’re afraid to lose. If a man has something to lose, he can be controlled. Strength is not caring and sacrificing everything, and I’m not that strong. A lot of people aren’t.

STANDING LIMP AND TO THE LEFT

2006-05-29T02:55:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday I was able to see X-Men: The Last Stand, and my feelings on it are very similar to binging on junk food. The day of, eating twenty dollars in candy bars, ice cream, and sodas seems like a good idea and brings you a lot of pleasure. The next day, however, is another story. Especially, after you see yourself in the mirror. You realize that twenty could have gone towards other things. Things that will be around much longer than the food your crapping into your toilet and you learn the lesson that food, ultimately, is a waste of money.

That’s how I feel about the “last X-Men movie.”

Leading into the holiday weekend, I was excited. I even risked my good standing at work to request the day off in short notice, just to see the picture with my family. And, as I sat there, it was great. I laughed. I cried. Most of all, I wished for a better story than what I was watching. I agree with the critics who wrote too much story was crammed into too short a picture, but that’s not what bugged me. It was the lack of character depth, development, and the decision to completely delete Marsden’s Scott Summers.

I’m not speaking as a comic book fundamentalist. I don’t care about costumes, story changes, or that characters died who still live on the two dimensional page. I’m writing about the material itself and the two movies that came before.

While I’m not a Bryan Singer fan – I think having the new Superman movie begin where the others left off lacks creativity and automatically sets up comparisons to the original, an American classic – I do think he was an essential part of brining the X-Men to the screen. Bryan Singer was able to combine action with character development. More than that, he was able to divide it amongst multiple characters, which brought an emotional element to the story, something to be expected from the director of The Usual Suspects.

Just looking at Brett Ratner’s filmography proves that he doesn’t work that way. He can do action, but not character, or vice versa. Never has he successfully accomplished both simultaneously, and if you hold up Rush Hour as proof otherweise, keep in mind there was only two charaters. Further, it seems he eliminated those characters that demanded drama in order to push the action. I always felt Singer purposefully ignored elements that are X-Men staples simply because they would take away from the characters themselves, and turn the movie into a bubblegum special effects flick. Things like Sentinels and the Danger Room were cut out of both movies, and now we see why. After all, where would they go? How would they fit in the story? Which is most important, showing a battle with giant robots or developing relationships and exploring motivations? Plus, Singer admitted to not having the money to do either one justice.

Ratner blew through all of that and not only proved why Singer opted out of them, but made me wonder what he would have done as I was watching the film. I knew I was in for it when the movie began with a Danger Room scene that had Wolverine and Storm training new members Kitty Pryde, Iceman, and Colossus against… a robotic head. REMEMBER: If you can’t do it justice, don’t do it at all.

Then, we see Scott and a poor portrayal of him being tormented by his psychic link with Jean. Not that Marsden did a bad job, but not enough time was devoted to getting the idea accross. I asked myself how many people in the audience hadn’t read the comics to know that Scott and Jean share a psychic connection, since it was never addressed in the movies. Or, how many knew the scene that lasted less than five minutes was representative of Scott’s life over the past few weeks, months, years, or who the hell knows when. The time between Jean's death and the start of the film isn't addressed. I wouldn’t have known any of this if not for reading an interview with Marsden. Then, after a brief, but exciting exchange with Wolverine that reinvigorated my hopes for a well-balanced film, Scott’s off to Alkili Lake. Why? Who the fuck knows.

Scott goes to Alkili Lake where Jean’s voice seems to be the strongest, causing him to attack the water. Why? Who the fuck knows. Jean miraculously returns from the dead in a blinding light, proceeded by a silhouette of her former self, what significance does this have? You guessed it, who the fuck knows? Then, Jean kills Scott. Why? Who the fuck knows why anything is happening at this point, other than because the actor was leaving to work with Singer on Superman.

From that moment, the movie only lives up to half it’s potential because a major driving force of Jean’s character and emotional conflict with Wolverine is gone. This was a chance for James Marsden to shine. In the first movie he’s barely present. In the second movie, even more so, but here he should be the main guy. It’s continuity, not from the books, but the movies. In the first movie, the temptation between Wolverine and Jean is introduced. But, in the second, it’s resolved. Wolverine even closes X2 telling Scott that Jean chose him. So, why would she, or any part of her splitered psyche, want him dead?

I started thinking of other ways they could have gone and how much better the movie would have been if they kept Scott alive. If it’s about the actor, find a new one. Hey, I’m all for finding a new actor if the old one doesn’t work out anymore. They should have found a new actor to play Nightcrawler, or go the extra mile to explain where he disappeared to instead of deleting the character and using his special effect for another teleporting character during the final fight. Oh, don't get me started about them using stock footage and old effects. I counted at least three. If Marsden was too busy, and you don’t want to wait, find a new guy. In the midst of my thoughts, I awoke when I realized in Scott’s absence Wolverine became the emotional focal point. The man who is all about making the hard choices, on paper and film, became the one who couldn't get the job done in time.

The movie then goes into a full gear mutant power fest and eye candy. Everything is so fast, if you’re not careful you’ll miss Professor Xavier getting killed. Not that anyone cares. The audience didn’t give a damn when Professor X bit the dust, literally, and I barely even cared. The only one who did care was Wolverine. That’s right, the bad ass was a ball of tears. The hard ass from the first two movies is gone, and we’re left with Logan, post Dr. Phil. My wife was quick to notice all dry eyes during Xavier's funeral and she spurted "Don't they care?"

I would mention the tragedy that was Angel, but he wasn’t in the movie enough for me to comment on anything, other than saying he wasn’t in the movie enough. Three scenes, approximately ten lines or less, and a character that should have had a huge role is reduced to Toad level. Angel's relationship with his father is the main impitus of the cure story. The charcaters are worthy of a prelude, but nothing afterwards, except setting up the catalyst for the war, which was just a catalyst for Dark Phoenix and a whole bunch of special effects. While we’re on new characters, Beast was cool, but I seem to remember him going from a speaking part to just standing around half way through the picture. Better that, than watching the climactic battle where Kelsey Grammar is strapped to a wire and flung aimlessly at people. Ratner’s idea of gymkata.

Despite being entertaining, X4 wasn’t what was expected from the last two. Many critics still hold up X2 as the best of the three and I agree. X3 is a proper “end” only financially, not creatively. The third installment broke rules established in the first two - wasn’t Trask, a young Caucasian working with Sen. Kelly, killed in the first movie?

Who knows if they’ll be an X4, but with the ending of this movie and the big money numbers, I’d find it hard to believe this is the last we’ve seen. It would be uncharacteristic of Hollywood to just pass on a something, instead of squeezing the life’s blood and picking the bones until everything is gone, then burying it long after it’s rotted in the sun. If they do, I hope Singer comes back. Perhaps his sexual choice gave him an understanding Ratner lacks.

JPG.

CURSED

2006-05-03T04:03:00.000-07:00

I can’t say nothing has gone right for me. There are a lot more people suffering worse than me. I know this. I repeat it over and over again, but it doesn’t help. As far as I’m concerned I’m having the worse luck in my life.

It started when I lost my home and just got worse from there. From my kids getting sick, which kids will do, to paying over a grand in car maintenance, on a vehicle that isn’t even mine. Its as if I’m overdrawn on my credit of good fortune and fates coming to take payment from my ass.

Today I did something I haven’t done, ever. I locked my keys in my car. Before that, I nicked a chunk of plastic from my $350 Sony PSP just two weeks after exchanging it because the original purchase had dropped pixels. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. One scratch and I can’t look at it again. All I see is that fucking scratch.

One thing after another…

The first week in my new place and we had a gas leak, water leak, an ant invasion – and these were resilient motherfuckers too – and our water heater has gone out three times in two months. My car has spent a month in the shop, and when I picked it up it had a nail in the tire, no gas, and the check engine light came on only 24hrs post.

There is no end in sight…

My brand new shirts shrunk. My son broke my laptop’s key board, got sick, needed breathing treatments, and my daughter might go from her high GPA school to low GPA Latino school down the block, across from the projects. My allowance has gone from $400 per check to $200, just as gas prices are nearing $4 a gallon. Now I must get a second job.

Did I mention I was kicked out of my home, where I lived for six years. Where my children were born, and we were under rent control? And my own father, who had an apartment we could use, was going to charge me $1100 rent, when all my other siblings live rent-free.

I think I’m going to die.

I’ve had pains in my left arm. My eyelids twitch uncontrollably. I’m tired, angry, and owe my ex-shrink over $200 in missed appointments because I was sick and working.

Monday, April 17th 12:05pm

JPG enters Dr, Shrinker’s office, greets her, and sits in the usual chair.
He breathes heavily.

JPG: I don’t know, Doc. I’m so tired –

SHRINKER: Maybe your tired because of your overdue balance?

JPG: What?

SHRINKER: Have you read your last two invoices?

JPG: No, I thought there was no need. I’m paid up.

SHRINKER: You remember you signed a contract agreeing to pay for missed appointments because I can’t charge the insurance company. So I have to bill you my regular fee.

JPG: What missed appointments?

SHRINKER: There was the time we planned on the phone meeting because you had to work. Then you cancelled because they changed the lunchtime. And, then there was the time you were sick.

JPG (Thinking): She’s charging me because I was sick? What they fuck is this? Am I being hustled? I knew this bitch was crooked – why did I sign that fucking contract! Fuck! I never should have come here. I knew she was fucked when I got here. I should have switched – why didn’t I switch?)

JPG (looking every which way): How much?

SHRINKER: Ninety-six dollars.

Silence.

JPG (Speaking to himself): This was a bad idea.

Silence.

JPG: This is bullshit. You’re bullshit. Therapy is bullshit.

And it went on from there. W eek later, after I cancelled therapy, I was hit again and again. Now I wonder if I made the wrong choice. The only thing keeping me out of that fucking office is pride. And I’m not going back to that uncaring bitch.

I’ve been turned out and tricked. I feel like I’m going through withdrawals. My world is turning to shit and there’s no one who I can talk to. No one with the answers, or can help me find my own solutions. But, then, neither did she. She sat in that fucking chair dozing off, injecting her into my thoughts and meanings. She was my pimp, my mental Iceberg Slim, whop told me what I needed to here. Just enough to keep me on the corner, walking the point, her fine coco butter man-bitch.

I feel like Michael J. Fox at the end of Bright Lights, Big City. I love that movie. Its one of Michael’s best, personifying a decade and preaching the trails of a writer. The protag is Jamie Conway, a boy from Kansas who moves to New York with his young wife to become a writer, and nabs an editing job at a prestigious magazine. His dream is to wrote the next great novel, but he gets sidetracked by drugs and the eighties club scene. His wife, Amanda, played by Phoebe Cates, hits it big as a model and dumps Jamie when she realizes he’s a wash. That’s when the story starts, Jamie’s lost his wife (she’s in Paris on a photo shoot and hasn’t returned), can’t write, avoiding his father on the anniversary of his mother’s death from cancer, and obsessed with articles of a coma baby in The Post. Eventually, he loses his editing job, the last thing he had. Jamie climaxes on cocaine, alcohol, and literally runs away from his brother on the streets of New York. Finally, he learns his wife has returned from Paris and gets to see her. Everything becomes clear to him. His wife and drug supplying, club hopping friend are the same, parasites looking to feed on the dreams of the hopeful until they destroyed them. Jamie is born again. He welcomes thoughts of his mother he avoided for days. He kills off his former self by reading his stylish sunglasses for a loaf of fresh baked bread, just like his mother used to make. The film ends with Jamie sitting on a pier, watching the sun rise behind the Statue of Liberty, thinking: “Take it slow. You have to learn everything all over again, but it’ll be different this time.”

The last shot is the cover The Post with the headline: “Coma Baby Lives.”

I love that fucking movie. And that’s how I feel. I’m Jamie, forced to learn everything all over again. I’m Jim Carroll, fighting the stink of the horse and sewers. Still reaching form basketball dreams. I’m Pony Boy, wishing the word would just accept one another, watching a sunset of gold from a barn window.

I’m JPG, and I’m not dead yet.

Bright Lights Big City
(Reed)

Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head
Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head

I'd tried to tell the woman but she doesn't believe a word I
said
Go light pretty baby... gonna need my help some day
It's all right pretty baby...gonna need my help some day

You're gonna wish you listened to some of those things I said

Go ahead pretty baby
Oh, honey knock yourself out
Go ahead pretty baby
Oh honey knock yourself out

I still love you baby cause you don't know what it's all about

Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head
Bright lights, big city
Gone to my baby's head

AMERICAN ME, NOT YOU.

2006-05-02T01:26:00.000-07:00

I had to break away from my regular blog to chime in on the big upset going on today about the “unfair” immigration laws sparking so much protest.

I may not be a very intelligent person. Book smarts and recalling factual information has never been my strength. I’m not going to disguise my prejudices for facts (although, I may walk a very thin line) and embarrass myself, doing damage to my cause. I don’t think I have to, because it doesn’t take an intelligent person to see this debate is nothing, but bullshit thrown back and forth.

Maybe I see the world too often as black and white with not enough grays. I think too many times we use the “gray area” to excuse what we know is wrong. Too many times in the past weeks I heard someone argue points on immigration. I watched several people on the news go on and on about immigration. It was on their signs, t-shirts, and in their speeches. But, the issue isn’t immigration; it's ILLEGAL immigration.

Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit. I was born here, what the fuck do I care about those who aren’t. Save for those occasions at work when a Mexican will automatically assume I speak their language, even though they reside in my country. On those days, I can understand the Minute Men’s approach, and wish I could join them. What has me so up in arms about this issue is the irony of people residing in our country illegally saying what’s fair and unfair. Non-citizens filling our streets, protesting about what’s due them, and what our politicians and citizens can and cannot do.

It’s very simple, if you’re here illegally; you’re a criminal and need to get the fuck out of dodge. It doesn’t get any simpler than that. A lot of people want build up the issue with facts on how American corporations are taking over Mexico and Central America. I heard Yarehli Arizmendi, writer of A Day Without A Mexican, make a big deal about Costco and McDonalds in Mexico.

Is there anywhere on this planet you can’t find a McDonalds? How is that any excuse for people breaking the law? And, again, that’s what it comes down to folks, a whole bunch of people breaking the law and reaping the benefits it took others five, ten, even twenty years to work for legally. Is that fair? Is it justice for people who learned our language and laws bending over for those who don’t give a damn?

As I looked at the big protest in Los Angeles that kept so many hard working citizens from getting to or from their jobs, I was awe-struck by what I saw. A city filled with criminals. People who have no problem breaking the law to get what they want, and those who support them. I became afraid for my family, that we lived in a country that would allow such injustice, and for what - a freshly mowed lawn?

And that brings up something, an excuse that’s far too old to use any longer. It’s the age-old justification that illegals belong here because they do the jobs white Americans won’t. Funny how they completely omit the other ethnicities, isn’t it? White America hasn't done menial labor since indentured servant ceased being a legit job title. Before the gardener’s name was Ferdinand, it was Jackson, and somewhere in-between it was Lee.

In this economy, I can think of a lot of people who would love to have some of those cushy jobs cleaning up hotels and mowing lawns. I’m one of them. For years I searched for a third-shift job as a cook or janitor, but couldn’t find one, none that would pay me my due. My mother went to college to study landscaping and pays hundreds of dollars for the license, only to have her clients taken from under her because Felipe will mow the lawn for 75% less. And, that “picking fruit” thing – unless you were forced to come here on a boat to pick the white man’s cotton, bare his rape children, get lynched, burned, bred, and struggle against 500 plus years of oppression that many would debate still exists today, I don’t want to fucking here about how you chose to pick fruit. We cannot forget in all this, these people are making a choice. The white man isn’t smuggling immigrants here illegally to mow lawns. These people are choosing to do it. How can you feel sorry for them, or hold them up as modern martyrs of the system?

I ask you, where’s the struggle? Is it really so difficult to stand on a corner all day, waiting for someone to pay you $50 - $100 a day to paint a house versus doing what it takes to go to school, learn a trade, and become a professional? My experience with these “hard working people” has been they hate to work. They try their hardest to get something for almost nothing. Even the housekeepers at my hospital, whose job it is to clean, don’t want to do their job when it’s required, and look for ways to get out. I don’t have enough fingers or toes to count the times I’ve seen immigrant workers fuck up a simple paint job, then demand full payment. Don’t get me started with the “precious” gardeners who have no idea what they’re doing - asking for money, then spending only fifteen minutes to cut your lawn. Prejudice, racist though it may be, we all know of neighborhoods that have gone to total shit with the increase of Hispanic residence.

It’s hard to feel sorry, or fight for the rights of a people whose rallying cry is: “We’re taking California back one block at a time!”

Is it wrong for this country to have certain rules about whom we let in, and if you don’t fit, we deny entry? Illegal immigrants have this idea that they are somehow deserving to enter this country, when the whole basis of them being here as an illegal proves they’ve done nothing to earn the right. Okay, so you clean some toilets. Is that a legitimate requirement? Robert Heinlein wrote about this subject in Starship Troopers, a science fiction novel turned motion picture, where citizenship had to be earned in the armed forces. Those who lived to become citizens embraced that gift and the responsibility that comes with it. If illegals do anything, it’s proving how unpatriotic they are. They’re deserters. If things are so horrible in Mexico, why don’t they fix it? If there are one people, deserving of special treatments it’s the Native Americans.

That’s right - call me an asshole now, fuckers. Just when you thought I was a racist bastard because I don’t swallow the burrito of bullshit, I hit you with some fucking sympathy for a race of people near extinct. Where’s the protest for the Native Americans who watch as their people are being swallowed up, their lands stolen even today, unless they can build a fucking casino. Where am I going with this? One simple fact, no matter how fucked up it gets, they don’t leave. If any people have a right to immigrate, legal or illegal, it’s the fucking Indians, but here they stay, fighting it out with the white man. The real Americans, the original citizens of these United States where’s their fucking protest march for civil rights?

I know I’m getting carried away with myself. Hell, that whole last paragraph cold be the biggest chunk of bullshit ever. But it angers me, and it should anger everyone, to see such an open and outward display of criminality. It’s really not about who does what for how much money. It’s about the simple founding fact that illegal immigration is against the law, and those who break the law deserve to be deported. If doing so would open a greater number of jobs for the rest of us, then good. That means the rich white people would have to pay more for “menial service”, and isn’t that better? More jobs with better pay for American citizens.

You know, it’ll never happen.

Just like we all thought it was plain to see that Bush Jr. was a monster that shouldn’t get a second term. All us Americans who look for a day when illegals are forced out and we can sow the benefits might as well keep dreaming, because no one has the guts. In the end, it’s all about them. The rich who need their lawns cut, shitholes cleaned, burritos cooked just right, and children raised by anyone but them because their too busy carving up the country on laptops while drinking Pete’s Coffee(not you, Doc).

Isn’t that sad, the course of a nation decided on the number of criminals residing and how many butts they wipe? The irony: many can’t even vote.

I feel sorry for the people, the immigrants, the ingredients of the great melting pot who busted their butts to get to America and did whatever they could to become a citizen. They stood in that fucking line, waved those stupid little flags, and said the egomaniacal pledge, just for the right to be subjected to American bullshit. What does it matter? Who fucking cares?

It was reported that the first soldier to die in the Iraqi war was the son of an undocumented worker. It’s held up as proof of illegals and they’re contribution to this nation. You now what I call it?

Finally paying the price of admission.

JPG.

BACK IN BLACK: Part One (TheRapist Continued, Again)

2006-04-26T02:29:00.000-07:00

I'll never forget the day...

Thursday, February 9th, at 6:00pm. That's when my world exploded.

I'd been pounded by negative energies with a driving baseline, shattering my eardrums so anything, even positive, was an irritation.

I had set myself up. I'd made myself a victim, attracting the wrong energy. I always lived my life under the rule of not inviting the unwanted, but I had opened the door to negativity. I told the universe JPG was weak, and nature, life, the fucking universe, never tolerates weakness. Natural selection; the strong survive, and the weak are pummeled to dust.

It was one of the few nights I had off from work. Like most nights, I was lying in my daddy chair, half-naked, watching On Demand programming, bored. Everything lost its thrill. Video games, movies, television, it was all tainted with psychobabble. They were escapisms keeping from dealing with real life and growing up. I wasn't writing. I had lost all inspirations and motivations to create. I thought I was void of ideas, but more accurately I was running from them. Characters and plotlines became ghosts and goblins I feared.

My wife answered the door. It was the manager, and I went into the bedroom to put on some pants. I'd already had it out with the man two months prior, when he was to repair a busted lock on my door. He was procrastinating and I confronted him to repair the lock. Three times he scheduled an appointment, and three times no one came. "You have three lock, you don't need a fourth." was his explanation. But that wasn't the point. He said he would replace the lock, and I was holding him to his word. Also, I wasn't paying rent so I could wrestle with my front door. I moved in with those locks, and I was paying to keep them. When they did finally show, they took the damaged lock, but didn't replace it, leaving a hole in my front door. When I complained again, their solution was switching the backdoor, putting it on the front, and covering the hole in the backdoor with a metal cover. I was told twenty-four hours and all would be as it should, but that never happened.

I wrote the owner, but she did nothing. I went to the Housing Department who advised to send two more letters for service before sending an inspector. I followed the rules, and nothing happened, so we scheduled for an inspection. The inspector came and went. He looked around and basically told us we were fucked. There was nothing he could do about the lock. The law said we didn't even have to have a security door, then he quickly pointed out what we thought was a gate was nothing more than a glorified screen door. There were several things around the house that needed attention and were left unfinished. All of which had nothing to do with housing code standards.

I stood dumbfounded as the inspector went room-to-room dismissing our complaints. We're good people and responsible tenants. We paid our rent on time. Never had a complaint against us. Still, there was nothing we could do to protect ourselves against what we would learn was the first attack. The second came on Thursday at 6 pm. I stood in my bedroom, slowing putting my pants on, and listening to the muffled voices of my wife and the manager. I waited for it to end, but when it didn't I knew I had to do something. I appeared behind my wife and the manager jumped back. I saw it, he knew it, and I still hold on to it. I made someone afraid. He handed us a slip of paper. My wife said we were being forced out. I hid my shock and anger while deepening my voice: “We’ll check with a lawyer in the morning, and see what she can and cannot do.”

When the door closed, we fell apart. My wife was in shock, and I prayed internally as I read the declaration to relocate my family so she could move her parents into our unit. It was the first time Id’ read any legal document so carefully, studying, looking for every interpretation, anything I could use to save us. The next day, I went to the Housing Department and there was nothing we could do to protect ourselves. Even thought there was a “bad faith clause” it was inactive unless we could prove they the owner didn’t move her parents in. I played phone tag with the Housing Rights Association. I called a lawyer, who read off twelve things I could sue for, if we could prove the owner was cheating us, which we couldn’t.

The first thing I did was go to my father, who had prepared for this ever since this same person kicked my mother out of her unit. My father had a place all lined up in one of his buildings. Honestly, I was excited. This was opportunity to really save some money. I’m well aware that my father’s properties are in areas I would prefer to steer clear of, but my mother’s place is decent, in a decent neighborhood. I thought, surely, as the father of his grandkids, we would get an even better place. Maybe, he’d even rent us a house.

84th Place. Crenshaw and 84th Place. It took a while for the address to seem familiar. I’d spent my youth there. Back when my father was in the furniture business and worked out of Mansion House. There was nothing to do for a ten year-old, but play in the back alley, and going back and forth to the local library to steal comics. As I drove to 84th, the scenery became more familiar and I was dreading my destination. When I got there, I was in shock. I knew exactly where I was, and I couldn’t believe this was where my father wanted his son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren to live.

It was a dump. No need for me to describe any further. Simply, imagine a dump and you’ll see it. It was the universal definition for a dump. It intersects with every dump, in every reality, in ever dimension. I called my wife, but I was speechless. My shock went up against my instinct to run from danger, and shock was winning. I stared at that building, wondering what my father was thinking. Later than night, I returned with a friend who couldn’t wait for five minutes in his parked car without being afraid. As bad as the area was during the day, at night it was mush worse. John Carpenter couldn’t imagine a worse place. The freaks and bangers had crawled form the sewers and were walking the streets. I took some pictures with my cell for my wife and got the hell outta there.

Taking my father’s place was an option I could not entertain. It was my greatest fear made real. Since I was a kid, living in Orange County, I’ve been afraid of living out Good Times, Sanford and Son, and What’s Happening. Someone like me, who lives their life via television and movies, seeing those shows was terrifying. I’d never knowingly touched poverty for any longer than a weekend visit. Making my stay permanent was stupefying. Taking my family with me was unacceptable. That is when I truly became afraid. My safety net just fell apart and I was on my own. I had four weeks to find a new home with crap credit my only obstacle.

Fast forward: it took two weeks to find a new place to live. During that time, I barely slept, my children became ill, and we were subjected to human greed in its most base form: real estate.

Real estate has to be the gold rush of the millennium. We drove from West Los Angeles to North Hollywood and saw some of the crappiest apartments I’d never imagined. What passes for a “newly painted” apartment my six year old can surpass with a brush and water colors. Security was a luxury, and common human decency was as vacant as the apartments. We hit the bottom of the barrel when we answered an email from a Persian apartment manager/owner.

We were honest in our profile that we had poor credit, which made the email we received all the more suspicious. In two-weeks, it was the only email any manager or owner had sent. The apartment was east of Crenshaw. As my MPV turned into what could officially be called the ghetto, I felt my stomach turn. My wife rolled up her window, and my kids went silent. We were strangers in a strange land and no matter how brown my kids and I were it wouldn’t be enough.

BACK IN BLACK: Part One (TheRapist Continued)

2006-04-25T01:24:00.000-07:00

I was a crackhead squatting in a foresaken building that was once my mind. Where I had loathed my appointments, I looked forward to them, my next fix. A direct shot of self-pity and transference straight to the brain. Like Randel P. McMurphy, I was a sane man in an insane world being negated until death was an improvement.

I was a perfectionist, and that was wrong.
My likes, my loves, were tainted; forms of escapism that trapped and kept me from growing. And my lack of interest, my failure to be entertained wasn't the sign of multimedia drivel, but a mind long bereft of reality.
I craved affection, and that meant I was greedy.
I saw life as senseless when surrounded by the walking dead, and that made me self-destructive.
I was stuck somewhere between adolescence and childhood. My search for truth stemmed form my mothers habitual lying making my quest ingenuous, a byproduct of bad parenting. The more I opened myself, the more I felt like an wound left open to the air; healing slowly, getting dirty, infected. I was festering; traveling back in time to a person I thought long forgotten. But, he came back, that lowly boy undeserving of love. And in that heap of despair I found commonality with my mother and the world. We became one. I was a victim, prey, and the wolves began circling.

But things came to a head. Something was stirring. It wouldn't sit still. A voice in my head kept saying: "It's all bullshit. Get off your ass. Do what you know you need to. Now!" There were nights when HST would visit me. One in particular, when I was watching The L Word, HST came to me and I beat the shit out of my laptop, slamming keys so hard I woke my wife. My anger was exploding like planes colliding into the Trade Center, and bodies were jumping from windows because they couldn't deal with it. But, not even HST could battle toe to toes with the self-doubt gripping me. In mid-thought, I stopped what I was doing. What was I doing? Were these thoughts, these truths, even real? And, HST forgive me, I actually began to wonder if life would be better as a "normal person."

That's when the wolves attacked.

BACK IN BLACK: Part One

2006-04-23T02:26:00.000-07:00

I can’t believe this page is still up. I came back; pretty sure it was taken down. It’s not so funny how someone can mistreat what they love, and need. But I’m back – again – and it feels good.

Where was I?

In a dark place I thought I’d never escape. Therapy. I was already fucked up when I started, but I could still see the light and had a chance of getting out of it. When I started “counseling”, it was like going from general population prison to solitary. At least, in gen-pop, you can see the sun.

This is tougher than I thought. For three days I’ve read over old blogs, trying to get the “taste” back, and I thought I had it. I’d think over beginnings, one after another, each getting better and better. But now, it’s like pulling a tooth. Feels good, though. An uncomfortable yet stimulating feeling, like courting an old flame months after the break-up. The last time you saw one another was painful, but now all you can think about is the sex. It’s all-new again. You can’t wait to perform and show him or her what you’ve learned from the experiences between then and now. I’m anxious; waiting for the rush, the vibe, to slip into the jazz; that state of semi-consciousness, where HST takes over and I become a writing god.

Chapter 1 TheRapist

I started seeing Dr. Shrinker last year in September or October. I’ve written about it already. I spent weeks just unloading on her all the things I felt were wrong with me. I was convinced I was fucked up and needed help to get out. I was tired of slipping in and out of depression, the anxiety, poor self-esteem, and failed diets. I just wanted some answers. Why was I like this?

Once a week I’d go to her office and sit in a chair about five, maybe ten, feet away from her and just start talking. Ironically, the light would always shine on her, leaving me in the dark. There were a lot of days I dreaded going because I’d leave feeling worse than when I arrived. Other days, I truly had nothing to talk about, and I started cataloging events just so I’d have an inventory of topics to bring up.

At first, she said nothing, and I did all the talking about my life and how it sucked. The first words she spoke to me where about signing a contract – “Message!” In this contract, I was agreeing to attend my regular weekly sessions. If I missed a session, for any reason, I would be liable because she couldn’t bill the insurance company. Right then, I knew I shouldn’t continue. Everything about her was wrong. She never greeted me or responded when I said hello. And she worked herself into almost every scenario. For example, one day I mentioned how I felt like Alexander in the self-titled move by Oliver Stone. The character was portrayed as someone very misunderstood. There’s one scene in particular where he’s standing on a hill delivering his "I am William Wallace" speech, and as he’s speaking he can feel the dissension in the ranks. No one could understand him. They were too consumed by their own greed, prejudices, and limitations. Alexander stood on that hill, almost begging his people to see what he saw, to share his vision. But, they refused.

I told Shrinker that’s how I felt every day. I was so alone in how I thought, in what I believed, that I started to deny my own humanity. The world we know was a lie. Only I saw the truth and I wanted to shove it in their faces. I wanted to stand on a hill and lead everyone from the darkness, the ignorance, fallacies, and lies. She said: “I think what you’re telling me is you want me to join you in this struggle.”

…No.

It had nothing to do with her. In that room we were separated from the world, and she wasn’t one of “them.” She was an indescribable “her” to guide me through the shit storm of my mind. In that limbo I was Mork and she was Orson.

It happened again and again. Every time I’d unload something sincere, she’d inject herself into my trauma instead of helping me understand it. Even though I knew what she was doing, I was too hooked to call it quits. She already shot me full of her junk. I was fed sugar and tricked into the white van. My pants were unzipped and some fifty-something woman was jerking me off. I went there fully prepared to embrace the blame for my problems, but that didn’t mean I knew the solutions. When I went to see her, she took the blame away. She did what I had learned to stop doing almost ten years ago…

It was the first time I’d meet a writer in the flesh. Steven Barnes, author of The Kundalini Equation, Blood Brothers, Iron Shadows, Street Lethal, and several teleplays was having a book signing at a small bookstore off Ventura in North Hollywood. It was Merlin’s idea to go and we dragged our wives along. When we got there, Barnes was already in a long conversation, so I just laid back and listened. I’d already read his book and was a big fan. This was back, before I liked reading. Blood Brothers was the first science fiction novel I read and loved. As I listened, he said something very profound.

“You become an adult when you accept responsibility for your actions. Stop blaming your parents for whatever they did or didn’t do in the past for the mistakes you make in the present. Accept the responsibility and become a man.”

Okay, that’s not exactly what he said. It’s been too long for me to remember word for word, but like Andrew Adamson’s interpretation of CS Lewis, this is what I remember. He was looking at me when he spoke, as if he knew who I was and how I blamed my parents for every fuck-up. At that moment, I would stop.

And, I did stop. My life became mine. I took ownership of it. And when I did, one of the immediate changes was how I saw my parents. It was the first step in what would become a healing between my father and I. But, when I told this to Shrinker, that I wasn’t there to blame my parents for anything they’d done to me – I wouldn’t become a cliché – she said: But we can’t deny, whether we like it or not, there’s a part of them in us.” I believe her exact words were: “We all have a little mommy and daddy inside us.”

With that, ten years of therapeutic soul searching was flushed down the toilet. I regressed. I began therapy looking for a way to save myself. I was a changed man watching myself slowly revert to that adolescent going nowhere. That twenty-something boy had become a man in his thirties, only to watch everything slipping away. And my savior was a dope dealer.

To Be Continued (I will be back. Promise.)

DRIVE (Part 5)

2005-11-22T02:21:00.000-08:00

I was in a studio apartment, off Wilshire Boulevard, at 3 o’clock in the morning ith a convicted transgender felon, trying to get sucked for free. I was so anxious I began shaking like a leaf, as “she” rattled on about “her” boyfriend who was still in prison. Any fear left once I understood I was in the presence of a prison bitch; before I learned they can be just as worse, it not more, than regular inmates.

I waited for my turn, looking for a blind spot, a chink in the armor where I could make some suggestive move in the right direction towards my own gratification. As it spoke, it walked around the room, back and forth from kitchen to bathroom. It was skinny, a lanky, black, barely passable – depending on the time of day or night – acting like a woman with flamboyant gestures, but was obviously a man, with a physique similar to my first male lover.

Three hours of hollow conversation passed, and I was losing my interest. Whatever this “woman” could offer was now way overdue and hyped beyond her abilities to fulfill with any degree of satisfaction. I finally found my opening, but used it to leave, with a promise I would call. I never did.

Things dried up for a while; more empty phone calls to transgender prostitutes, listening to their voices, their temptations and pitches to get me to come over. I’d take them to bed like tangible memes I could touch and fondle in my sleep. When I did have money, I used them to further my pursuits, although I’d always try for something more, deeper, and without cost. I was a child of the eighties and teen movies were thirty-something women would bed teenagers “years beyond their age.”

One of these pubescent mindbenders was Private Lesson, a tale of a rich white man’s son and his affair with an older French maid, played by Sylvia Kristel. I never knew who name until I began writing this paragraph, yet her face and everything she symbolized to a young boy has been burned into my memory. I remember late nights, watching her as Emmanuelle, having her inhibitions torn away by force or romance, as she jet-setted around the world.

Those were the eighties, before the chemically induced fallout of the nineties, where sex and sexuality were softer and mature. There was real sex, fake sex, and even a thirteen year-old knew the difference. Playboy and “The Lifestyle” were still alive and we thought it would last forever. Breast were still real, before the same powers that lied to us about cd’s improving sound over lp’s made us gaga over Pam Anderson. Back when romance and sex were joined at the hip, but church and state made leering looks at one another across a Democratic minefield. In those days, a tall, skinny, phantom figured French woman was every boy’s dream.

“If you build it, he will come.” – Field of Dreams

I used to think that was the dumbest saying, and it was fueled by the success of the film putting it on everyone’s lips. Including advertising execs whose paychecks were made on the 101+ spoofs and discredits of something more profound. I didn’t pick up on what this saying, or statement, meant until Merlin explained to me how Buddhism, his Buddhism, works. To me, in combination with chanting, a person is placing their will upon the universe. Life is a single branch. Fate is the wind that blows it in either direction. The direction is random chance. Buddhism, chanting, is manipulating the wind to blow a certain way, so the branch leans in your desired direction. Manipulating that wind is taking action towards your desired outcome, not just sitting on your ass, or knees, waiting for it. Now, I wonder if the writer who wrote Field of Dreams was a Buddhist, because that line is perfect for it. Ray Kinsella, played by Kevin Costner, had to take action to get desired effect. He couldn’t just sit and wait for something. He had to go out there, do something, and risk everything, to get what he wanted.

See, it wasn’t enough to watch Private Lessons, not for me. I had to have it. I wanted it more than anything. My first pangs of lust didn’t start with the cute, freckled, red head – although she would appear, and forever brand me with that predisposition – which was my age and innocent. It started with Sylvia Kristel, Caren Kaye, and Jamie Lee Curtis.

I lost my virginity when I was seventeen, and it wasn’t to someone my age. She was three years older than me and lived in the same house with my father and I. And I’ve always been ashamed of what transpired between us, it lasted longer than it should have, years in fact. But, there’s no denying the truth of virginity, which binds the loser to their taker.

And, it was around this time, after having sex with men and failing to con transgender prostitutes into bed, that she reappeared to drive me even further into the ground.

JPG.

DRIVE Part 4

2005-10-04T04:17:00.000-07:00

"As long as I've known you, your being human has seemed more like a struggle you couldn't or didn't want to win." - Merlyn

Several times in my life I've asked myself: "What have I done and how do I get out of this shit now?" As I stared at the man in my father's doorway, all thought was blocked from me and those questions were consuming. My second male encounter was another black man, but the total opposite of my first. This one was tall, very tall, muscles, dark black skin wearing a wife-beater with navy jogging shorts, carrying a gym bag and was very direct. He didn't speak before entering my father's home, he just walked past me and stopped at the end of the hall once he realized he had no idea where my bedroom was.

"Where you want to do this?" He said in a deep voice I thought reserved for blues singers and Satan.

I didn't even speak, I just lead him to my bedroom, constantly looking at his bag and wondering what could he have possibly brought with him. A depraved imagination can work against you in those situations and when we reached my room I had already begun accepting my impending and seemingly inevitable rape.

He sat on the front edge of my bed, directly in front of my television and video cassette recorder. I stayed in my doorway, watching his hands unzip the gym bag. In the seconds between wonder and certainty, I pictured myself being shoved face first into my own pillow, fighting for air, imagining what the pain of natural order reversed on itself would feel like. And, I liked the idea. How tragic it would be if I were raped, and how could I use that to my advantage?

I've always looked for something, anything, about myself that was special. And these things, some imaginary, were never pretty or clean. I find the most traumatic things imaginable to separate myself from the normals out there and make myself a "somebody." Whether it was telling people my girlfriend committed suicide or that I was part of some suicidal devil cult. Special is synonymous with darkness, evil, and pain for me. Being a rape victim had its appeal.

I was a little disappointed to see him pull out an unmarked video cassette. He felt free enough in another man's house to take out whatever I was watching from the VCR and inject his tape. It was gay porn. He took off his shorts, laid back on my bed, and began masturbating; leaving me to wonder why I was there.

After about five minutes, he asked me to sit down beside him and I questioned exactly where I was. Last I knew, I was home, but now I wasn't so sure. My bed, my room, but everything became his in minutes, and I said nothing when I sat down beside him and began my duties without being asked. When I was done, he got up, put on his shorts, grabbed his tape and walked to my door. Before he exited completely, I remembered to ask a very important question: "Are you HIV negative?" The answer came back quiet and muffled; it always did. Whenever I asked that question, I'd need the reply repeated two or three times before my brain could accept the answer; as if the words were flying by me at a hundred miles and hour and I was trying to snatch them before they got away.

"I'm negative." He didn't even break stride. He hopped the threshold and walked until he was out of sight. I closed the door and stood there for minutes, repeating his answer in my mind, as if I needed to convince myself. I've never understood how I could take solace in asking that question knowing the person could be a liar. But, simply asking them their status made my paranoia much easier to handle afterwards. That, with the questions:

"Did he look sick?"
"Did he look like a drug addict?"
"Did he feel like a liar?"

Made my fear of the viral unknown easier to forget. I'd also discovered something about myself; something quite unexpected. The second man was hung, very hung, and I found that... inciting. I remember being fascinated by it. I even lost control of myself and at one point tried to eat it, literally. The size and toughness allowed me more latitude, I could bite it, pull on it, smother myself in the testicles like they were large breasts. I was so lost that I let go, same as in the club; drunk with a face covered in saliva and a python in my mouth. I didn't know how I felt afterwards. Nothing had prepared me for this; I didn't expect myself to like it, not sexually. But I couldn't hide from the truth that this man's large cock aroused me. And then, that word, it became addictive and took on a whole new meaning. I said it to myself, I repeated it. What was I becoming? I felt like I was transitioning into something and I wasn't sure if I liked it.

Was I straight anymore? How could I be if I enjoyed myself? What am I? Worse, there was no one I could turn to. Years, almost ten, would pass before I'd speak of any of this to anyone. Nothing was the same after that day, and it hasn't been since. Everything changed. Songs like Ice Cube's "Check Yo Self" ("Cause big dicks up yo ass is bad for yo health") caused me pain. Talking about "fags" with a group of guys become stressful. I was always afraid that someone would find out who I was. I was the monster I'd always wanted to be, transforming into this thing I once thought was as mythic as centaurs and unicorns.

I always believed if I were to fall, go all the way. So, my next experience would go to the next level. Again, like a crack addict, I sought my next fix and stole from someone to do it. Jon-Jon had galloped back in the picture for a one night event and I took the opportunity to grab his Frontiers. A late Friday night, my dad was asleep at the other end of the house. I called a number, a voice answered, and forty-five minutes later a man was at my front door. He was white, old - had to be in his fifties - and nice. Real nice. I opened the door to see a silver-haired man with a big grin. I'd explained the risks involved. My dad slept straight through from 10p to 3a, he'd go to the bathroom, and then he was out again until morning. That gave us two hours to do what we wanted before entering the danger zone. This was a first for me, not just because he was extremely white and extremely old, but he didn't want oral sex at all. His pleasure was anal sex, direct, no foreplay, teasing, or
lube.

This was not what I expected or wanted. First, this was ugly. I know how that reads, but it's the only way to describe it. Second, he was the submissive, forcing me into an aggressive role. He wanted me to talk. He wanted me to mount him and be forceful. I couldn't do that. I wondered why myself. Aren't I a man? Can't I be forceful? I had - or have - all this anger welling up inside me and here, with an opportunity to let it out and I couldn't. It all became so sad and desperate. And then, he bent over. And there, on the rim of his anus, I saw it. A chip-o-shit, light brown like a sliver of peanut butter dangling on the edge of the jar.

That did it. I was gone, but not that far gone, and no matter how "pleasing" I try to be, there was no way I was going through with this. I stopped everything. Told him this wasn't going to work and asked him to leave. If this guy was anything, but white, I wonder how it would have ended. But, he left without incident.

Soon after I bought my first car from a guy named James. It was an 85 Toyota Celica. A real piece of crap he unloaded for $700. I paid $200 and worked at my dad's restaurant for the remaining five. Having transportation took things up a notch. Now, I was mobile. People didn't have to come to me, I could go to them, and I did.
My first road trip was to Long Beach. I'd connected with a cross dresser via 976-WOLF and went to meet him on a Friday night at 2am. He lived in an apartment complex and the first thing I noticed were the black people. Why would someone like that live around some of the most unaccepting and violent people imaginable? That was my thought at the time. Remember, I'd been victimized by my "brothers and sisters". I hated them and I hated myself because I looked like them. I blamed my color for my inability to get a girlfriend. Everyone loved the white boys, they were everywhere; the elite.

The whole thing felt like I was being filmed in some sequel to Silence of the Lambs. It was dark, the neighborhood was a ghetto and this "guy" lived in a dark and draped apartment playing old rhythm & blues. As he walked around me, disappearing into the kitchen, I prepped myself for an attack. He offered me something to drink and I feared it was spiked, but drank it anyway. I tempted fate to being my demise with every choice I made. After all I'd been through by then, no matter how minuscule in retrospect, I felt immortalized against my will.

That night ended quickly, as soon as I knew nothing sexual would happen, I left. But that opened another door for me. I was still attracted to women, but there was this new "thing" I was also drawn to. And, crossdressers weren't what I wanted. I decided to try and make a compromise between the two. I had wheels, and a little money, now that I was working regularly with my father. It was time to do what I'd always wanted, finally. The night began with a drive down the Sunset strip, checking out the hookers as I drove by. Wondering if I had the balls to try and pick one up. But, with my Charlie Brown luck, I knew I'd grab a cop. I stopped at a corner, grabbed an LA Express and flipped through the ads while sitting in my abruptly parked car.

I had a pocket full of change; five dollars in my wallet and my tank; tonight was the night I would call one of these numbers and do something. But I knew I couldn't do it on just five dollars. Too bad; my dad was being stingy with the rest of my week's pay. It was fair, considering what he and I considered work were two different things. I was out to do something exceptional? Could I get one of these girls to take me on for free? Could I get the to be romantically interested in me? I was scraping the barrel. Prowling on those who were in despair just as I was. My efforts had been wasted on the healthy girls, the strong girls, the ones everyone wanted. It was time to lower may standards; find the girls just as pathetic as I was. And, who could be more pathetic than a social abomination.

I found the ad, it had a feeling about it. I called. She answered. I delivered a phony story I'd practiced ten minutes before. It began with honesty, admitting to not having any cash, then fell from there into an aberration. It worked, she wanted me to come over. I was shaking violently as I left the payphone and started my heep.
She lived off Wilshire, in a tenement; a re-worked hotel with the old school fire escapes that always made me feel like LA was at one time trying to emulated New York before it found it's own vibe. Finding parking wasn't easy and I was afraid my car would get stolen. James had shown me how to disconnect the starter plug and that was my "club". Of course, with constant use, the connection weakened. Now, starting my car was an embarrassing crap shoot, not made better by parking on a dark street under a tree where I forced myself to turn my back as I dug under my hood. I followed the directions I'd written on my palm, but she didn’t tell me it was a secured building. Still, it wasn’t hard to find her. I was about to read the directory for the apartment number when my eyes caught a white tape among black labels with the word “WHORE” written on it. Had she done this? Her neighbors? How many men does it take, walking through the halls at three in the morning, all to the same apartment, before people get the idea?

I found her apartment; knocked; the door opened like in a haunted mansion as she hid behind it, looking at me through a mop of long permed hair and speaking what I leaned was a Brazilian accent. She was tall, buff; just like my last "lover", but she wore panties, gartered stockings and didn't have a bra. Her long hair fell over two huge man-made breasts on either side of her chest. The shortage of skin left no
imagination to the shape of the silicon so they couldn't pretend to be anything but what they were. Two chemical bags attached to a man's chest.

She asked me to sit. I did. She sat next to me and we stared in uncomfortable silence. She asked me if I liked shemales. I never learned why, but they all asked me that same question. It was always their first. The answer was obvious, and I picked up where we left off on the phone. I was a lonely guy who liked shemales. I loved them. They were "the last bastion of true femininity left in a world where men are becoming more like women." She smiled. She was interested. And, then she told me she'd been to prison for murder. Sorry, I mean “manslaughter.”

"I hurt myself today... To see if I could feel." - Trent Reznor

TO BE CONTINUED

INTERMISSION

2005-10-03T07:32:00.000-07:00

After a week of delving into my deep dark closet, I need time to get myself together as I craft DRIVE part 4. So, here's an installment of Thought bytes to tide you over.

THOUGHT BYTES FOR 2005

Fantasy Fetish

I had to write about this; last week, while surfing the net, I stopped by sundevildvd.com to see if they had any new anime. Sundevil is a cool place to get your Japanese anime for people who are true fans of the genre and don't want to pay the inflated prices of the American market. Their dvd's are imports, straight from Japan, with American subtitles and are damn good. And the prices are great. $11.50 for a movie and $30 for an entire OAV series. I know what you're thinking, because I thought the same thing, but they're legit. The production value is too high for black-market and the quality is too clean.

So, I'm shooting over and what do I see when the home page downloads? They have Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children. SquareEnix's second full CGI movie sequels their first game on the Playstation ten years ago. I remember buying Final Fantasy VII for my wife as a Christmas present. She wasn't a video game geek, and I'd gotten out of it after Nintendo lost its thrill. But, when we saw the commercials for FF, we were both blown away by the graphics. Video games had come a long way since the first Legend of Zelda or Street Fighter on the Super Nintendo. She wanted it so badly that I got it for her. Our first system together, our first video game, and what a pain in the ass it was. She played it all the time... ALL the time. We had so many fights;
it would have been funny to see the divorce papers stating a video game as the reason for the split. While I loved looking at the game, I couldn't play it. It was too slow for me. Nothing like the third-person action games I became hooked on. But it was gorgeous. I still sit around as JM plays, just looking at graphics.

We both loved Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within, but we understood why it failed. While it had a tight story and incredible CGI, it was too slow for American audiences. Asking American audiences to watch a computer-generated character for over an hour and emotionally invest in them is not an easy task. While true fans of the franchise were disappointed because there was no direct link to the games, the truly obsessed geeks, like my wife, understood the connection and loved it. I loved it just for the story, art, and tech. Americans can be so picky, like with their music, they can be so obsessed with what they like, they close themselves off to anything new. But, there are a few like myself who love a medium so much; they're open to anything. I love movies. I love stories. I love computer tech and video
games. So, I liked it.

When we saw SquareEnix was moving forward with another movie, and we saw the previews, we were blown away and have looked for it ever since. Advent Children is what Spirits Within should have been for an American release. It's breathtaking, epic, kinetic, and just plain jaw dropping. If this is the future of animation, get rid of the talking and dancing animals and make way for some incredible shit!

Now, I won't dare and try to explain the whole story because I barely have a grasp myself. It's a sequel to the game, so you have to have played it, but there is a cool beginning that clue you into the story, so you're not missing everything. But, like comic crossovers, you're better off knowing the entire story. Luckily, I have a #1 source that filled me in on what the whole deal was. It all begins in the game, Final Fantasy VII, where a corporation was draining the earth's energy for power (here's one of those "oh, so subtle" links Sprits Within had to the games that few picked up on). The corporation, called Shin-Ra, had used alien tech to create their own soldiers to protect their interests. This tech came from an alien dubbed Jehovah who landed on earth (another subtle link to Spirits Within) and it's believed it's mission was to destroy the planet, but something went wrong and it crashed. Shin-Ra used cells from Jehovah to enhance humans and genetically engineer beings they called "Soldiers". The hero and villain are two of these soldiers.

The villain, Sephra, genetically engineered using Jehovah's cells, claimed to hear the voice of Jehovah calling him to destroy the planet. The hero, Cloud, a Jehovah enhanced human, was unaffected until Sephra, his mentor, destroyed his village, putting Cloud on the path to destroying the villain. And, as these things go, along the way he meets a bunch of people, members of a resistance group against Shin-ra, who join his quest. At the end, Cloud's ladylove, a healer, sacrifices herself (And that's three, people - How could people NOT see the connection between the game and movie?) to save the earth and Cloud destroys Sephra in a blaze of glory.

Advent Children picks up two years later, Shin-ra is destroyed and Cloud still mourns the death of his woman. A disease infects children, including Cloud, and three next generation soldiers are now looking for the remains of Jehovah, who they call "Mother". Somehow the infected children play a part in their plans. The reason the story is still sketchy to me; despite seeing the movie FIVE TIMES is because the visuals are so strong, you can't look away to read the subtitles. SquareEnix are the masters of making realistic CGI characters that move, breathe, and feel more human than the clones we see walking the streets everyday. The designs are phenomenal on every level from tech to clothing. The fight choreography looks like Woo Ping did it.
It's as kinetic and graceful as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, with the collateral damage of Dragon Ball Z.

At its core, it's an Epilogue and a bridge between Fantasies 7 and 8. What that means, in relation to Japanese anime, is it's an "encore" a final bow for the fans. It's nothing new; they've been doing this since the 80's. With Macross, they did Flashback, a music video retrospective of the movie and series that ended with twenty
minutes of new footage showing what happens to Minmei, Rick, and Lisa after the series, taking off on the new ship Victory Road. In Mospeda (that's Robotech Gen. 3 for those not in the know), it was Love, Live, Alive, and another collection of music videos that end with Lancer reunited with his friends for one night before leaving them again. Advent Children is no different and follows the same formula. By the end, every character has been re-visited and Cloud is reunited with his companions, alive and dead. I've always liked that about Japanese anime, they really give a damn about the fans. Sure, it's about money, but it's not ALL about money. They love their fans and they treat them right. Sometimes, Japanese studios will even take an OAV and do a special presentation, a 0 episode, on television for the
fans. Here, the pushers couldn't give a damn about us. They just milk us for everything we're worth. Oh, sure, I'm sure Japan does the same. But they kiss us while they fuck us. American comics and animation just rapes us dry, and they won't even wear a fucking condemn.

But, back to Advent Children...

I won't say this movie is better than Batman Begins, but damn close to it. Buy this movie at all costs; it's well worth the money. The whole thing has a great feel to it, especially the emotional element within and outside the story. That feeling of gratitude and love for the material; a final bow to the fans who love this one particular game and its characters. It makes me wish I did play the game. Better still, that I was in Japan fore the release, surrounded by friends and strangers who loved Final Fantasy VII as much as I do. But I don't, I just love this amazing
movie.

Lessons in Life and Death

Another purchase I made from Sundevil was the Japanese cult classic, Battle Royal. Based on the novel later turned into a manga, Battle Royal is about a Japan where the adults become fed up with juvenile delinquency. They pass the B&R Act, also known as Battle Royal. Every year, a class is selected in a National lottery to participate in an all or nothing fatal contest. The students are kidnapped and taken to a deserted island where they fight and kill one another until only one remains. They have three days; if there's no winner they all die via remote collars that explode when activated by the military.

This was a thrill to watch, and I'm not just writing that because I'm one sick puppy. I've wanted to see this since the manga hit the states. I haven't read the manga, but the fandom got me curious and I can see why it's so popular. It's Running Man meets Lord of the Flies, but it works. They take all the school crap: the insecure fat boy, the sexpot school slut, the nerd boys and loners in-between and give them weapons and three days to kill each other or die. Oh, and that was one of the cool catches, the weapons were randomly picked and distributed. And the term weapon is a general one. It could be a gun or a trashcan lid. One student's "weapon" was a GPS handheld, allowing him to track any student on the island. That was an
entirely new level of intensity, students killing each other for bigger and better weapons.

Some of the coolest scenes dealt with factions of the student class set against one another. The fat boy who you knew was an outsider was the first to start killing with his crossbow. Then, you had those who took to it all too quickly, like the sexpot who used her ways to get close and slice open another girl's neck. But, the point of everything hits home when one boy spends over half the movie looking for one girl, only for her to shoot him dead. With his last breath, he tells her how he's loved her from afar and wanted to save her. Leaving the girl crying over his dead body, screaming how he never talked to her, how was she to know he loved her, and what was she to do now, knowing how he felt and left alone in what was her last
twenty-four hours of life.

The movie is full of dark comedic moments, the best being a training video that plays like a Japanese game show tutorial. And, if none of that sells it, then maybe this will: Takeshi "Beat" Kitano as the Director who picks the class for this year's game. He was a riot and responsible for most of the dark comedy in the film. There's even a body count after every killing scene, so you never have to wonder how many are
left of the forty students who started.

This is a must see if you can find it. They made a sequel, but I'd hate to see it because it could crap all over the first one.

Best.

JPG.

DRIVE (Part 3)

2005-09-28T02:17:00.000-07:00

"If I'd written all the truth I knew for the past ten years, about 600 people - including me - would be rotting in prison cells from Rio to Seattle today. Absolute truth is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism." Hunter S. Thompson

"I want this to last forever." That's what he said as I went down on him, and I was beginning to wonder how long it would take to end the adventure. I'd taken it as far as I wanted. Guilt was setting in quick and my father was due home in an hour. When I heard his words my eyes went wide and my brain reviewed any reasonable excuse I could find to get him off and out.
I've always reserved the truth for emergencies. When all else fails, the truth is your last and best chance for salvation. When I was a teen and lies were a reflexive response, the truth was always there to bail me out when all else failed. This was no different. My dad was headed home, time was closing in, and so I told him the truth: "My dad will be home in twenty minutes."
Half-truths are just as effective.
The guy responded immediately as I disengaged my mouth from his penis. He began jerking off furiously and looked at me to do the same, which I did. I guess I wasn’t doing a good enough job because he pushed my hand aside and took over. I'd seen enough movies that I knew what he wanted to happen, but I asked anyway: "Where should I shoot." I remember his voice, low and smooth: "All over me." Rubbing his belly with one hand as he jerked with the other, giving control back to me, we both shot simultaneously. What a let down. I'd taken such a big risk only to climax under my own power. I felt like a man who risked everything for nothing and I watched him rub our semen into his skin.
In an ironic moment of clarity, it struck how in love men are with their body fluids. Unless they’re getting thousands of dollars per scene, most women hate semen, and who can blame him. Watching that man bath in our stuff wasn’t pretty. I honestly wondered what the big deal was, and I was grossed out when he didn’t ask for a towel to clean him.
He dressed himself, kissed my cheek, we hugged, and he old me to call him, but I never did. Despite being raised in the age of HIV my mind never considered I was putting myself at risk, not until that door closed and the sound was like Big Ben tolling the end. I put it out my mind as best I could go over every possibility for why this guy didn't have HIV. I reviewed every HIV infomercial and any "he doesn't look sick" stereotype I could think of, but nothing really worked. I got on my knees and prayed for God's forgiveness, swearing that I would never do it again.
I called HIV hotlines for information, but only became more confused. Hotlines don't deal in the truth; they dabble in fear and possibilities. I was looking for definite answers, but they wouldn't give them to me. "Can a person get HIV from oral sex?"
"You can get it from any unsafe activity."
"I know, but can you get it from oral sex?"
"Yes."
"Oh Fuck!" I thought to myself. "How do you get it? Who's at greater risk, the giver or receiver?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Do you know the percentage of HIV patients who were infected from oral vs. anal sex? Is anal sex the primary avenue of infection? Don't I need an open sore or bleeding gum to contract the virus orally?"
"I can send you a pamphlet---"
I don't want a fucking pamphlet! I just sucked on a man's cock and I'm gonna die!"
They were no help at all.
I spent days trying not to think about dying. Every day I inspected my body from head to toe looking for lesions. I took my temperature praying I didn't have a fever. I ate excessively to prove I still had my appetite. And, I lived in fear of diarrhea. What I didn't know or realize was I had already lost a tremendous amount weight already. A friend named James who was a Buddhist turned me on to a diet where you manage what you ate based on which foods complimented each other. He told me some foods go better together, makes the digestive process more efficient and reducing the amount of fat the body collects. I stopped eating meat with any kind of starch and at beef solo. That's right, I was Atkins before there was such a thing. He also told me how drinking while you eat reduces the effectiveness of the stomach's acids, also contributing to increased fat storage. I stopped drinking during dinner and mostly drank water. Every night, after KTLA's hour block of Cheers was over at midnight, I'd grab my Walkman, dance mix tapes, and audio books of Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles and I'd go for a walk until 3am. I never even noticed how my body was transforming. My pants were big and baggy anyway, so I had no idea I was dropping pounds. Not until I went to my father's restaurant and a waitress noticed I was smaller and very pale. I never went out during the day, my already light skin turned as white as a black man can get. Even more so when your a nice light caramel.
I freaked. I thought this was it. I was going to die. As horrible as I thought my life was I didn't want to die. No matter how much I tried to look at the bright side of things, nothing defeated my desire to live. I'd already tried several times to kill myself in various ways. Once, I tried to hang myself. Another time, I took a samurai sword Doc gave me, put the butt to the floor, the point to my stomach and leaned on it as hard as I could, putting my weight on it a little at a time, but always stopping before the big push. I'd put knives to my wrists and dared myself to fly off buildings. I wanted to die, or I thought I did. But, here it, beautiful death, right in front of me and I couldn't look her in the face.
I'm not a coward. I'm just afraid the day will come when I'll have to prove it.
I asked my father to get me an appointment with a doctor. He was immediately suspicious of my reasons. "What is it? What are you afraid you have?" I shrugged it off with a quip and called a clinic where the doc agreed to see me the same day. I told the nurse I wanted a physical, but what I really wanted was an HIV test. I sat through the whole thing in a daze, devising a segue from "I hope my cholesterol is okay" to "I need to know if I have AIDS." I think the doc knew what was up because I didn't have to even ask for the consent form, he just gave it to me. "Standard procedure for new patients.” he said. I asked when the results would be back. He said it takes a week. I got them in three days. That call was the only time I've ever been happy to answer the phone in my life. I made him repeat the results three times, then I repeated it, then I made him repeat it again. Negative.
I prayed to God to save me. I got on my knees, crying, begging Him to save my ass. Did He? How knows, but I promised I'd never repeat the same mistake again and I wasn't going to tempt fate.
A week later, I sucked my second dick.
TO BE CONTINUED

DRIVE (Part 2)

2005-09-27T02:15:00.000-07:00

But, things really started getting confusing for me. Even in my head as I try to remember how things occurred, I don’t remember how they happened, just that they did happen. I don’t know how or why, but I got my hands on copies of Jon-Jon’s gay porn movies. I can’t even imagine what excuse I must have given for wanting to see them. But, I did and I copied them for myself. Watching gay porn was even more exciting than straight movies. For one, watching it felt really dirty. Take the male guilt of watching regular porn and amplify that by a hundred. It felt taboo and forbidden. I’d watch it late, in the dark; petrified my father would wake up and see me with it. But, that wasn’t the only thing exciting about it. I liked what I was watching.

Gay porn is different in that the situations presented are more likely to happen. What are the odds that a pizza delivery boy would knock on some blonde’s door and next find himself in a one-man orgy with a sorority house? But, it was very possible that a guy taking a shower after working out, looking over at the next guy and start something up. The one that really stuck in my head and excited me was this scenario of two guys in an adult theater who end up masturbating themselves and then each other. Later, another guy shows up and goes down on both of them. Gay sex was so accessible. Just like the Eddie Murphy joke, you could play basketball with a guy, have a couple of beers, then go home and rub one out or shoot one off together. I used to laugh at that, but there I was getting off on it years later. Yeah, I touched myself and masturbated to gay porn. Once I did that, I guess having sex with a man was only a matter of time.

I remember why I stopped going to the bars with Jon-Jon. If I have my order of events correct, it was when he got himself a girlfriend. There was this teenage girl living in Jon-Jon’s condo complex with her little brother. She was sixteen or seventeen and seemed to come out of nowhere all of a sudden. First, Jon-Jon was hanging out with her. Then, they seemed to get much heavier and physical. Next I knew she was his girlfriend. I was pissed off and jealous, but not because Jon-Jon had no more use for me. More because a gay man had achieved what I always wanted. A girlfriend. A white, blue-eyed, blonde girlfriend. Their relationship didn’t last too long, but as it was going on, I distanced myself from Jon-Jon as much as possible. Then it ended. It wasn’t Jon-Jon’s only experience with a woman, but I think it was something he had to do to confirm who he was. You’d have to ask him how it happened and why.

I found out about the split a while after it happened because I hadn’t seen him in a long time. When I went to see him out of the blue, I ended up at the girl’s house and she told me what happened. Basically, Jon-Jon had dumped her for a guy. That night, Jon-Jon wasn’t home, so I spent my time with the girl. I was flirting and when she walked me out we ended up kissing. I’d broken the golden rule all guys live by, but I didn’t think it counted because Jon-Jon was gay. Certainly, that had to be an exception. I started walking home and looked to my right, into the complex’s parking garage, and saw a dark figure looking back at me. I looked closer, and it was Jon-Jon. I waived at him, but he didn’t respond. I knew what was going on. He must have seen me kissing the girl. But, he couldn’t be pissed about that. He’s gay, and they broke up. I later found out he was very pissed about that. Nothing ever started up with the girl. Jon-Jon and I eventually got back into each other’s lives. And, last I knew, the girl became a lesbian with her best friend.

From then on, my going to gay clubs with Jon-Jon was against my will. He always had to guilt me into it. Or, just plain get mad at me. He entered into his first serious relationship and vanished for months. This was the beginning of a pattern; he would enter and leave my life based on his relationship status. His first real lover died from cancer. The second was “Dug-Dug”, an accountant who took care of Jon-Jon in every way imaginable. Jon-Jon eventually moved out of his father’s home and in with Dug-Dug who became like a father financially. It was then, when Jon-Jon was on one of his excursions in the “land of love”, that I went on my own expedition into the unknown.

It started in my 19th year and ended before my 21st. Often, it’s not a good thing to leave me alone for a long time. I get to thinking about things, dangerous things.

The first thing I did was asking my father for a telephone in my room and I knew exactly what I was going to do with it. Once that was in, I went to Boys’ Town and grabbed a Frontiers Magazine, the gay equivalent of the Weekly. In the back were personal ads for sex. I picked up a copy of LA Express, a paper where LA prostitutes advertise their services, many of them she-males. I never understood how a city with laws against prostitution could allow such a paper, but I was happy for it. From one of those sources, I came across a gay phone line, 976-WOLF, and I called it. I listened to various sex ads in my area and then I placed one. My phone rang off the hook all night, and that same night that I met my first male partner.

I don’t remember his name. He was black, skinny, but taller than me. An Air Force officer recently discharged. Our first conversation was nice, it was almost like we were two guys just chatting it up until the topic went in certain directions that broke the illusion. He came over the next day while my dad was at work. I remember he wore funky disco sunglasses, tight blue jeans, and a waist bag where the earphones from his Walkman wrapped around his back to his ears.

We sat in my room for a while, looking at All My Children and vamping over Erica Cain. I was nervous, but excited. This was the dirty underbelly of sex. I was on the verge of something taboo, forbidden, and that excited me. The anticipation was uncontrollable and I began to shake violently, something I still do today when I’m sexually anxious. I think he made the first move, kissing me on the lips. It was weird. The difference was immediate. This was not a girl and there’s no way I could pretend myself through it. As he moaned the bother went away and it became bearable. Not good or nice, I was just able to get through it. His response fed into something not sexual, egotistical maybe, but not sexual. I was doing something right, someone was getting off on me and I liked it. What I’d always wanted from a girl I was getting from this man. My kissing became more aggressive and he made another first move, grabbing my crotch. I was more surprised by my reaction; I was erect and responding to him. It felt good. And, putting my hand on his crotch, feeling the bulge in his tight jeans excited me even more.

I wonder if my pleasure was masturbatory because I touch myself today in the same way I touched him. I liked the feel of it beneath the jeans. The shape. And, its strength. He was much bigger than I was. I'd discovered for myself the myth about men of color was very true. Long story short, we went down on one another, but it wasn't as I expected. My turn was disappointing. Here I had dreamed of this, getting blown. It didn't matter anymore who did it, just that it got done. I'd had it from a woman and it was horrible. Now, I was on the verge of experiencing what I was told was the major positive of being with a man, because who could know a man's equipment better, right? The only word to describe how it felt is "wrong." It felt wrong. I couldn't even look at him because it was a man I was looking at. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy it that way, but it didn't work. Sure, he did more, but there was a tenderness that was missing. That's when it got really hard to finish. Everything about a man is harsh, hard, quick and forceful. Women, no matter the level of skill, are soft, slow, and tender. The word "wrong" just kept repeating in my head over and over and I fought back tears because, at that moment, I knew I had hit a bottom and there was no coming back from it. I'd crossed a line. From that day on there would always be this "option", a "possibility" that wasn't there before. If I could do this now, I could do it again later.

I stopped him when it became obvious that I wasn't going to climax, put him on his back and went all the way. There was no going back now. I couldn't get out of this. What would I say: "Sorry, but this isn't what I thought it would be and I'm done." I honestly felt bad for the guy because I had misled him. I didn't tell him he was my first or that I was straight. I played it gay all the way and now I had to go somewhere most men outside of prison can’t imagine. But I liked it. I mimicked the women in each porn I'd ever seen. Soon, I got into it. His response to me was enticing. The more he squirmed, the more I wanted to see what I could make him do next. The pleasure I got from it was pure power and validation. It was like hitting that fly ball in little league, the only ball I hit that went outfield and had everyone on his or her feet. It was the same as hearing my father say he's proud of me, or having my friends pat me on the back for an accomplishment. Just having someone tell me something good about myself. I was getting that feeling as this man squirmed and called me his baby.

TO BE CONTINUED

DRIVE (Part 1)

2005-09-27T01:51:00.000-07:00

PRELUDE

How long has it been?

A month? Two?

Well, I'm back by popular demand, even though I don't feel like being here. One of my kids brought a bug home and I was doing well against it until Sunday night when I rubbed one out and woke up the next day with a scratchy throat. But, JG is eagerly waiting to read something and I realize ever since I left the CTO I really haven't been doing much of anything, except enjoying the technological advancements in home entertainment via digital video recording.

So, there's nothing really new to report. Stuff has happened, but nothing I consider entertaining of having any worth mentioning here.

Therapy is progressing well, but it doesn't take much to know that I'm not my biggest fan. Still, it's nice to unload on someone other than this void they call a blog page. Dr. Shrinker still sits in her chair as I rattle on for forty-five minutes without stopping, but she does interject here and there to share a thought. The last two times I've seen her, I could swear she was dosing off on me. Her eyes start to droop and I wonder if she's listening to anything I'm saying. Of course, being who I am, I don't bother to get offended and just keep talking, hoping she’s getting everything. In my last session, I came clean about my same sex experiences, how they started and why. But she didn't seem interested in them. Instead, she focused on my racial prejudice against my own people and how that made me feel.

The one thing that sucks about therapy is, you spend all this time opening wounds, and they just stay open until the doctor decides to sow them shut again. I feel like shit after every session because it seems so pointless. I know what I am. I know why I am that way, but it won't change anything. Not my wife or my life. My "illness" is progressing to a point where I don't think I really care for a cure anymore because the "problem", if mastered, is more enjoyable.

One Saturday night, I sat up in my bed. The wife and kids were asleep and I stared out the window, painfully aware that I've never been loved by a woman in the same way that I love someone. I've also been the aggressor in my relationships, never the prize. Doesn't matter if I play hard to get or not, I'm always the one, the only one, to make a move. I can't describe the depths of despair I sunk to that night. I was ready to chuck my entire life down the toilet. The desire to find a woman who would love me the way I want was so intense I felt I was holding onto my family as if they were a ledge atop a two hundred foot drop and gravity was pulling me down with such force that I could almost feel my fingers losing their grip. I knew what I was feeling was wrong, some unattainable “unicorn” that may not exist. More so, I knew I didn't want to lose my family, not over this, some high school fantasy still unfulfilled. That didn't change what I wanted. It didn't stop my mind from imagining a woman out there, somewhere, who'd love me in the passionately. Someone who wanted me in the same ways I wanted her. Except, I wouldn't have to ask for it. I wouldn't have to beg. It would come like a flood or unstoppable hurricanes that I couldn’t shield myself from, nor would I want to.

I woke my wife up from her sleep. I admit it was a very selfish act, disturbing her rest after an entire day of motherhood just to berate her. Just to tell her how she failed me, threatening her with divorce. I'm a sick puppy, I know this, but there is a method. I'm not a cold son of a bitch. I keep thinking if I tell her these things, no matter how disappointing and hurtful, she’ll heart me. A light bulb will appear over her head and she'll finally see things the way I do. She'll transform into someone she never was to begin with and give me the selfish love I crave. But, it never works out that way. There's no epiphany, no revelation. She listens, and either agrees with me and considers divorce or says, "I told you so. You knew what I was like when you married me." Then, she’ll cry.

Confession time: I like to make my wife cry because it's one of the few times I actually feel like she loves me.

My wife is a wonderful woman, I know this, and she loves me. Somewhere in my gut I know that to. It's my head that can't accept it. No matter what she's done, no matter what she's sacrificed, what she's said, or any of the ways you truly prove your love for someone, there's still a voice in my brain that always speaks to me with doubts. I'm far enough in my therapy to know it's my own voice I'm hearing, doubting her love because I have no love for myself. Everything with me is visual. I have to see it to believe it. Worse, when it comes to love, it's physical. If you love me, you have to show it physically in very extreme ways. It's always a test to see how far someone will go for me? Ten years and two kids are nothing compared to her willingness to do something sexually unseemly just for me. If she doesn't, how will I know she loves me? When I tell her I don't think she loves me and she starts to cry, a piece of me is happy. I feed off it. It’s proof she loves me. The assuredness doesn't last long. Soon, I'm looking for another show of affection.

I'm an asshole and I know what I'm doing is abusive. I told my wife to kick me to the curb after my second session. I told her what I was doing and why. How I felt and what matters to me. I told her she doesn't deserve this, what I'm doing, it’s abusive and she needs to get the fuck away from me before one of two things happens. Either, she gets numb to it and pushes me to find new extremes to get a reaction. Or, she'll leave me anyway, and it won't be pretty. Worse of all, I hate feeling like a jerk around her. I hate feeling like a rapist or some emotional puppy humping her leg just because I want some amount of affection that I think is normal. And, if it isn't I don't care. I still want it.

Two weeks ago, I hired an Argentinean artist to do some work for me and last week he finally sent me the sketches after writing or sending nothing since I paid him. The work wasn't bad, but so wrong, that I kicked diplomacy out the window and let loose on him in an email, basically telling him he was unprofessional and the work was dissatisfactory.

He sent me an email back, writing that I treated him like a child and he didn't appreciate my accusing him of doing bad work just to send me something after two weeks of nothing. These conditions are exactly why he insists on being paid half upfront, to compensate for "the hours of work an artist goes through" once a client cancels. I was livid. First, he has the nerve to write I was treating him immaturely. Then, he throws in my face that I paid half upfront, so if I cancel, I'm shit out of luck and he knows there's no way I'm going to track him down in Argentina over $40 American. He wrote that he would re-do the art in a different style, but by that time I didn't give a damn. I'd been through something like this before with another artist and there was no way I was doing it again. I wrote him to cancel the assignment and send back my money because the sketches he sent in no way constituted "hours of work." He responded and I still haven't opened it because I don't want to get pissed off. What would be the point? He got me. This piece of shit in Argentina got me. This is probably his whole scam, getting people to hire him, send half the cash upfront, then piss them off so they cancel the gig and he walks away with free money for dick work. He got me and I can't bring myself to open that fucking email because of it. Thankfully, Casey, the same artist who worked on my book’s chapter illustrations is able to do the job. I'm truly excited to work with him again. But, I know sooner or later I have to open that damn email.

I don't want to admit I'm sick, but when you start breathing hot carbon, you’re fucked. Still, I'm hoping for the best. The last thing I want to do is call in sick tomorrow. I feel lucky that I have a job that makes me feel that way. Like I'd rather come to work than take a legitimate sick day. Part of it is I'm still the new guy and it doesn't look good to take a day off so soon. The other part is this job isn't bad. I'd actually feel guilty if I didn't show up because it's not like there's a lot for me to do anyway.

END OF PRELUDE

Last night, I went out with my friend, Heller. We had coffees at a nice Santa Monica artsy coffee shop that made me wish I had my laptop. As with all my close friends, our conversation was deeper than the ocean and pretty dark. We talked about traumas, inner turmoil, and vehicular assault. After a while, I felt vulnerable enough to talk about my experiences with men. I'm very careful about that, especially when speaking to gay men because I’m afraid they'll think I was making a pass when I'm actually trying to get information and feedback from the best source. But, Heller being a brother to me, along with Doc and Fitz, I wasn't too worried. Still, I let the disclaimers fly during my "confessions."

I think I was 19 when I was first with a man and the decision was a conscious one, and at the time, pretty damn logical. My friends, Jon-Jon and Heller, both came out to me in high school. Where Heller and I drifted apart. Not necessarily because of his orientation, but it could have been part of it; perhaps, he was cutting the ties of his old life to best transition into the new. And here I was, an infected limb causing him pain and begging to be ripped off at the root.

But, while Heller and I drifted, Jon-Jon and I bonded.

See, I had no experience with homosexuals; I didn't even think they existed. They were no different than anything else I'd seen on television. They were "out there", but what were the odds I'd actually see one. I should also mention I shared the same belief in angels, demons, vampires, werewolves, and Spider-Man. When Jon-Jon came out to me, I really didn't know how to react after the initial shock wore off. I had no presets that told me to hate him. He was the same guy, different, but the same. So, I stayed by him because I thought that's what friends do. That's a very important part of this, let me repeat that statement: "I stayed by him because I THOUGHT that's what friends do." It's all about playing roles. In retrospect, I wish I’d been a more hateful person and told him to “Fuck Off!”

Jon-Jon dragged me to every gay place imaginable, from coffee shops to bookstores. I even sat in on some gay and lesbian teen meetings and people were amazed that I wasn't gay myself. I was a straight guy sticking by his friend no matter what. I became "The Golden Child", the first nickname I ever had that didn't have anything to do with my ass or some creative manipulation of my first name. When I turned eighteen, Jon-Jon took me to a gay club, Studio One. My first time ever at a club and it was a gay one. I loved it. I'd never felt so free in my life. I remember it took a while to get on the dance floor, I was so nervous. Once I did, I was dancing all night. The most memorable and impressionable thing was the acceptance I felt all around me. I was a fat kid, girls had rejected me at every turn, but in that club were people who, for whatever reason, liked me. In that space, I was cool. Jon-Jon would go on and on about how well I danced. I'd close my eyes and go into "the zone", unbuttoning my shirt, throwing up my hands, screaming and dancing to the music. Anyone who knows me knows that's a pretty big deal.

I've always been ashamed of my body hair, but it was a gay man who was the first person to ever see my chest hair and respond positively. To girls, it was disgusting. I've always disliked raising my arms for any reason because I'm afraid I might smell bad. That little quirk was born during the years living with my father when I fell victim to puberty. My father always uses deodorant and, well, deodorant just isn't strong enough for me.

On the first day of high school orientation, I was especially ripe. You could smell me from down the hall. And the teens to my right and left knew all too well who was stinking. The principal addressed the freshman class, asking who was from certain nearby elementary/junior high schools. When he said mine, I kept my arm down. Another classmate of mine from the same school started goading me to raise my hand. When I refused, he grabbed my arm by the wrist and yanked it upward. When I looked at the boy to my left, who was holding his nose, I tried to bring my arm down, but the guy kept it up. Finally, I said: "I don't want to raise my hand!" And the boy next to me, holding his nose, said: "He doesn't have to raise his arm...damn!"

I knew I had a problem with odor. But, I thought the solution was adding more deodorant. I'd pile so much on it would foam, my pits would get sore and the skin would peel. It wasn't until maybe the second year that I discovered antiperspirant and that seemed to help. But, to this day, I'm paranoid about my body odor. I heard my mother once say that when people rub their noses, it's because something stinks. Now, every time I'm next to someone and they brush there nose, sniff, or do something like that, I think I might smell and I'm offending them. Doesn't matter that I showered. Doesn't matter that I'm wearing $5 antiperspirant so strong I can skip a day, or that I haven't dropped a sweat bead. The minute their hands go to their face, in my mind, I stink and then I do sweat because my primary physical response to stress and anxiety is sweating. What a conundrum, huh? I'm afraid I stink, which makes me sweat; pushing my antiperspirant to its limits so sooner or later I will indeed stink. Thus, I was given the name: "Dr. Sweat."

Getting back to it, I was on that dance floor in that gay club, dancing my ass off and feeling completely free for the first, and perhaps, the only time in my life. After that, it became a drug. The more Jon-Jon and I went out the more accepted I felt. The more free I felt, the freer I became, at least in "Boys' Town." Jon-Jon and I would walk hand-in-hand or I'd have my arm around him like he was my girl. We'd sit in a coffee shop, his head on my shoulder and my arm around him. It was fun. It felt great. Because I was straight and everyone knew it, I felt free and still accepted. But then, things began to change.

I wish I could remember why or how, but after a year or two of going to Boys' Town non-stop and began to dislike it. I think it began to bother me that everything surrounding me was gay when I desperately wanted a girlfriend. Maybe it got boring. I don't know. But, there came a time when Jon-Jon would ask me to a club and I’d refuse. Didn't do much good though. Jon-Jon has always had his way with me mentally. I've always found it hard to tell him what I really thought or how I truly feel about things, especially homosexuality. He would guilt me into going and once I was there I was in the zone all over again. Some exciting things happened in those days. Like the time Jon-Jon went to visit his mother in San Fran, but when he came back he didn't go home. He'd been gone for days before his father, who hated me, called my house, asking me to find him. And, I did. That was cool, very pulp noir.

TO BE CONTINUED

THESE ARE THE DAYS

2005-08-18T18:58:00.000-07:00

I’m just now settling down from a two-day mad-on.

I’m a very paranoid person, and while I know I can’t plan for everything, I try my best. Two days ago, JM told me she saw a strange man pacing in front of our bedroom window last week. I lashed out at her for ten minutes, asking how she could let something like that happen without doing anything or mentioning it to me. I went on and on while she kept quiet and her silence only fueled my tirade. Finally, while washing the dishes and without looking at me, she said it never happened. She was “testing” me to see how much I trusted her. But that only made me angrier and I let her have it with both barrels.

I slept on the couch that night, or tried to anyway. I was so angry I couldn’t fall asleep. I tossed and turned; waking up several times until the alarm finally went off. When JM came into the living room to wake me, it felt like I hadn’t slept at all.

The next day, we spoke on the phone and I was brief. I wanted her to know how angry and insulted I was because she lied to me and treated me like some high school boyfriend. I don’t like tests in general, but I really hate when people test me in any way. Not only do I find it immature, but also it only makes me wonder about their true motives. Women will tell guys they’re just testing them, but no matter what they call it, it’s lying, plain and simple. And, if they can lie about one thing, what else are they lying about? I lay on that couch for the first time in five years questioning my wife’s honesty. My insecurities just went off like a volcano.

I was angry for a long time, but in all honesty, it started subsiding the next day. But, I wasn’t going to let JM know that. I wanted to teach her a lesson. I wanted her to feel bad for what she’d done. And, most important, I wanted her to make up for it. A lot of people have the misconception that with marriage there’s an end to the games people play in relationships. That’s not true. You just graduate to a whole new level. The games have bigger and longer lasting consequences. And, they’re harder to get away with because your “opponent” knows you so well.

I was trying to bluff my wife so she would believe I was still angry when I wasn’t. The pay-off was having her go the extra mile for my forgiveness. I thought I had her when she apologized twice, but she stayed strong. I knew if something didn’t happen soon, she’d eventually get mad at me for holding a grudge. Then the tides would turn and I’d be the one asking for forgiveness.

I had my first appointment with a psychologist yesterday. I call her “Dr. Shrinker.”

I’ve been to counseling before, four years ago, when my wife and I were having trouble, and I enjoyed the experience immensely. But, Dr. Shrinker was nothing like that psychologist. Her office was huge and empty. The shades were drawn and she spoke softly. I sat in her waiting area for a good ten minutes before she came out because she had an “In Session” sign on her door. When she did come out, I learned the sign was there in preparation for my arrival. She spoke real soft, and I almost verbally stepped on her toes, saying hello while she was in the middle of introducing herself. She showed me into her office, and I had no idea where she wanted me to sit. There were two big easy chairs and a couch several feet apart from one another. She gestured for me to sit in one chair, and she sat in the other, almost ten feet away.

I felt like The Shadow had put me in his “blue room”.

We sat looking at one another for seconds before I got the hint she wanted me to just start talking when I felt comfortable. I started with why I was there: anxiety, eating disorder, and poor self-image. But then I started ranting uncontrollably. One minute I was talking about eating, then anxiety, then my need to feel desired, then my family and friends. Only twice did she say anything, and it was only the stereotypical questions, like: “And how did that make you feel?” I had no idea therapists actually ask that question. You’d think they’d phrase it differently or something.

The hour went by fast, and I didn’t expect a diagnosis, but she did give me some insight as to what she was hearing as I rambled on. Her comments were interesting and she asked if I wanted to continue and I said yes before she even finished the question. Again, stepping on her toes in mid-sentence.

I went home and my mother was there. Funny, I’d just spoken about her and there she was. Like she felt her ears burning and knew I was talking shit about her. She stayed for a while, but the mood was uneasy because I was still acting when I felt pretty damn good. My session had left me drained. I’d poured my heart out and still had plenty more left, but was too tired to think about it. It sucked because Shrinker’s initial analysis was so dead on I wanted to talk to her about it, but my time was up. I think shrinks do that on purpose. They give you a hint of your problem and show you the door so it can stew instead of you responding to it immediately without thinking.

The night went on as usual, except I was very quiet, monotone and brief. The kids went to bed early. JM and I watched Inked and Criss Angel: Mindfreak.

Criss Angel is the most disturbing magician I’ve ever seen. If it’s not enough that he looks like a rock star and listens to Korn, he’s also damn convincing as a performer. Seldom do you see a magician or illusionist that has you questioning if magic truly exists. But Angel is like Dr. Strange. He’ll attempt a stunt, and examine it from a metaphysical perspective. He doesn’t treat them as “tricks”, but experimentations that prove the paranormal abilities of the human mind and body. For instance, last night, he had to guess which car had his $100, 000 in a car lot of a Dodge dealership. I forget the method he was using, but it dealt with telepathy through reading a person’s involuntary physical movements. To practice, he challenged a world-class poker champion to five hands of poker and beat her just by reading her body. This cat is so cool, he started flirting with her on camera, but I suspect he was trying to get a response he could read. And I have to admit; she was hot. And, it doesn’t hurt that Angel is built like a superhero. Watching him in action only made me think about a pitch Bloody Pencil and I had to revamp Dr. Strange with special emphasis on his time in the Far East. I won’t spill it here because I still hope to use it someday.

Angel found the money and won a free Viper. Cool stuff.

JM and I were watching that when she came snuggling up to me on the couch. Her period was over, she had on a new patch on, and I couldn’t act any more. It started with caressing my lips on her shoulder. Then her arm, and I kept going lower until caresses became kisses. Kisses became cunnilingus. And, that turned into the best angry sex I’ve ever had.

If the kids weren’t asleep in the next room, I would have slapped her ass and screamed obscenities. I counted five vaginal contractions before a week’s worth of sexual tension, anger, frustration, and love left me. JM lay on the couch, too tired to change positions, while my body went limp and I fell back first into my son’s walker. I screamed and tried to recover, but only ended up smacking myself into the foot stool of my daddy chair before hitting the floor and waking the kids. My son was crying, my daughter was calling for mommy, and JM was stuck on the couch and unable to move.

My older half-brother once told me: “If you fuck your woman and she doesn’t fall asleep or if she gets up right after, you haven’t done your job.”

JM lay on the couch, dreamy eyed, saying: I can’t move. My legs are shaking.” In a half-dead voice and I knew my brother would be proud. I got dressed and answered the call. Daddy slept with the kids while mommy was passed out on the couch.

I awoke today tired and weak from the night before. I had my annual review and passed. I get my salary increase and move up another notch on the pay scale. My supervisor went over her remarks and I felt bad because she filled it with so much fluff I felt undeserving. Plus, she’s a nice person to boot. I fought my compulsion to be honest and tell her she was wrong. I wasn’t a good employee. I sucked. I’d sent a year barely doing anything, but my own work, writing Lazarus, managing production, surfing the net, and trying to hit on a twenty-something med student. But, I kept my mouth shut because one more week and out. And fuck them if I leave a shit load of work behind. Someone did it to me, now I’m returning the favor. Plus, it’s what these people get for treating me the way they did. It was weird though, because she kept mentioning what would have occurred if I’d stayed. It felt like a sales pitch, but things have gone too far for me to back out now, so why make the effort? She mentioned the possibility of my coming back and I almost wanted to laugh. Then I thought about it; considered it, then spent an hour chasing down a specimen and consent, thanking God all the way because I’m leaving. I don’t know what to expect from my new job, but it’s got to be better than this one

The last three days have been fun with one hell of a pay-off. I can’t wait to see what’s coming up next.

A coworker of mine, a receptionist, let’s call her “Big Tits” (Doc, you know of who I speak) wants to talk to me about something. I barely talk to her and now she wants to talk to me about something “personal”. I’ve been eyeing this chick for years. She’s from Chile and has the biggest rack… That, plus an unforgiving accent and long brown hair is enough to drive you mad with lust. I first noticed her when my wife and I were having troubles and I’ll admit, I flirted, hoping she was a skank. Turns out she’s in college and her fiancé just cheated on her. That blew my mind. She’s not in her prime anymore, but when she was, it was beyond me to understand whom and why someone would fuck anyone but her. Even after things were better in my marriage, and I apologized for my aggressive and rude advances, I couldn’t stop looking at her and those huge freckled breasts. She’s forever wearing low cut tops and they just hang there, big, drooping, like their full of milk and Victoria just can’t support secrets that big. Of course, as far as she knows, I’m no longer interested. I only talk to her when she speaks to me. When I moved to her floor, I started greeting her in the morning and that’s it. But every payday, I stand waiting for her to hand over my check, telling her to take her time as I secretly stare at her.

Much like Actor and JG, I tried hooking Big Tits up with a friend of mine, Doc. Boy, is that a story. I’ll wait until he give me the okay before I tell it here, but trust me, it something ALL of my friends still joke about. Three words: Pink, Feather, and Boa.

Then, without my being involved in any way, she started talking to Actor. They hit it off and went out a couple of times, but Actor wasn’t interested in her. Still, despite his unyielding blonde hair and blue eyes Playboy requirements, even he was taken in by her huge chest and seductive accent. And that hair… Fuck! Despite being, “hefty”, and I’ve already admitted being into that; she’s a fucking knockout, amplified by her hot and spicy ways. Doc told me, once she likes you; she’s unapologetic and aggressive as hell. On their date, she stood across from Doc, telling him how she’d do ANYTHING for her man. How he was “wounded” and she wanted to heal him. Doc knew if he was a lesser man, he could have had her that night, and it was their first date.

I think being cheated on changed her. When first met her, she seemed a little uptight, not much, but a good Chilean Catholic girl who wants to get married and destroy her body by having a bunch of kids. Then, after what Doc told me, whatever made her man cheat turned her into a sexual predator. Once she likes you, she’s all over you from day one.

Damn, and I had to go and get married. Fuck!

So, Big Tits calls me over as I’m headed downstairs for a smoke and says she wants to talk with me when I return. But, when I got back, she wasn’t alone and blew me off until tomorrow. I asked her if I was in “trouble”, I knew I wasn’t, it was just my lame attempt at a cute remark. She said no, but whatever it was, it was personal. Too personal to talk about openly and I’m wondering what the fuck it could be.

She knows I’m leaving. Could my fake attempts at non-interest finally have paid off? Will she make a pass at me? Or, will she ask me yet another annoying question about Actor? I hate when she does that. Just run it in my face why doesn’t she. All these years I’ve wanted her and she’s head over hills for Actor, and he doesn’t even like her.

What’s next, JG asking me for Doc’s number?

But, she’s probably going to ask why I’m leaving, or worse, about my weight gain. Great, that’ll be fun. Nothing’s better than admitting your inadequacies to a hot chick.

Tomorrow should be very interesting.

JPG.

THE BIG FAT DISAPPOINTMENT

2005-08-17T10:21:00.000-07:00

Even before the Sin City movie premiered, Robert Rodriguez told us what to expect from the dvd release: a slew of bonus material, another Film School segment, the option to play the movie’s three storylines independently, and my favorite, Cooking School.

If my Circuit City is any indication, Sin City will have huge sales numbers this week. At my store, the display case was near empty and had already been re-stocked three times before I arrived.

But, as happy as I was to finally enjoy the film in the privacy of my home with my wife sitting beside me, I was disappointed that none of the options Rodriguez spoke of were included.

Like Marv so eloquently pus it: “It hit me like a kick in the nuts.”

Usually, after I see a movie in the theater and buy the dvd, my opinions change for the better. But, Sin City was as mediocre at home as it was in the theater.

Don’t get me wrong, I liked it, but I don’t see it as the crowning achievement so many held it to be. Its problem is, like some new comic publishers, it cannibalized itself. I never knew what this was until Merlyn explained it to me: Comic book consumers only have so much money and most of it goes to the primary publishers like DC and Marvel. What’s left is spent on one-shots and books from smaller publishers. (In the case of Crossgen) Premiering with two or three books, allowed people the opportunity to try them out. Once they liked them, they would continue to buy those two or three books. But, if the publisher expands too quickly, they lessen the possibility of those consumers’ ability to buy their books. If the consumer can only afford purchasing two or three titles, and the publisher comes out with four of five books, it forces the comics buyer to choose which books they will buy. While the publisher assumes the best, thinking if people like the first three, they’ll continue to buy the additional one or two. Soon, you have customers choosing which three books to buy in a line-up of twenty.

What later happened to Crossgen was they became repetitious. They began with one book covering one genre. But then they came out with two or three books dealing with one genre or it’s sub-genre. Sigil and Negation both dealt with science fiction. Scion, Mystic, and Sojourn dealt with fantasy from different perspectives. Scion was a mixture of fantasy and technology. Mystic was all magic. And, Sojourn was more like Tolkien. There are fans of all three, but at 2.99 an issue, if you only have ten dollars and you also like their other titles, you have to make a choice.

Sin City suffered from the same thing, sort of. Rodriguez took three stories and meshed them into one movie. But, each story was published years apart. The first story, now entitled The Hard Goodbye, was serialized in 1991, ending in 1992. A Dame to Kill For, Miller’s second Sin City story introducing Dwight was published in 1993. The Big Fat Kill was a year later. And, That Yellow Bastard was in 1996. Each of them were six-issue miniseries. Taking three of Miller’s stories originally published separately at yearly intervals and meshing them together allowed for visible repetitions of style and dialogue that weren’t so easily detectable before.

Another problem was the well-intentioned effort to adapt the books panel by panel from the comic. In the Behind the Scenes featurette from the dvd, Rodriguez said he didn’t want to take the comic and turn it into a movie. He wanted to turn the movie into a comic. But, in doing so, he failed to properly interpret the actions in real time. The consequences were scenes that looked frozen and ridiculous, breaking the audience out of their suspension.

Example: In The Big Fat Kill, after getting rid of Shelly’s cop boyfriend, Rafferty, by drowning him in urine, Dwight watches him and his crew leaving in a drunken rage. Standing on a ledge outside Shelly’s window, Dwight jumps to the street below to his car. In the comic, a narrative accompanies Dwight’s action –jumping to the street. One aspect of comics separating them from film is the ability to freeze time. A series of actions can last for pages so we can get into the heads of the people involved. In comics, it works. In film, it doesn’t. The same scene on film looks ridiculous, as Clive Owen hovers on unseen wires, floating in mid-air before hitting the ground.

The same goes for dialogue. Lines like: “My warrior woman; my Valkyrie…” got more laughs than anything else.

I won’t say Rodriguez’s and Miller’s film is how not to do a comic movie. Instead, I see them going from one extreme to the other, from those who re-interpret too greatly, to others who are way too faithful.

The saving grace of Sin City the movie is the same as the comics. It’s violent and unapologetic homage to the hard-hitting noir novels and films of yesteryear. From a technical point of view, the movie is gorgeous, as are the comics. The bright reds and gold against a stark black & white are mesmerizing. And, capturing the textures from the inked pages on film was powerful.

Watching Sin City just reminded me how perfect Batman Begins was, and why. Like Sin City, Batman Begins was a mixture of several chapters from the character’s life or lives, but instead of having only one creator to draw from, they had several. A large chunk was taken from Frank Miller’s Batman: Year One, but a little Dennis O’Neil was in there to.

Nolan and Goyer took the source material and built on it, removing or slightly altering anything that wouldn’t translate properly. Since 1989’s Batman, many fans feel strongly about not having characters in black leather or rubber suits instead of spandex. But, in Begins, Nolan makes it work by minimizing style and emphasizing function. And, through that, creating it’s a style all it’s own. It’s “funky”, but it worked. Looking at the suit independently, it’s pretty boring. But, within the context of the film, it has a power that’s overwhelming.

With Sin City 2 and 3 on the way, I’m left wondering how fans will respond this time. Will they love it or hate it? But, I think both Miller and Rodriguez may have already learned from their mistakes because rumor reports say Miller is completely re-writing segments and writing an original story for the sequel.

But, I have one major question. With the source material being drained, will Frank or Rodriguez bring the last Sin City story, Hell and Back, to the screen? It’s the only one of Frank’s series to star a black hero and heroine.

Will they be ignored?

UPDATE

Lazarus is moving slow, but it is moving.

The last pages are approved and moving from detailed layouts to finishes. The lettering suffered a major set back during the convention season, but should pick up this week. And, the same goes for the coloring. Glasshouse is putting two people on the job and the boss himself is looking over things.

I’m prepping my Image proposal and while the synopsis will be a synch, thanks to Merlyn, but the cover letter is a bitch.

I hate writing cover letters. I never know what I should write and everyone expects something different. If they want to know about me, I go into too much detail. If they want my experience, it just reads like a resume. And, if they want to know about the project, it comes off like a sales pitch.

I’m to the point of seriously considering just hiring someone to do it for me.

I’m thinking a lot about LAZARUS: The Video Game and having some great ideas, if I can only get a chance to pitch them. I’ve been trying to meet with a designer for months now, and I’m hoping I’ll finally get my chance soon.

The way I’d describe is Devil May Cry in a Grand Theft Auto type world. Lazarus is free-roaming through a Gehenna City full of citizens. The cool part is finding your targets. You’d switch to first person POV to spot a demon. Then, your strategy is to confront the target openly, or try to lure them away from a populated area. In private, it’s a one on one fight. In public, you could attract other demons or their agents and be outnumbered.

Then, my favorite, the flashback sequences would be levels integrated into the gameplay and left separate as bonuses to be won.

You can change clothes and get new tattoos. There are hand-to-hand combat, cool weapons, the whole nine.

But, the idea I would really like to see is damage control. Having Lazarus get fucked up and showing damage and the healing process in real-time. And, the boss battles would be like Final Fantasy with gorgeous cinematic scenes accompanying actual gameplay, like God of War.

If I get to do that… Damn, would that be something!

JPG.

RED DRAGON

2005-08-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

Prelude...

What Truths May Come

I have a secret I’ve been holding for most of my life, ever since I gained appreciation for the opposite sex.

I’ve denied it to friends and family. Ridiculed others who shared the same affliction. I’ve even gone out of my way to excuse myself when it looked as if my secret would go public.

But this morning I realized that my ghost has taken a life of it’s own and demands attention. It won’t go away, it no longer will fit in my closet of secrets. I must let it out once and for all.

I like fat chicks.

My one saving grace is, while I like “chunky” women, I’m not so far gone that weight is the only quality they have that attracts me. Facial appearance, shape, breast size, sexual energy, they all factor into it. And, I’m not into the obese or grossly overweight. Nothing can make a women covered in cellulite pretty in my book. But, I can’t hide it anymore, I like fat chicks, and they turn me on.

I think it started with Hispanic women. Most of them are hefty to say the least, but they wear clothes meant for much smaller women. Their confidence and freedom immediately drew me to them. So did their ample bosoms, shapely figures, and round butts. Walter Mosley also had something to do with it. In Easy Rawlins books, he writes fondly of hefty black women; “big mommas” who cradle their men like infants in their cleavage.

As a young man, I would often find these women attractive, but join in when my friends would berate them in public. I would turn my head in disgust while sneaking a peek at them when no one was looking. I successfully convinced all, but my wife that was like everyone else in my disdain for the larger females. Sometimes, I would slip and had to do damage control before anyone caught on. I’d make excuses and even go so far as using some of the words often used by the BBW propaganda machine. Usually, my friends would forgive my lapse of judgment, figuring I was a “breast man” horny for big boobs and that sometimes blinded me to the truth.

I went along with them as long as it kept me secret hidden a little while longer. But, in the dark of my living room, alone, in the early hours of the morning, I would take out my copy of Black Holes or Booty Dreams and salivate over big women with small breasts, fat butts, and kissing thighs.

This morning I awoke from a dream that I’ve never had before. IN it, I was separated from my wife and lived in a small apartment where my neighbor was a blonde BBW who out weighed me and was much taller. None of this happened in the dream, my brain just knew the back-story and plopped me down in the middle. I was in the BBW’s apartment and succumbing to her advances that lead me to her bedroom where she gave me oral sex. That’s all I wanted, and I enjoyed it, but as she proceeded I saw my penis dwarfed by in comparison to her size. Most BBW’s prefer men with large penises because they are so big themselves it’s easier for a well-equipped man to get around them. In my case, the woman was not only bigger in size, but also taller than me, so my average length proved more difficult for her to manage. Things got worse when she positioned herself for a sixty-nine and while I was able to spread her thighs apart, her mound was too far away. I couldn’t reach her to return the favor she was doing me and the whole thing ended abruptly. The last thing I remember is being dressed and walking out of her apartment, questioning if I should ask her to take special care not to mention this to my wife. Or, if by doing that, I would almost guarantee she would.

I lost my virginity to a BBW when I was seventeen and I know from experience how delicate a situation it can be. She was bigger than me and whether I was skilled or not, I was unable to satisfy her because of her girth. After that, I decided that it was best for me to date more petite women, but my Charlie Brown luck kicked in and I learned petite women prefer taller men to shrimps like me.

Rejected by big women and small women leaves me feeling like a sexual anomaly. Just like trying to find a pair of pants that fit perfectly, I need a woman somewhere in the middle.

...End of Prelude.

JG wrote me today.

I keep dancing closer and closer into the danger zone with her. One of these days I’ll either say something totally out of line or I’ll creep her out and she’ll disappear.

Luckily, she hasn’t read my latest entries, so I have time to change them.

It’s hard chatting or writing her because when I do there’s something in me that’s awakened and I want to open myself up to things I should leave well enough alone. I regress to the kid who jumped on any girl that liked him, even if it was just a little, or just wanted to be friends. I may have done that today when I asked her if she would give me the time of day if I were single.

Ouch. Could I be more desperate? What am I doing? Why am I so fascinated by tempting fate? Thank god I don’t gamble or I’d have nothing left.

What?
What was the answer?
Oh, that’s the worst part. She said she didn’t know. That she doesn’t have the hindsight to answer a “What if” question like that.

Just shoot me dead where I stand.

I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, asking a question like that.

I’m married. I have kids.
Where am I going with this?
Is it jus the excitement of it all?
The drama?

Per chance to find some validation for living or believing that I may have some self-worth?

Desire is a big thing for me. It’s proof that a person is wanted, that they have some value to someone. Without that, what’s the point of living? If no one desires you, then you have no reason for being. You’re worthless. You could drop dead tomorrow and no one would know. There are differences in desire that could give you some value, but there’s only one that really matters, to me anyway.

I put a lot of weight on the shallow things in life. Physical appearance and stuff like that are far more important to me than anything else. Maybe it’s because I’ve had the other, deeper, qualities in abundance for so long? After a while, you crave what you don’t have over what everyone sees in you. The love of your wife dims in comparison to the primal need of a woman who wants to mount you. Even making love isn’t as exciting as pure fucking. Soon, you begin to question, if not for those emotions like love, would your significant other be attracted to you at all?

I keep asking myself if my wife loves me, or if she’s learned to love me? Is she attracted to me, or does she just appreciate me? Does she rationalize our marriage by assuming her life would be much worse if not for me?

My marriage is such an anomaly that I can’t help, but to question it. How did my wife go from someone who did everything she could to get rid of me and almost overnight changed to someone who couldn’t live without me? And, this is before I became a man. This is when I was a child, still grasping to unrealistic notions about marriage and relationships. How? How could this have happened, when it never worked with anyone else before?

And, I guess that is at the core of it. I’m not some horny husband looking to cheat on his wife. I’m looking for validation, because if someone else can find me desirable, then it would explain why my wife is with me. Without knowing that, I just can’t believe she’s with me for the right reasons.

There’s an event that sticks out in my mind and no amount of counseling has been able to get rid of it. My wife and I had been dating less than a year and already we’d broken up several times for various reasons, most of them stemming from her not being ready for a deep commitment and I was pushing for nothing less. This time around, an old boyfriend had come back and she was calling it quits with me to be with him. I remember it vividly: we were having our last lunch together at Ralph’s on LaBrea and 3rd Street. My wife, let’s call her “JM”, and I finished our meal and she explained why we were breaking up because someone else was in the picture. I was begging her not to leave me, but there was no amount of poetry that would work on her. She wanted to end the date right there in the lunch area, but I insisted I walk her back to her office. There, on the street, in front of anyone walking by, at the front door, I begged for one last kiss. It always worked in the past and I was hoping it would again. But, JM was ready for it. She said no and when I pushed, she pushed back.

I remember the look in her eyes at that moment. I disgusted her. I was the lowliest man she’d ever seen, if I qualified as a man at all. She pushed me back and told me to: “Get the fuck away from me! Leave me alone, I don’t want to be with you!” she went back in her office and let me crushed on the sidewalk to stand alone at the bus stop where everyone had witnessed my undoing.

This is the woman who I know call my wife. That same girl who screamed at me and told me to get the fuck away from her now pledged her love for me.

I always tell my friends never to measure the success of their relationships by what I went through because it was a miracle. A miracle…

As miracles go, this one had a weird sense of humor. As much as I remember that day, I don’t recall how we got back together, but we did. And, as bad as that day was, the worst was yet to come. Fake suicide attempts. Arguments over the phone, infidelity, and lies about blood cults, and the ghost of a fictional dead lover; we went through it all. Somewhere along the way, JM says she fell in love with me. To this day she says she always loved me. Even though she broke up with me, she could never get me out of her head. The one time the tables turned is after I cowered back to her, saying I would let her see someone else, as long as she stayed with me. She was seeing the ex-boyfriend from before and I was getting the leftovers. She told me that seeing two guys was killing her. She was guilty and it wasn’t fair to either one. Hearing the pain in her voice did something to me.

It was a Sunday night, and for the first time, I felt strong. I told her how I didn’t want to be a source of pain for her. If I had to let her go, I would. If she couldn’t make a choice between us, I would do it for her. I let her go and told her to be with the other man. After I said that, the tides turned and she was the one on the phone crying. She was begging me not to do it, not to leave. She told me she didn’t know what she’d do without me. I tried to hang-up the phone, I was going out with my brother to the West End, but she wouldn’t let me go without promising I’d see her the next day.

That Monday afternoon, after we had lunch at the same Ralph’s, we stood in front of her office, just as before, except now, we were kissing passionately. She promised she’d dump the other guy and stay with me. And, I believed her.

She continued seeing the other man for another month before she confessed what was going on and ended it. We were still in our infancy, we hadn’t even passed the six months and we’d put each other through hell. And most often, I was on the receiving end. And then, it all went away. Just like that. I just woke up one day and she loved me. No more fighting. No more denial. No more arguments. We were finally in love. After that, came the day when her mother gave her the ultimatum to go home or stay with me. She chose me and we moved in together, got married, had kids, and the rest is history.

It’s been ten years since we were married. Eleven and a half years from the day we first met. And, as happy as I am, as much as I love her, I still question what happened. What changed in her and why? I ask her all the time if she can remember when she fell in love with me. She’ll say she always did love me, but she was afraid, and one day she just stopped fighting and accepted it.

Accepted it.
Like, “accepting” death?
Like, surrendering?

Did she learn she was in love with me? Or, did she learn to love me?

Things just don’t add up and it’s plagued me for years. JM and I have a deep love, but our passion has always been one sided. I’m hot for her and she’s warm for me. Is that love? Sure, kids can douse the flames of passion, but what if they weren’t there to begin with? Is JM’s love based on me being a good man? Or, is it primal and relentless? Is it the same kind of love I have for her that would make me do anything, denounce God, throw away my pride, and sacrifice self-respect just for a kiss?

And shouldn't we want more than that? If we don't, then aren't we surrendering to the mundane? I want to feel that fire, that passion, that unquenching desire when a woman must have her man. I want to know what that feels like, when a woman surrenders herself to desire and falls into my arms. I want to be on the recieving end of that hunger. it physically hurts not knowing what they feels like. Wondering if I ever will. And realizing that I'm not one to inspire it, not even in my own wife.

I am the Red Dragon Thomas Harris wrote about. I am one who wants to be desired by others, and sometimes I feel like I could kill for that feeling. I look at women and wonder what it would feel like to be wanted and desired by them. I always thought my weight was the one thing that kept me from that, but I was wrong. I lost al that weight and nothing changed. When that happened, I saw no need to be skinny. My own pleasure of accomplishment wasn't enough to sustain me, not without fulfilling my dreams of being desired.

My wife did desire me more, but that only left more questions unanswered. If she treated me one way when I lost weight, then what was she thinking, how did she feel before? And, what would happen if I gained the weight back? I did gain the weight back, and her passion died with it. So, how does she feel? What does she see when she looks at me? What is her love based on if she's with someone she's not attracted to? And, how long before she can't live like that anymore?

Doc said I have no faith. And, in matters of the heart, you need faith. He’s right; I have no faith. To me, faith is admitting you can’t find the answer so you say there isn’t one. But there is an answer. Maybe it’s beyond us. Maybe we’re too afraid of it to see clearly? But, there is an answer for everything. There’s a reason why JM loves me, if she loves me, and I want to find it. If she can’t tell me, then maybe I can find it through someone else? If they can want me, maybe it’s for the same reasons JM does? If someone else finds me special, then maybe that’s why JM does?

Every woman in my life, save one, has rejected me for one reason or another. And, the only one to accept me, at one time, did her best to get rid of me. So, why is she with me now? Why does she love me, when there’s nothing about me that anyone finds desirable?

I'll do anything to find out why...

And that scares me.

JPG.

RATIONALE

2005-08-15T00:07:00.000-07:00

Friday was a perfect example of why I'm leaving my division and transferring to a new job in the main hospital.

Ever since the news of my departure was made public, the office has been cold. No one talks to me. It's not like I talked to them all that much, but at least an effort was made to include me. Today, a new enrollment had to get done and nobody even offered me their assistance. When somebody needs help, I try to give him a hand. But today, when it got tough for me, no one even blinked.

My job probably wouldn't have been so bad if not for my coworkers. First, there's Know-It-All, everyone treats him like Mr. Super CRA. He has been there for a long time and knows his job, but there's a laziness about him to. It's not very noticeable at first, but if you pay attention you can see it. He’s very quick to pass the buck and doesn't take into account how the other person is doing before he sends more work their way. His major beef is with the management and his treatment of people isn influenced by that.

When I first started, I knew nothing. My training was abysmal and everyone knew it. But, when the supervisor assigned me with protocols and the first patient came in, Know-It-All sat on the sidelines, sending call after call my way. He hated our supervisor, everyone did except for myself and one other person, and I felt he used me to get back at her. He waited until the very last moment before he helped me and I think he was waiting for me to make a big enough mistake so he could make a stink. Having his help was worst than doing things on my own. He considers himself a learned person and takes any opportunity he can to prove it. When something requires a yes or no answer, he'll lecture for twenty-minutes claiming that he wants to teach, when in fact, he wants to show off. He complains about the system, but does nothing to change it.

His rode dawg is Bitch. Yeah, that's an accurate description. This woman is the epitome of everything I hate about the working world. She talks behind people's back, is incredibly vulgar and self-centered, and just a big pain in the ass. The scarey thing is, she reminds me of my mother.

Maybe it’s a mother thing, but I can smell her neediness from a mile away. It’s like body odor or some biological stench like a skunk. She finds a way of turning every conversation so it ultimately becomes about her. She constantly bitches about how she suffers and how the bosses are overloading her with work, but God forbid of someone else showed up, then it’s all about fixing their mistakes. She talks at an unusual volume, making sure everyone here’s her. And, she has no sense of what should and shouldn’t be spoke of in a professional environment.

Today, Bitch really pissed me off and I almost let loose. I was busy with shipping a specimen and Know-It-All mentions he’s been receiving several inquires about the positions they have available, including mine. Bitch lets out this blanket statement: “Well, I just hope they hire people who’ll do some work instead of just warming the seat for a while.” I waited for her to say: Present company excepted.” But, she never did. She just left it out there, including me in her statement, making a passive aggressive attack on me and everyone else who’d left recently for greener pastures.

One of the few things that I just can’t stand are people with no balls, and this is a perfect example. Office politics demand, even if she was talking about me, she exclude me from her statement to keep the peace. Here’s someone who never came to me once to complain. Never spoke to me once about her feelings, about me not pulling my weight. To my face, she agreed that I’d been mismanaged and when the word went out of my leaving, she said nothing about it. I’m sure she knew ahead of time because I’ve made no attempts to hide my feelings, but she still had nothing to say. Now, I’m leaving, people are calling in, and she take a stab at me for no reason. She didn’t have the balls to come to me and express herself, so she delivers a blanket statement and walks away.

I wanted to get in her face so bad, I almost risked my performance evaluation to do it. But, as I get older, I try to avoid confrontation. Not because I’m a coward, but it’s such an energy drain. It saps everything out of me and I get nothing out of it. Sometimes, getting into it is fruitful. I’m lucky to come across someone who’s able to step out of their skin, see a situation from several perspectives and in the end we’ve come to understand each other a little better. But, most of the time, the person in front of me is like my mother and Bitch, someone totally unable to see outside their own viewpoint. Everything is being done to them, nothing is their fault, and they know everything.

So I sat there stewing in my anger with her comment on replay in my brain. I was under a deadline to get this specimen out and everything had gone wrong. Know-It-All had asked me if I needed help, but I knew it was insincere, he asked just so he could say he did. I almost didn’t answer. I wanted him and Bitch to know I knew the score. I heard and understood what she said and I was pissed. But, what would that have accomplished? So, I said I was okay and kept working without looking at him.
I did my job, got the specimen out on time, only for it to mean nothing because the patient was ruled ineligible for the treatment trial. My wife called when I got the news and vented to her about Bitch and her comment. I unloaded by visiting Circuit City, paying $60 for the Thundercats dvd boxset, bought two quarts of Baskin Robbins ice cream, and went home to plant my ass in my daddy seat.

By the end of the first Thundercats disk I was feeling better. Nothing like nostalgia to make a person feel better. I was hoping my daughter would love Thundercats as much as I did as a kid, and I can’t explain how cool it was to see her singing the theme song by the second episode. We sat together in my daddy chair watching the first eleven episodes before she went to bed and I tuned in for Battlestar Galactica.

I pulled an all-nighter, falling asleep and waking up to see the Night Court marathon start on TVLand. And by Saturday morning breakfast I’d forgotten Friday ever happened. Now, it’s Sunday night, the Night Court marathon is winding down and tomorrow is another Monday at the CTO. They extended my transfer by another week on a technicality, so Monday is my official last two weeks. And, just when I was feeling bad and questioning my decisions, Friday happened, and I’m sure I’m doing the right thing. I can’t wait to start my life again. This is my opportunity to get back what I lost when I accepted the CRC job two years ago. A chance to undo the mistake I made when I let my boss creep into my brain and forgot who I was and what I was meant to do.

This week I have my first appointment with a psychologist and I’m looking forward to spilling the beans on a lot of things. Who knows, maybe with someone to talk to about these things, I won’t have to come here anymore.

We’ll see.

JPG.

BULLET IN THE HEAD

2005-08-11T17:57:00.000-07:00

A friend once told me: “If you constantly tell your girlfriend she deserves better than you. One day, she’ll believe it.”

For years I’ve referred to myself as an idiot. I think people are starting to believe it and it’s pissing me off.

I’ve been trying not to preface a lot of what I say and write. It’s a habit of mine to protect myself when expressing my thoughts and opinions in case I’m wrong. I’ve always been afraid of saying or writing something ignorant. As a kid, I would listen to adults and try to join in on their conversations, but my parents would shut me up. I remember when I was around ten or eleven, my mother took me to a prayer group and I tried to participate by using football as an analogy for some religious message. While the other adults seemed intrigued and impressed, my mother stopped me and told me to be quiet. Afterwards, she yelled at me for speaking. I have several recollections of her telling me I talk too much, to think before I speak or don’t say anything at all.

I can’t remember being afraid to speak in public any time before that, and plenty of things happened afterwards.

I was at my father's restaurant listening to old black Tuskegee airmen talk about World War 2. The Gulf War was in full effect and I was amazed at the stories these men were telling about white American pilots challenging them to air duels and they had to shoot them down. Mr. LaDough had me hooked when he told me several American pilots weren't shot down by Germans, but crashed or was "accidentally" shot down in those duels. I opened my mouth to mention something; I don't remember what, and my dad told me to be quiet before I said something stupid. I gave my father no reason to think I had anything of value to say, but his comment hurt just the same.

In high school, I was partnered with Doc in a debate about birth control in third world countries and we were for it. It was a two-week assignment and we crunched out a report and debate material during our fifteen-minute nutrition break before class. And we would have won the debate, if not for me. One of the opposing team members asked if I was for abortion and I said no. The class thought I was hypocritical and voted against us. All their reports said I cost is the debate. None of them understood the difference between abortion and other means of birth control where the egg and sperm aren't allowed to meet. My thinking was simple: Use a condom the pill, the egg and sperm don't meet, there's no fetus and no death. Abortion is the opposite, it's the lack of birth control, and you get pregnant and kill the fetus. I knew what I meant. Doc knew what I meant. The fucking teacher knew what I meant. But everyone in the class said we lost and it was my fault.

Even when I'm sure of a topic, I've been burnt. One night Bloody Pencil, Merlyn, and myself were discussing Mark Millar's first Ultimates issue. Merlyn hated it and it's portrayal of Captain America. I liked it and said how great it was that someone finally got it right, showing Cap as the soldier he's always been. Merlyn immediately countered by saying Cap was never a soldier. He's been portrayed as such in recent times, but he was never originally a soldier. Merlyn took great pleasure in catching me off guard and laughing his ass off. But since that day, even in a comic store, I'm hesitant to speak my mind. The one thing I always thought I knew was comics and without knowing Merlyn had taken that away.

It’s not Merlyn’s fault. I was wrong and he called me on it.
It’s not my dad’s fault. He was joking and my family doesn’t abide with people having weak skin.
I don’t even blame my classmates who stole the victory from us. For over ten years, Doc has told me we should be thankful we got through it at all because we blew it off until the last minute.
I do blame my mother a little because she took a child to places he shouldn’t have been. But, at the same time, I do have a habit of talking without thinking first. And all this comes together to form a massive insecurity about speaking in public, sharing my opinions, and generally feeling like I’m a fool.

Now, I question everything I say. I run it through my head a dozen times before I utter a word. I think carefully about the subject matter and decide if I should speak at all. If I voice an opinion, I get nervous. I preface with: “In my opinion…” or “As far as I know…” And, my personal favorite: “I know I’m an idiot, but…” I also use that as a closing if I’m trying to be funny or become uncertain of what I’ve said during my delivery.

In elementary school, I remember talking to a friend as he watched a porn video. Our conversation wasn’t about the sex, but a scene where someone sang a song called “I May Be Dumb, But I’m Not Stupid.” In high school, I got into the habit of saying that often when someone seemed surprised at my level of intelligence or knowledge on a subject. Instead of berating them for thinking so little of me, or enjoying their flattery, I denounced their discovery by insisting I was ignorant, just not as ignorant as they thought.

I’m getting older and I’m starting to hate people for treating me like I don’t have clue. It’s not their fault; I’ve done it to myself. Even if I told them to stop, I doubt it would make a difference because they’ve grown too accustom to thinking that way. Trying to change things now would probably start a fight and I’m tired of confrontation. I’m not a coward, I just don’t like drama as much as I used to. I’m more of a connoisseur now. I only like certain kinds of drama in my life, like getting mixed up with a pretty med student, and anything else is not worth my time.

Ironically, the smartest man I know and ever met is the only person to treat me like I’m not a drooling moron. He’s the first to stop me when I put myself down. Here, I call him “Doc.”

I’ve known Doc going on twenty years. We met through a mutual friend, and though he had no idea who I was, I knew him before we ever saw each other. We attended the same elementary school, but he left before I arrived. And, as dumb kids will do, they saw me as Doc’s replacement and went out of their way to show they weren’t happy about it. Funny thing was, Doc told me his classmates were not warm to him either. So, when I told him about the whole he left, he couldn’t understand it.

Not to digress for long, but there is a weird transformation that occurs in students before a major transition, like going from eighth grade to high school, or graduating high school to college. Suddenly, everyone is your friend and they give a damn. It’s the most hypocritical thing I’ve ever experienced. People who never knew I was alive suddenly wanted my signature in their yearbook or asked me if I was going to prom. I remember going to senior prom and everyone shook my hand and gave me the nod. Well, not everyone. My date asked me to the prom only to make her boyfriend jealous, and he spent the whole night bumping into me on the dance floor, acting like it was my fault. Fucker. And fuck her to. I wanted my high school years to play out like a John Hughes movie, and it did…if John was a racist high on crack.

Soon after Doc and I were formally introduced we hit it off. In retrospect, how we became such close friends is beyond me. We couldn’t have been any more different. Doc comes from a respected and accomplished family. At fifteen, he already spoke two languages and familiar with writing in Japanese. He’d seen more of the world than people three times his age and just looking at him you knew he was going somewhere. I was still new to LA after living in Orange County. I’d just spent half a year among the worst kids imaginable who inflicted horrors upon me in the name of somebody I didn’t know and they didn’t even like. Most of those kids went to the same high school, so it all just carried over. I was a D average student who hated school. My family life was non-existent. And, I’d already avoided one fight my first week because I was a black kid wearing a denim jacket instead of Fila. Still, from the first handshake, we were tighter than… I don’t thing there’s any comparison.

Our roles were defined the first day we met. Doc already earned several colored belts in karate and when he asked I told him I knew a little. I didn’t. I didn’t know a damn thing. I was use to playing kung fu with kids in second and third grade. We all thought we knew kung fu from watching movies. We’d challenge each other on the daily basis and make up styles based on movies and animals. When a kid asked if you knew kung fu, you just assumed that he was full of shit and went along with it. But Doc was the real thing, and when he asked I had no idea he could back it up. We met after school at a park, him, his crew, myself and one other person, but I don’t remember who it was. I don’t think it was “Fitz”. Doc showed up in a karate gi and I knew I was in trouble, but I had no way out. He asked to see my kata and I had no idea what a kata was.

He said: “Let me see what you can do.” And I started my routine. I’ll say this for myself; I’ve been in some embarrassing situations, walking into things no rational person would dare get into, but I got through them. I endured them. I didn’t run or find an easy way out, I went head on into the fire, got burned, but survived the ordeal. Here was a situation I knew was bad. Doc was a real deal martial artist and I was full of shit. In front of his peeps and my one supporter, who believed I knew something, I was about to embarrass myself. I could have talked my way out of it. I could have just admitted to being full of shit. But there was no way in hell I was going to back down. So, I started my routine. I channeled every kung fu movie I ever saw, every Chinese comic I’d read, every anime I’d seen and did the funkiest thing… Man, it was bad. Doc fell to the ground laughing, and I’ve done my best to keep him laughing no matter what happens. Even when we split-up after three years of being inseparable, I still tried to make him laugh. I don’t remember why or how we split. Doc and I had our own small group of geeks we hung with. Doc will say I was the leader. If not for me, none of us would have gathered. But, I say whoever sits at the head of the table is the boss and that was Doc. He gave the rest of us clout. We weren’t just geeks, we were nerds, and there is a difference. Geeks are lowly weird people ignorant about everything except what they’re obsessed with, like comics. Nerds are smart, misunderstood, and turn obsession into lucrative careers; they legitimize it and go mainstream. I was a geek masquerading among nerds.

Before Doc, I was always Sherlock Holmes and my friends were Watson. I was Huck to their Tom. I was the cool one. But my friendship with Doc was the first time I felt like a sidekick and I put myself there because it seemed to fit. But after a while it got to me and I lashed out. I remember accusing him of being a racist. Of not wanting me to stand up to him and thinking I was beneath him. He didn’t think that, I did. I saw him excelling while I stood still. Things were fine, but I soon became jealous of all he had that I wanted. Everyone accepted him. He was a freshman in high school that hung around college students and adults. His mother would let him drink beer and attend an annual Christmas party with strippers. Just the fact he lived with is mother while mine dumped me on my father made me mad. And, one year the stripper was Asian. Doc liked Asian women and Asian women like Doc. I watched as this gorgeous Philippine woman worked Doc over and she loved it more than he did. I watched as people cheered, but when she came near me, she left before I could even smile at her. That night, as much as I loved Doc, I watched him surrounded by his mates drinking Corona’s and I hated him. Things eventually came a head and our friendship was “interrupted”.

Thankfully, things worked themselves out and we recovered. I told Doc about my inferiority complex and he told me about what his life was really like. We saw each other in two totally different ways. To me, Doc was Superman. He had it all and I wanted it. To Doc, his life was crap; he was barley getting by and saw me as a kick-ass warrior surviving on my wits. I reminded him how much he has to be thankful for and all he’s accomplished. He told me something that I’ve always needed to hear: “If you only applied yourself, there’s nothing you couldn’t do. You’re one of the smartest people I know, you just don’t have any confidence in yourself.”

From that point on our roles changed. I wasn’t a sidekick anymore. I was his peer. I think it was at that moment I actually saw myself as his friend and not his pupil. I look at Doc now with no envy or jealousy, just happiness. He’s still Sherlock to my Watson, but I play the part differently. I’m not the bumbling fat man without a clue. I’m the leaned doctor who puts forth his two cents. I help in the investigations, even if my point of view only helps Holmes think out of the box long enough to see what’s missing. I stand in the background, watching Doc from afar as he lights up the sky.

A rocket doesn’t take off all on it’s own. Someone has to design it, build it, do the maintenance and keep it working. Someone has to pilot it and get it out there and back in one piece. I play a small role in that and it makes me happy. And, a selfish part of me knows when Doc is teaching at a huge University he’ll give a lecture and somewhere in it mention my name.

Life is a play and we all have a part. God, could I be anymore cliché? But, it’s true. Unfortunately, it doesn’t mean we all play our parts well. Sometimes we get lost in them; we misunderstand them. By the time we realize our mistake, the show is over and the play is ruined. Other instances, we’re only meant to play a part for a short while, but we try to extend it. We get too used to a character and never go beyond that. Some of us just play every role the same.

We need to learn how to accept new roles instead of being typecast. That’s a problem I have. It’s hard for me not to take on a negative role once it’s become too comfortable. And, it’s even harder to change once I’ve learned my mistake. People hate for me to change my character because once I’ve accepted a part I’m damn good at it. If I’m the bumbling buffoon, then I’m a damn good buffoon and people like it. But, sooner or later I get tired. I want to change, try on a new look and go in a different direction. That’s when I get shot down and slammed back to where I started.

For a long time I played the part of an idiot on purpose and now people expect it of me. Hell, I expect it from myself. But, that’s not who I am. At least, that’s not who I want to be. Not anymore anyway. I want to play the genius, the know-it-all, the all-seeing oracle or the wise shaman. Of course, the more I try, the more I get slammed. My mother still sees me as her black sheep, the delinquent, and the kid who’d join a gang just to fit in. I think my father sees me differently now. I’m a father myself and he’s accepted and respects me for keeping my family together. I don’t think I’m the loser Actor thought I was. I hope Doc, Heller, and Bloody Pencil see me as Sam to their Frodo. And, I’d like to think Merlyn doesn’t see Arthur the squire anymore. When we met, I pulled Excalibur thinking it was just a sword, but now I know better. JG probably pictures me a mix of HST and Denis Leary with Ron Jeremy thrown in; I hope. Ironically, I don’t think my wife sees me any different than when we first met. I will always be her Elissar. And to my kids, I’m Gandalf.

I look in the mirror and have no idea who’s looking back at me. When the curtain falls, and play is over, who am I really? Am I any of those other people or none at all? I hope I'm just me, but I have no idea what that means.

I don't even know why I titled this entry the way I did.

JPG.

FIGHT OR DIE

2005-08-08T03:53:00.000-07:00

Tonight was more eventful than most sundays that precede another week of monotony. Doc spent some time away in Europe and we got together to catch up. He treated to beer, cyder, and coffee. We discussed our lives, marriage, and he proposed that my lack of assurance in me stemmed from a lack of faith in general. I’m agnostic, which means I don’t subscribe to religion’s beliefs about God or the afterlife. But, while I’m not an atheist, the concept of faith is something I have trouble with. I believe there’s an answer for everything, even if we lack the ability to find it. My lack of faith could be responsible for my uncertainty when it comes to me and my marriage. It’s not easy for me to accept my wife loves me without a detailed answer as to why. In these situations, you have faith and just accept the one you love feels as you do. But, I must know why and not knowing leaves too many unanswered questions.

This turned the conversation from self-esteem to spirituality where we both agreed we are living in the last days of our species. But, where he accepts it, I ponder if we have the ability to stop it if we take our heads out of our ass long enough to see what’s happening around us. I consider myself a humanist. I believe there’s nothing we can’t do if we accept responsibility for ourselves and embrace our power and forgo our dependance on spiritual belief. The question isn’t whether or not God exists. It’s why we feel we must believe or disbelieve there’s anything at all. I look at God’s existence from two possibilities: If there is a God, then He could be afraid of us. Or, there is no God, we’ve just personified life and given it a name.

Looking at the first possibility, why do I think God is afraid of us? Well, several mythologies tell the story of one all-powerful being destroyed by its offspring. If we are children of God, we are his offspring and destined to destroy him. It’s no different from a parent fearing their accomplishments will be surpassed by their children. It’s natural, although dysfunctional, for parents to see their progeny as a sign of their own demise. The stronger and more independent their children become, they see themselves becoming older and weaker and death becomes more inevitable. If you accept the bible as truth that it’s the word of God written by those who were inspired by him, then the Old Testament could be a system of checks and balances to ensure our dependence, inhibiting our own growth and empowerment. Think about it, anyone who doesn’t believe in him is evil and immediately destroyed. Why is our belief in him so important? Why must we surrender ourselves to his will? Why must we surrender at all? Think about this: God gave us free-will, and yet our destinies are predetermined. Sure, we have a choice, but if we make the wrong choice, not following God’s laws, then we are punished. Why aren’t the nonbelievers allowed to live in peace? What does God have to fear from people who don’t believe in him and, if all power comes from God, are essentially powerless? Even though Jesus rewrote the covenant set by the ten commandments and made one law for us to follow the results are still the same, believe or die. No matter what we choose, in the end, our fates have been decided already. So, is there free-will or is that a ruse to hide the truth? Jesus said we all could have his power, on the condition that we believe in God because that’s where it comes from. Okay, maybe it does, like any child, we share traits given to us by our parents. But, what we decide to do with them is our choice.

I’m a big Jesus fan, which doesn’t mean I’m a Christian, I just dig what he was about. But, he did have one problem that was his ultimate demise, he lived his life based on religious prophecies. Despite being a rebel, Jesus was Jewish and believed as they did. He was dependent upon those teachings as anyone else of that time. It never occurred to him that his power came from anything other than God. And yet, from what we know of the event, it was not in God’s plan for Jesus to resurrect Lazarus, but he did so anyway, without invoking God’s name. Throughout the King James’ bible, Jesus speaks often of a prophecy and he followed that prophecy to its conclusion. Jesus had the will to do what he felt must be done. But, that willpower doesn’t negate the question if it had to be done. Jesus’ sacrifice set forth a dangerous precedent played out for generations after his death. Great men who felt it were their fate to die in the service of a greater good. Is it blasphemous to ask what would have happened if Jesus had lived? What did his death truly accomplish? It erased original sin, but not our ability to sin again. Sure, we’re no longer damned from birth, but does that matter when we have a lifetime to earn our damnation a thousand times over? The same goes for Malcolm X, JFK, and any other “messiah” who answered the call of servitude to the people. They all walked head first into death when they didn’t have to.

And, what if there is no God, just life, how could it be evil? It’s not. It’s just a system with no good or bad. It just does what it’s meant to do. Think of the ocean, it can give life or take it away in a tsunami. When that happens, you don’t say the ocean is evil. If there’s an earthquake that kills thousands, you don’t say the earth was evil and killed a bunch of people. What if God, a.k.a. life, works in the same way? It’s a system, and disasters happen because we injected ourselves into a series of events that didn’t include us. We become the variable in an equation. Like comedians have said time and again, we’re the dumb fucks who build our homes on a dirt hill, then wonder why it collapses in a rain storm. We live near volcanos and act surprise when they erupt and destroy everything. So, God is life, and we are sired from it. Therefore, we have that same power in us, God’s power, and it’s ours to control if we’re aware of it. I see life like a great ocean and our bodies are a glass. If you took the glass and filled it with ocean water, what do you have? The water doesn’t change, it’s still ocean water, it’s just trapped in the glass, limiting its power. The more glasses you fill, the more you take from the ocean, reducing its power. Soon, the amount of water in glasses will overshadow the ocean. If freed from the glasses, that water could become a greater ocean than the one it came from. The ocean is the energy of life that I think is the soul. The glass is our body. Within us is the power of life and with every birth the source becomes more depleted. Soon, the power within us will become more powerful than its source. And death becomes the instrument that refills the source, creating a cycle and life and death.

Here’s where I really get crazy: take the two ideas and combine them. If the Christian God is the source of life, then every birth takes away his power until we become more powerful than he. God can’t stop it, so his only alternative is to control it. How? By making us dependent on him is one way. The other is through death, and those most powerful, whose souls shine the brightest, are ensured to die before their time based on Jesus’ example.

Okay, that’s way out there, but I keep thinking about death and whether or not we have the ability to stop it. In a meeting, a doctor spoke of a patient having a “nice death” because he accepted that he was dying. Well, what is a “nice death?” When a person dies nicely, it always means they accepted their fate. And those that don’t accept it, despite trying to stay alive, still believe it’s a losing battle. The idea that no one can defy death is ingrained in us at an early age. Fairytales and Disney cartoons program us to believe death is something to fear, and time turns into inevitability. Even though medical science searches for ways to avoid death, we still don’t think we can do it ourselves and look to technology to help us. What if the answer is our own will power? What if we truly embraced what could be the true power of free will and chose not to die? I can’t help thinking acceptance is synonymous with surrender. When we accept our death, we’re surrendering to it. And, if we can choose to surrender, we can choose to fight. And, if we fight, then there is the chance we may win. But, it’s not as simple as just deciding to fight because our programming goes too deep. The body is controlled by the mind that turns our will into physical action. What would happen if a person’s will were so strong they could keep their heart beating after a heart attack? What if they could will their lungs to keep breathing, or stop the body from dying?

If we stopped death, then the ocean of life would never refill itself. God would become weaker as we continued in number and he would eventually die.

God needs us to believe him, because if we don’t...then what?

God’s fate is in OUR hands.

JPG.

ANOTHER SATURDAY NIGHT

2005-08-07T03:21:00.000-07:00

I finished an hour of exercise during a double episode of Nip/Tuck reruns. The kids are asleep with their mother and I concluded my workout with a smoke while staring at the beautiful Saturday night sky. I’m watching another classic episode of Married with Children and all is right with the world.

I’m bored out of my mind.

I finally have my transfer to another division in the hospital. I’ve waited for this and now that it’s about to happen I’m more than a little nervous. I’ve spent the last seven years in the same department, surrounded by the same people every week. Now, I’m leaving and I can’t shake feeling like a deserter. My department has suffered a series of resignations. I’m one of the last four researchers left, and when I go, there’s only three people to cover four programs. Two of them will have to double up and handle all the studies themselves until a replacements are found.

I’m 75% done with my cover letter for Image Comics. I’ll have to get that edited and reduce the length of my synopsis from four to one page. My letterer went to the convention in Chicago and I have to make sure everything is ready on his return. Actor and I got the screenwriting gig, I’m excited about it, but scared to. It will require regular visitations to the set during filming, but with a new job, I can’t just leave. Actor and I will have to take turns. Thank god for wireless connections and emails or I’d truly be fucked.

Speaking of fucking, I’ve been anxiously awaiting a follow-up email from JG. She sent me part one of a two-part message where she writes how she feels about my entry in her honor. She wrote she was flattered, but left me at a cliffhanger about worrying what my wife would think. Believe me, I took my wife’s reaction to account when I wrote my little "confession." I don’t see anything wrong with a man admitting his attraction to another woman. I think it’s healthy. Just because I’m married doesn’t mean I can’t lust for someone else. In fact, I think it makes a relationship more profound when a man or woman is attracted to other people, but stays faithful to their significant other. I decided years ago the decision to stay with someone meant more than falling in love with them. Certainly, love is a factor, it has to be, but choice is more important. Emotions are flimsy, they come and go too easily. A person falls in love on Tuesday and then drops out of love two days later. A person will love someone, get married, and then come to some epiphany that they don’t love the person anymore, if they ever did. I’m not denouncing love, it is very important, but so is making the decision to be with someone. It’s not feuled by love, lust, desperation, or dependence. It’s a conscious choice, and with it comes honesty and freedom. When a relationship is decided by emotions there’s always the fear those emotions will change partners. But, when I told my wife that I chose to be with her, I gained the freedom to feel without being afraid that my wife may misunderstand my intentions. I can admit I like someone, have a crush, or lust for someone without my wife feeling threatened I would “fall in love” and leave her. The only downside to this is my wife is a woman.

Women are ruled by their emotions, they can’t stop feeling and what’s really frightening is their lack of understanding about how things make them feel. A lot of people say women are complex. I disagree, women aren’t complex, they’re confused. So, while I think one thing, and my wife says she agrees, who knows when that may change. When we were dating, she would watch my porns and read my Playboys. I’ll never forget the night I returned from a nudie bar to find her crying because, and I quote: I didn’t make her feel like she was the center of my world. I was shocked, who was this woman? When I wrote my entry “Saying Goodbye to Possibility” I did so knowing there could be repercussions from JG and my wife, so I chose my words very carefully. I used a series of digressions to break up the emotional energy. If you read the entry without them, it could seem that I was almost on the verge of committing adultery if given the chance. Hopefully, the constant interruptions kept that from happening. I was still nervous about what my wife would think, but knowing I did nothing wrong, I said “Fuck it” and made my move. I’d held my lust in for an entire year. Going to work every week, talking to her and trying not to flirt. Looking at her and trying not to stare. Prying into her life, hoping she’d confide and give up some juicy details I could later fantasize and masturbate to. What’s the worst that could happen? JG’s out of state now, she’s gone. At worst, she thinks I’m a creep and writes me off. At best, we write sexy emails to one another. That would be cool. Maybe things would get hot & heavy, she’d send me nude pictures and I’d write her love poems, all within the safe boundaries of distance and nonphysical contact.

Did I already mention how bored I am?

I’m watching a rerun of Roseanne, after they one the lottery. I hated those episodes. I liked the show better when they were poor. Part of it is jealousy, but creatively, I think the show took a header and that’s why it was cancelled shortly after. To that point, the show was real. It had real people and real relationships. The appeal was similar to Good Times because it made the mundane and harsh living of the middle class and working poor a little more doable. We could laugh at things that normally make us cry. The Connors and Evans were running from creditors, just getting by, and so were we. We weren’t alone in our suffering and their companionship, though fictional, was appreciated. When the Connors struck it rich, we hated them for it. They ceased to be real and became just actors on a television show. At least the Evans left their good fortune for the last episode. The Evans left us with something to aspire to. The Connors just traded up for a higher money earning audience.

I’m getting sick of regular radio. I got the good news about the screenwriting gig on Friday and I was so happy I drove home hungry to sing along with some great music. Instead of listening to Lykis, I hit the scan button and waited for a great song. A forty minute drive from work to my house, and the radio was scanning all the way. Twenty minutes away from home, I became so desperate I started singing Van Halen tunes to myself, but I didn’t know all the words, so I just kept restarting the song over and over again and singing the chorus while imagining I was Eddie Van Halen, playing a concert in JG’s town where I was blowing her away with my musical abilities I’d kept a secret from everyone. That’s a recurring fantasy of mine by the way, surprising people with some cool talent no one knew I had. The fantasy began in high school, I’d imagine the student body is assembling in the gym where a scientist will demonstrate his new invention, a virtual reality machine that places people in different scenarios from motion pictures and they have to find a way out or die. Yeah, like that could ever happen? So, as I’m acting out a movie on a video cassette (this was before dvd’s), I’m imagining the class is watching me, astounded at my strength, courage, and charm. After high school, the fantasy changed to a seminar or demonstration in a mall and my friends and I pay to try the machine out as our girlfriends and wives watch in amazement and I prove myself a true champion. My wife is amazed, never truly knowing how great I was and all the others are envious of her because she’s with me. At my job, I have a similar fantasy, but instead of a machine, it’s a benefit and each division has to perform in a talent show. I show up with a band and blow the roof off the joint. Eventually, Van Halen got bored and I started singing old songs no one even knew existed. Songs from saturday morning cartoons, back when CBS and NBC thought it worth while and before ABC became Disney's bitch. Anyone remember Kidd Video? How about The Guys Next Door? The New Monkees? Yeah, I got them all in my head and I scan through them with amazing recollection. I can't remember when I lost my first tooth, or the last Christmas I spent with my father, but I know the opening song to the Karate Kid cartoon and sang it word for word like a top 40's hit.

Samurai Champoo is on. Good show. I’m gaining increasing respect for the creator of Cowboy Bebop. I was never into that show, but after his episodes in the Animatrix were two of the best in the collection, I gave his show a try and liked it. Now, he’s gone from super futuristic to medieval Japan and it’s very cool. I’m itching to see Steamboy, but can’t decide if I should get the American translation or buy the import at SunDevilDVD.com. They have Japanese animation, entire series, as low as $30.00. The only downside is they’re not dubbed, but subtitled. But, I like that. It ensures you’re getting the complete story and not what the American distributors is trying to sell you because our “sensibilities are different.”

The clocks ticking and I better hit the sheets. I’ll pop in a movie and wait for me to fall asleep.

Just another Saturday night.

JPG.

TOO MUCH T.V.

2005-08-02T18:15:00.000-07:00

I’m here, but I don’t have anything to comment on. I’m not depressed, mad, confused, horny, or anything else that would pass for a muse nowadays. I’m feeling pretty damn good, despite the eerie feeling of doom looming over my head. Like something is just waiting to fall and crack my skull open. I’m being very careful about what I say and write because I know all it takes is one word of satisfaction and it’s all over. But, I find no harm in saying that, at this moment, I’m feeling pretty good.

JG wrote me yesterday after spanning the globe, doing what young people do and old people wish they did. I must admit it felt good reading her email. What is it about a woman that can make a man feel special? Just seeing the sentence: “You are so sweet” had me giddy all day. She sent some cool pictures from her travels, but the only ones I really paid attention to have her in them. God, I’m terrible. I’m two months shy of my ten-year anniversary and here I am thinking about banging a girl almost ten years younger than me.

The longer I live, the more confusing life becomes. Just when you think you know the answers, something happens to disprove whatever theory you’ve concocted to get from today to tomorrow. You get married and are convinced that woman is the only one you’ll ever find attractive. Then, you’ll see another woman who may not even look as good as your wife, but something about her just clicks and you can’t stop the fantasies. Next, you’re jacking off with her picture in your head. Then, a few years pass; you get older and you think you’ve solved the problem. But no, some other woman comes along and you’re right back where you started, with your dick in your hand and some unattainable femme fatale on your mind. If you’re lucky enough to make it to ten, you think you’ve finally found the answer. One woman can be every woman, but sure enough here comes someone who defies that rule again. There’s no way your wife can be her, and dammit, you want her. So, you figure it’s all about the old and the new. After you’ve been with one woman for so long you just figure its boredom. How long has it been since your wife smelled of perfume? Wore cosmetics? How long since she dressed young and vibrant, showing off her body? (Uh, just about two weeks ago) With age comes limitations and you take some comfort in that. It’s only natural for you to want something new, young, fresh and clean, right? Then you go home, ready to settle in your humdrum life, and there you are sitting in your daddy chair, looking at your woman sprawled out on the floor watching television. She’s wearing old jeans that are too small because dinner was too big. Her black t-shirt is so faded its gray in some areas and white in others. You look at her just laying there, doing nothing, and then you’re hit with an impulse and say: “I’m gonna f- you tonight.”

She looks at you funny, “Uh…okay. And what about the kids?”

“I’m not going to do it now. I just want you to know, sometime tonight, I’m gonna f- you.”

“Okay.” And she puts her head back down.

Just like that. Of course, the night comes and goes, you’re tired, she’s asleep, snuggling between two children and you’re just lucky to find a place at the foot of the bed like the family dog. But, that’s not the point. Just when you thought you knew the score, life changes things on you. And, out of the blue, your wife becomes hotter than any twenty year old. The polarities switch and what you can’t have reminds you of what you do. What incentive is there to get married? The freedom to walk up to a woman and grab her breast, ass, or crotch saying, “Let’s fuck” without getting slapped, kicked, or charged with sexual harassment and assault.

What do you do?

What can you do?

Just go with whatever life brings you.

But, what about the repercussions? Should we forget the lesson learned from Risky Business (1983)? Sometimes, going with the flow and pissing in the wind leaves you with wet pants. How do you balance it out?

I don’t know.

I’ve been looking at women’s cleavage a lot lately. That, or more women are flashing their shit this summer, and they all have freckles. But, if you look hard and long enough, it’s almost like you’re seeing the whole breast. Especially if it jiggles, it’s not really leaving much to the imagination.

I’ve never been with a Hispanic woman and that still bothers me.

Nip/Tuck is a little over a month away and I can’t wait to see what happens to Christian.

I’ve gotten in the habit of relying on “the next big thing” to get me through life, otherwise I could be dead and not really care. I remember the first time I saw the trailer for The Matrix. I went home begging God to keep me alive long enough to see it. Then, after it opened, I couldn’t give shit what happened to me. I think I’m still recouping from the Lord of the Rings being over. Three years spent looking forward to Christmas, just so I could see a movie. Last year, my wife and I really didn’t know what to do with ourselves, LOTR had quickly become our tradition and we were really bothered that we didn’t have another “big thing” waiting for us. Yeah, we had the DVDs, but it’s not the same as reserving tickets at a theater and seeing it there on the big screen. This year the “big thing” was Batman, but now that’s gone and I feel blah about everything. I’m hoping the new fall television season will give me reason to live.

My God… I feel like Al Bundy after realizing how pathetic his life has become. I’m looking for television to give me a reason why I should keep breathing. I can’t remember when I became so dependant on television. I think when I was younger, say around eleven, and my mother would leave me alone, I watched a lot of television and there was something soothing about it. Even now, I get that feeling when I see reruns of Good Times and I Love Lucy. I’m starting to see how these shows affected me. They taught me how to live and act. Probably one of the reasons I adapt so well to my wife’s quirky behavior is because I watched I Loved Lucy every day for years and thought she was so cute. The first month of our marriage, my wife burned a whole in the living room floor because she was ironing her dress on the carpet. I swear I felt like Ricky at that moment, listening to my wife explaining what happened with that little hint of newlywed fear. And it changes, just like switching a channel. When we’re lazy and poor, we’re Rosie and Dan Connor. When I’m feeling exceptionally parental I’m Andy Taylor. When my wife and I are being parental, but cute and enjoying our marriage we’re the Huxtables. Many times she’ll do or say something and I’ll just look at her like Ricky, Cliff, or Al, then I’ll look at the imaginary audience and play a laugh track in my head. My friends are an assortment of co-stars, from Grady to Fred. Some are Barney, others are Cool Breeze, Poppo, and Head.

The one television show that I loved and closely mirrors my marriage is Mad About You. Some things my wife and I go through are right out of that show. I remember once, during a particular tough time in our relationship, my wife asked if I saw us growing old together, and I said yes because Paul and Helen stayed together on the show. She said they didn’t, they eventually got a divorce in the last episode. But, I reminded her that near the end, in the last ten minutes, after spending some years apart, they were still in love and reconciled. Sometimes I feel like my wife and I are destined to split. But, we’ll still love one another and reconcile. I think we’re too curious about divorce and what it would be like not to try it out. But I know we’d get back together, just like Ross and Rachel on Friends. But, I don’t want to tempt fate, because just when you think you know what will happen, life changes, just like on television. Dillon and Kelly never worked things out in Beverly Hills. They were meant for one another, but couldn’t make it work. So, you never know.

I better get out of here; Rescue Me is on tonight and love Denise Leary. See, just when I think there’s nothing to look forward to, I found something. That should keep me going for another five hours and twelve minutes.

JPG.

THOUGHT BYTES FOR 2005 (Pt.6)

2005-08-01T13:24:00.000-07:00

This Saturday marks one month since I last reported here, so I better write something or feel the wrath of those few who stop by on the regular basis. My last entry sort of tired me out. After that, there was nothing to report. How do people do this on the daily basis? Am I the only one who gets bored with life and world events?

MAJOR EVENT IN JULY

My wife celebrated her 30th birthday and I made it my mission to make it a celebration. She busts her ass twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I wasn’t going to let this go by without some acknowledgement of how special she is and all the hard work she does raising my off-spring. First, I gave her $200 spending money. Second, I decided to surprise her with a small party. It would have been a big party, but she doesn’t have that many friends. Something I feel bad and happy for at the same time. In Eddie Murphy’s last stand-up movie and probably the most infamous, RAW, he spoke of women and how their friends can influence the worst in a marriage. For that reason, I’m happy my wife doesn’t have female friends. The last thing I need is someone telling her how bad a husband I am. Let her continue the delusion of being the luckiest woman in the world. Of course, the bad side is she’s more than likely to wake-up one morning, realize she has no life of her own and leave me with two kids I can’t take care of by myself. I try to convince her to seek out more female companionship, but it never goes well. Good. Either she has no interest in them, or she discovers they are lesbians. My wife is a female who believes that men and women can be friends without sexual attraction being present. I disagree and point out how most of the male friends she had previously were pissed off when she dated me. She says it was because they see her like a sister and want to protect her. I tell her it was really because they wanted to bang her and didn’t need me in the way in addition to the other seven “brothers” they were competing against. But, my friends are her friends and she says she prefers it, that way it’s less work. If she doesn’t want to talk to anyone or deal with the responsibility of having relationships, she doesn’t have to.

In preparation for the surprise, I took the day off from work, but didn’t tell her. I ordered a huge cake from a fancy bakery. My wife’s favorite food is Italian, so I ordered from Olive Garden. Originally, I wanted three different types: Mexican, Italian, and Korean, but the cost was too high and I still had other things to buy. I straight out asked my wife what her favorite Italian dish is and ordered that from her favorite restaurant. I added a peach cobbler to my order at the bakery, bought balloons, plates, napkins, and ice cream from Coldstone’s. Last, I reserved a table at a small jazz and blues club in Hollywood where Cheryl Bentyn was performing.

My mother got my wife and kids out of the house and brought them to her place where I had everything set up and screamed, “Surprise!” when my wife opened the door. She was really surprised and never saw it coming. We enjoyed a birthday lunch and later went to the club for the first show. Our booth was secluded and candle lit. She wore my favorite dress; it was so low cut that two cars with male drivers stopped to watch her walk by. We snuggled during the show, I bought her drinks and she got toasted. I bought her Cheryl’s cd and we took a long time driving home via the Sunset Strip.

It was a great night.

EXAM TIME

I turned 33 this year and my employee counselor suggested I see a doctor and get a physical and mental exam. Yeah, a mental exam; I go to see her about the problems I’m having at work and she suggests I’m crazy. It took a month to get an appointment and I was happy about it because it’s been over two years since my last check-up and I could have cancer for all I know. My doctor is female, in her fifties, and no taller than 4’. Everything went normally, but I was nervous when she said it was time to check my balls.

The last time I had my balls felt up by a doctor was in my early teens and the physician was an exceptionally attractive white woman. She juggled my nuts in her hand for a few seconds and I got an erection. I was so embarrassed, but excited that a female was feeling me up. This time, I was afraid history would repeat itself, even though my doctor’s beauty exhausted itself a long time ago. Instead of popping wood, my nuts shrank, pushing into my stomach to keep her hand away. I thought I was going to vomit. Then, that which all men fear was about to happen to me. She said, “Okay, lie on your side and spread your cheeks.” BUTT CHECK! But, I consider myself lucky. I watched my wife get her ass checked during both her pregnancies by a 6’+ black man with hands like a sledgehammer. My wife can’t stand it when I put my tongue up there during oral sex and here was a brotha with a finger bigger than my penis giving her an anal exam. My having a doctor with tiny fingers was good, and I had already told her about my hemorrhoid, so I wasn’t too embarrassed by that. It felt good having her poke around.

I like getting checked out by the doctor, it’s relaxing. The result was I’m healthy as a clam. Fat, but no high blood pressure and labs are clean. Now I have to get my head examined, but I’m looking for a shrink who also specializes in eating disorders. I like shrinks. The last therapy I received saved my life and my marriage, so I’m looking forward to seeing “Dr. Shrinker” and getting my shit worked out. It feels great having my thoughts and ideas validated by someone with a degree.

NEW JOB

I arrived early to work today because I have an interview this afternoon. It feels like I won’t be here, at this hospital, too much longer. I have two interviews this week, and I’m still waiting for an update on my last interview in a different department. So, I might still be here, but I won’t be in this department anymore. I’ve been here for seven years and it feels strange and exciting that I may leave. I’m really looking forward to it. In retrospect, it’s not bad here, but I think I just out stayed my welcome. I need a fresh start. New place and faces to meet; new things to see and do and a much simpler job for more money.

REVIEWS

Saw Fantastic Four and it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. But, I think that was the plan of the marketing at FOX. Reverse psychology: have people thinking the movie is a big pile of shit, so when they see it, it has to be better than what they were expecting. And it was, it worked, and now a sequel is two years away. The main problem with FF was the story structure; nothing was explained properly. You never knew why things were happening, and before long you found yourself in the middle of a fight with no dramatic reasoning. It was like watching kids playing Fantastic Four instead of actually seeing the FF duke it out.

I bought The Crow: Wicked Prayer. My God, what was Jeff Most thinking letting that pile of shit hit the stores? Better to squash the whole thing. Eddie Furlong plays the latest goth avenger and he is without a doubt the worst at it. Each installment in the franchise after the first movie has been bad, but their saving graces were passion and creativity. The people involved gave a damn, they had imagination and were truly trying to be original and build upon the mythos. Salvation was bad, but after a few viewings it grew on me. Once I forgot about the other movies, it took on it’s own personality. The special effects were sub-par, but the ideas were enough to get me through the bad mechanics. Alex Corvis, a death row inmate framed by crooked cops for his girlfriends rape and murder, who gets executed and raised by the crow is a damn good idea that separates it from the previous movies. Having him discover his “crow face” by tearing away the scarred remnants of burnt flesh was cool to watch. Better, was the idea of him turning into a crow and flying across the city. And it was interesting to watch Fred Ward as the villain who weakens Corvis, not by directly harming the crow, but taking away Alex’s belief that he was not responsible for his ladylove’s demise. Wicked Prayer had a lot of cool ideas to play with: Native American mythology, a cool old west feel, and a main character who was a murderer and irredeemable. All gone to waste with bad acting, worse villains, and dialogue that was indirect rips from all three films. The director and writer introduced nothing new to the mythos. And despite my love of David Boreanaz, he sucked in this movie. In a nutshell, he was Angelus under a different name, but his acting was far below anything Whedon would allow. And if you wonder why Tara Reid has been reduced to reporting for the E! Channel, you’ll know after you see this movie.

XXX: State of the Union was fun to watch. Ice Cube was a little stiff. It’s hard for me to see him in an action movie like this. Or, perhaps it’s hard to see his character assume a mantle that was meant for someone else. The whole concept of XXX was taking the James Bond spy stories and amp them up for the younger crowd. But this movie had nothing to do with espionage or an over the top spy vs. spy style. It felt more like the old Masquerade show from the eighties, where the CIA would get different people for different situations. A more recent example would be Tom Cruise’s version of Mission Impossible. For people who liked the first movie with Diesel, they might find its sequel slapping him in the face on several occasions. First, they dismiss Xander’s death as nothing more important than squashing a roach. Then, Ice Cube has several lines that put down Vin’s character throughout. Call me a geek, but if Vin wouldn’t do the movie, better to find another actor to play Xander and stick to the original script than have Ice Cube go from roadie to main character. The change comes off like Doughboy from Boy’s in the Hood joining the military, becoming a S.E.A.L., getting imprisoned, escaping, and now gets to blow up the capital to save the president. And what was up with all the cars? They totally moved the story away from any chance to show Ice Cube as a ladies man and surrounded him with automobiles. Whether it’s reality or fiction, there’s no explanation for me to believe a buffed up and chiseled Ice Cube is more interested in saving the President or attracted to a scrawny white girl, not while Nona Gaye is standing in front of him in a black dress with her boobs pushed up to her chin. Worse, Diesel got busy in his movie with two different women. Ice Cube gets no play at all. Diesel gets to lounge with a chick a Bora Bora. Cube gets a car and immediately set-up for replacement, but not without being marked with the XXX tat. Or, perhaps I should call it a “brand”?

SCRATCHING MY HEAD

Still working on my new story, a couple in fact. But, things have slowed since I was offered a chance to help on a screenplay. Actor brought me in on the gig and last week was spent hammering out an “audition”. This week is about getting my bearings back. I’ve got too much I’m trying to do, that’s for sure. It’s a sure thing that, when you try to do too much, you’ll fail. So, I have to re-access what I want to do first, get that done, and then move on.

I’m mostly excited about my vigilante story. It’s not copyrighted yet, so I won’t write anything about it yet. Besides, it’s still only a plot, but the idea is coming along.

Lazarus is almost done. Yeah, I know, but by “almost” I mean less than five pages. I haven’t heard from the colorist in a couple of weeks, so I have to drop him a line. Lettering is proceeding and I just got word that Image will look at proofs. I have to put together a package and send that out ASAP. If I get on the Image bandwagon, this whole thing takes on a totally different head; totally.

But things do feel like they’ve slowed down a bit. Sometimes there’s a week when I’m getting updated nonstop and then another week there’s nothing new to report. The only person I feel like is churning & burning is my penciler. He’s doing some great stuff with the last chapter of the book. It all comes down to a huge fight above the city between Laz and a demon he’s been chasing throughout the book, and it looks great. Carlos is drawing the epilogue, wrapping things up, but I needed to make some changes to Laz’s last page. On page 109, Laz is in a Catholic Church lighting prayer candles for his deceased family and I felt it was too religious. It made Laz seem like he was a Catholic and this was his chosen place of worship. But, what the scene represents is him still feeling responsible for their deaths, where he pays tribute is inconsequential. If he were in Japan, he’d light candles at a Buddhist temple. It’s just that, in this case, it’s a Catholic church. So, I need to show he has no allegiance to the church by changing one panel on the page to show a more “disrespectful” attitude. Besides, Laz knows Jesus was black, but every church he goes to has a white guy on the cross. He may not comment on it, but he is pissed about it.

After this, we go back and fix some trouble pages, and then we’re done with pencils. It will be nice not to worry about pencils anymore and just focus on two instead of three things. Focusing on one thing, I tend to forget the other two and leave them in the dark. A week or two will go by and I haven’t asked for a report because I was concentrating on pencils. But, having the pencils done, I can push on the colors and lettering. It also gives me more to show people and start seeking out other avenues for the project.

BOARD OF IGNORANCE

My vigilante story has a black main character. Black heroes don’t do good in American comics and I’ve gone back and fourth with other creators about why that is, then Merlyn told me how he posted an inquiry on a message board asking why or what White readers don’t like black heroes. So, I went to different boards and did the same, and the experience has confirmed that message boards are a waste of time for people who have no lives.

My post garnered one of three responses; my inquiry was criticized, belittled, or treated seriously in only one of several respects. I asked what people don’t like about black superhero comics and included some questions they could answer along with giving their personal opinions. The first half-dozen comments were people attempting to be funny and not treating the topic seriously. Then, you had people giving their opinions, but not really answering the questions. Instead, they chose to comment on the book I used as an example, Spawn, to discuss whether or not he was black. One pro did take the time to give his opinion, but fluffed it with mentioning his own book several times: “ I hate when comics are like this, BUT IN MY BOOK…” Another pro semi-attacked me, insinuating I was closed minded for using the term: black superhero comics. He clamed there are no such things, and I could have rebutted by pointing out it was a term I didn’t create, but heard used on several occasions. There’s even website devoted to black superheroes, and a panel at the SD convention two years ago where black creators gathered to discuss black heroes in comics. But, since the person plays in major role with a publisher I’m trying to get into, I kept my rebuttal to myself.

What really discouraged me was the lack of honesty. Or, maybe it’s not that anyone was being dishonest, but they were truly ignorant of the marketplace and their own habits. Most of the responses were generic replies like: “If the story and character is written well, I’d buy it regardless of the character’s race.” And that’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever read. Several ethnic heroes are written well, but they all still tanked in the marketplace. Probably the most popular black superhero, Black Panther, has seen failure time and time again for this same reason.

In the comicbook world, Black and White unite against their common dislike for ethnic heroes. Hell, even I don’t like Black Panther, and it’s because he’s too black for me. I’m so used to white heroes of all kinds that any black hero I see is too “out there”, even though they look more like me than I do Superman. I remember speaking with Merlyn once about Black Panther and how I thought it was “too black”. I think I said something about it not being realistic that an African nation could be so technologically advance and he wanted to slap my head clean off my shoulders. But no matter how programmed I may be, at least I was honest about it and continue not to pull punches. I’m not a fan of black heroes because most of them are all about being black and not being a hero. Those that don’t follow that mold do great disadvantage to the character by omitting race completely. What I’m looking for is a balance, characters that are true to themselves without using any racial gimmicks. And that’s hard because you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. I could write a character that doesn’t like rap, but then he’s too white. But, if he does like rap, then he’s just like all the other stereotypes. So, where do you draw the line?

I went to the boards looking for honesty and all I found was bullshit. I wanted to know what people don’t like so I could avoid those things, but instead I found out why people continue to fail, because no one is being honest. No one wants to be the racist who says: “ I hate John Stewart as Green Lantern because I can’t believe the Guardians would choose a black guy to have the most powerful weapon in the universe.” A black writer writes the Panther now and it’s still not a top seller. Worse, people have openly admitted to hating his work, calling it racist. So, if the black hero is a carbon copy, then they are “inferior product”. But, if the writer gives it a unique flavor, he’s a racist.

Comics could be one of the few bastions of racism in this country and I don’t see it ending soon. Sure, I want to find a way to end it, but what chance does anyone have when the majority of readers won’t admit their crime of prejudice?

JPG.

SAYING GOODBYE TO POSSIBILITY

2005-07-06T16:38:00.000-07:00

Today I saw the last of someone I’ve grown very fond of at my job. A coworker who came here only for a year, snuck under my radar, got close, and made this place bearable. Now she’s gone, I’m alone, and I can’t stop thinking about all the lost opportunities where I could have spent more time with her, outside the office, and made a connection.

No, “connection” doesn’t refer to anything romantic or sexual.

Let’s call her “JG.”

It’s not often you meet a female who can make men like myself feel comfortable. Most of the time, men are too busy projecting a false macho image that’s complete bullshit. Everything we do is according to some unwritten rulebook on how to “bag a babe” and we follow it word for word. But there are those few women whose beauty is so comforting we drop our charade and let the real person come out. The first time I met one was eleven years ago when a short Korean girl showed up at my front door after I answered a personals ad. Years later, I married her and she’s still the only woman with whom I feel completely comfortable.

When I was first told we were getting a new CRC at the hospital, I was happy. Happy because their arrival meant my transfer to a new role I was looking forward to. Ironically, now that she’s gone, I’m right back where I started. I was a little nervous because someone new was entering my environment just as I was beginning to adapt to my surroundings. I worried that her arrival would unleash a backlash of reprisals from my boss when she discovered all the mistakes I was sure I’d made in my paperwork. But what did I care, I was leaving. And hopefully, I’d never have to deal with those patients, those studies, and those doctors again.

I don’t remember who talked to whom first, but I think it was pretty standard stuff. She’d ask questions about protocols and I’d try my best to answer them without revealing my big secret: that I have no idea what I’m doing. I knew JG was a medical student, and felt at ease that she’d understand everything better than I did. When she started asking me questions, I freaked a little. But luckily, another coworker who I’ll call “Know It All” took charge and before long he handled all her questions with me feigning interest in the background.

Somewhere along the way things got personal. If memory serves, my then boss came in and mentioned that I was a writer. That, or maybe she mentioned my tattoos or that I’m an “artist type”. Either way, the new addition to the crew learned my secret, that I was a writer posing as a clinical researcher. But something about that really sparked JG’s interest. We started talking nonstop and next I knew we were conversing daily. I would send her new pages from Lazarus, let her read from the script, show her color samples, and when I started this blog page she was the first one online to read the posts and became a fan of my work. We’d spend time after work ragging on our peers and talking about life in general. We both were pissed when Bush Jr. was re-elected and we’d ask each other if we heard Howard's latest escapades. But, she wasn’t bound to the hospital like the rest of us and would take time off for interviews and what not. It was then, on her first day out, that I realized how much I relied on her. For that entire day the office was silent. It had been silent before, but this was the eerie quiet of three people stuck in a room who shared nothing in common. When she’d leave, I couldn’t wait for her return and soon I forgot that she was going to med school and was only here for a year.

The more JG read my blog, the more she learned about me. And knowing she read my entries challenged me to keep her entertained. The more she liked my introspection and honesty, the deeper I delved and dared myself to reveal things. But I am a man, and soon I began using some of my entries as subtle flirtations, writing about my lack of sex and so forth. See, unlike most women who inspire boastful flirtations of sexual prowess, JG pushed me towards honesty. Or maybe I was testing the waters to see what her responses would be? Much as I saw my wife years ago, I saw JG as someone who looked at me and wept. So I wasn’t about to come off all macho. Plus, I wasn’t going to disparage my image as the loving husband. Oh, I am the loving husband, but I’m also a hot-blooded Creole.

One night, a friend and I were talking about how marriage has made us more aware of the opposite sex. I told him that it’s a classic case of not wanting something until someone says you can’t have it. Once the ring goes on and the mind says: “No more looking at women in lust.” The first thing you notice is how the girl walking down the street has a sexier walk than your wife. I remember hating black women when I was younger. They all reminded me of my mother and were symbolic of my succumbing to a racial stereotype. I was convinced dating a black woman would lead to an apartment in the ghetto, becoming a Baptist, and sitting on a milk crate in front of my apartment when I’m fifty. Then I suddenly found myself attracted to them after I married. I’d always liked blondes and brunettes and figured Asians of any kind would never get with a “brotha”, even a mixed one like myself. But, when I married a Korean woman, all kinds of possibilities were opened to me. When you’re married, that’s what your attraction to women is about, the possibilities of what might happen.

Nothing is more enticing or intoxicating than possibility. For loyal married men, that’s all we have. The question of what could happen...

Does she find me attractive?

Could she?

Would she?

How would she?

Nothing is more powerful than fantasying about being seduced by women. Having a female find you so attractive she’d jump from her passive submissive role and become the aggressor – it’s every man’s fantasy and it never gets old. Porn is so successful and addictive for men because it’s full of those situations. Either the women chase the men or they totally submit to their lust and let themselves be taken.

As my acquaintance with JG became a friendship, the more she exposed herself. She still kept much of her life private. It took me by surprise when I realized she knew way more about me than I did about her. But she did release a little here and there. Things that, to a normal person, would mean nothing, but lead to all kinds of possibilities to a fat married nerd with low self-esteem. Things that would never happen, could never happen, but still – What if?

Oh, I had fantasies. But the more I felt my attraction grow, the more my inadequacies became apparent to me. Why would an attractive twenty-something half Korean mix female with a bright and wealthy future find me attractive? I’ve been told that married men are more attractive to women, but that hasn’t been the case for me. I seem to debunk that rule every day.

Digression…

Crazy Cracker Bitches -

I will state this for myself: I do attract crazy white trash.

In high school, this white-trash girl that I performed with in a play, who thought herself a witch, liked Led Zepplin – who I had no knowledge of at the time – and started calling me at home, became obsessed with making me a werewolf. A teenage fantasy I desperately wanted until Doc brought me to my senses.

Then, when I was engaged, a coworker’s girlfriend befriended me out of the blue. Almost immediately she started revealing all sorts of personal details about her life, her divorce to an abusive southern husband and how he “stole” her kids. She would call me for help, asking for rides or someone to talk to. Her boyfriend picked up on things faster than I did and pulled me aside one day. Out of nowhere, he took me to the back and whispered: “I could take you down and fuck your ass.” I thought he was just a pervert at first, another gay guy who wanted me. But, he scared the shit out of me nonetheless. Our friendship ended after I got married and she asked me to have an affair. I quickly told my wife and that was the end of that.

I would lie if I wrote that I have no attraction for filthy white women. Maybe it’s just because they’re white. Or, perhaps I’ve seen too many porn movies and magazines from the 70’s when they were all the rage. Women like Kay Parker and Ginger Lynn are permanently bonded to me and influence this, I’m sure.

So, I’m not without admirers.

…End of Digression.

I guess it’s only natural that I began feeling attracted to JG, and immediately did and said things to reaffirm my ugliness. I think she took it as an ass-backwards way of fishing for compliments. But it wasn’t. Every shitty thing I said about myself I believe to be true. All the while fantasizing that my inadequacy would, in some freakish way, make me more appealing.

It didn’t, and I still have my dreams.

If anything, I think my self-deprecation made her feel sorry for me. Or, maybe it made her want to reach out to me and prove me wrong or something. Nevertheless, for that reason, or because she genuinely liked my company, she asked me out for drinks and/or dinner. Not as a date or anything, as friends, but I refused out of fear. One of these invitations was to a party at Bill Maher’s house. Amazingly, after scoring tickets to his show, she discovered where he goes afterwards, approached him, spent time, and won an invite. Because she knew I was a fan, she asked me to go with her and I refused. I still can’t believe I did that. But it was for the best. The last place a married man needs to be is a party with hot stoned and drunk chicks so wasted even I could get into their thongs. But truth be told, those possibilities were not what scared me into declining. I was too afraid of what I would do outside the work place. I was too afraid of what I would say if I got enough alcohol in me. Or worse, I was afraid of Clyde coming out and ruining JG’s impression of me.

There have been very few times in my life I’ve succeeded at anything; especially women, and all of them are things I wish I could forget. Things that, despite the tremendous amount of information I’ve revealed here, I dare not write about. But, they were eventful. Things my friends are still in awe over – and not in a good way. So, I’m not totally without skills. And I did successfully woo my wife. To this day, I’m still the best sex she’s ever had, or so she claims, despite my running time slowing from an hour to five minutes (she says ten, but I’m the one with the watch).

Another Digression…

Crossing the Border -

I had to take a bathroom break, so I did what I usually do and went all the way to the first floor bathroom. I work on the 6th floor, but never do I use those facilities because I’d be too embarrassed if seen coming or going by any of the coworkers in my department.

It all started in high school: I’d made some boastful claims that, because I’m Creole, I’m immune to the ill effects of any spicy foods or peppers. So, one smart-ass dared me to eat an entire jar of jalapeño peppers. With nowhere to run and respect at stake, I ate the entire jar and drank the juice. But, after eating the fifth pepper I knew I was in trouble. So, instead of chewing, I swallowed them whole, stem and all.

By the afternoon, I was on the toilet with a burning rectum and jalapeños pouring out of me. Our stalls in the boy’s restrooms had no doors, so anyone could see what anyone was doing. I’d gone to the last stall in the back and only in my world would my friend, one of those who witnessed my challenge, follow the same path and bump into me in the middle of business. Of course he told everyone in our little click what happened, and since then I’m deathly afraid of running into people I know in the bathroom.

So, I’m on the first floor... I’ve washed the toilet seat with hot water and soap, and I’ve settled down, taken my first pass and courtesy flushed when a little Hispanic boy came in. I know he was Hispanic because, seeing my stall door closed, he crawled under the door. I’d said “Occupied” three times and he was halfway inside before he noticed I was there and crawled back out.

That’s the kind of shit that makes people not like children.

…End of Digression.

So, what if lightening struck? What if all the stars were aligned, I looked just right, said all the right things and she was just plastered enough to lower her standards of morality and physical attraction to try something? As much as possibilities are exciting, they can also be frightening, dangerous, and worse of all, disappointing. Working up to a moment between a man and a woman is like building a fantasy. In that time, everything is perfect. But when the lips meet or the clothes come off, harsh reality steps in. And after being with one woman for so long, I know any attempt at infidelity would result in losing something more important than money, love, trust, or anything else that comes with marriage. I’d lose my image.

You’re asking: How could someone who thinks so lowly of himself have an image and want to protect it? Simple, take Artie Lang from the Howard Stern show. Artie is a fat bastard. He’s a successful, funny as hell fat bastard, but he’s a fat bastard. He drinks and gambles way too much and I wouldn’t be surprised it’s all an act. Look at the two possibilities: Either it’s an act or he’s really that way, but worse. Think about those two possibilities. If Artie is truly a drunk, it’s one thing to make fun of on the radio and stage, but something different to watch. Do you think people would think it funny to see Artie in the grips of an alcohol bender? Or, coming off one? Is it funny to watch a junky puke their lungs out when they try to get straight? Now, look at the opposite. If he were not really that way, then how unfunny would it be to discover it’s all an act? In both cases, Artie is successful because we don’t and can’t see the truth. Either he’s a fraud. Or, he’s a talented comedian with a serious problem that may not live long enough to truly make use of his ability. His image, while not positive, is carefully maintained. Just like Howard’s.

I have a shitty self-image, but I’m comfortable with it and it’s done me well. At times it keeps me out of trouble. Other times, it gets me into serious predicaments. And, in some rare cases it actually attracts women, such as my wife.

What is my image?

I’m a depressed artist who’s devoted to his wife and thinks poorly of himself despite having many talents. My honesty is cruel, but attractive. My physical appearance, while not terrible, is made better by my extreme claims of obesity and ugliness. I’m an admitted pervert who would dance around the opportunity of adultery while not actually committing adultery, making me safe to flirt with no expectation of follow through – basically, you could tell me: “If you took your pants off right now, I’d give you a blow.” Thinking that I wouldn’t actually take my pants off because I’m married. My quirkiness makes me pathetic, but cute, and that makes me loveable. And, amidst all that negativity, self-loathing and doubt is a strain of confident sarcasm that will hit you right between the eyes when you least expect it.

Having an image isn’t a fraud. It just a facet of who you really are inside. The Artie and Howard on radio are only pieces of the real people. My image is one I project in public to protect myself. It’s something I’ve done for so long I have no control over it. That person is only a piece of me and isn’t as powerful when I’m with friends and family. But, it is who I am. And, as horrible as it may seem, there are worse images to have. Like being impotent.

I’ve been with the same women for so long I’m incapable of being physically aroused by another female. That’s a fact. I’ve had strippers grind my lap into oblivion and still remain flaccid. Yet, my wife can touch my shoulder and I’m like a sixteen year old looking at National Geographic. Now, imagine if I were to enter into a liaison with another woman? After all the build up of possibility, there I am lying limp. The harsh reality sets in. I’m a loser. A cripple. And everything I say I am that most women and friends think is bullshit is absolutely true. Just like the tragic imagery of a fat Elvis dead on his toilet, or John Belushi in the middle of a drug overdose, the image is cool as long as you don’t have to see the truth.

Digression #3…

Designed for Porn -

Before I leave work, I have to take some dick pics on my new cell phone. It started as a goof; I took a picture of a penis with my mother’s Father’s Day gift, a new Motorola cell phone with a built-in camera. I showed them to my wife and now she’s making requests. Cell pics are like fluorescent lights, they make everything look bad. I saw my penis, this blown up purple and brown thing with a red crown and was horrified. Now I have to keep repeating the atrocity hoping to unlock my wife’s sexual perversion, praying that it leads to something. Unfortunately, there’s only so much you can do with a Motorola. I don’t think they had pornography in mind when they designed it. But what if they did? With my luck, the janitor will catch me with my pants around my ankles. I wonder what possibilities will come from that…. Too bad it’s a he.

…End of Digression.

And the truth hurts like a motherfucker. It’s cool to smoke, but who wants to look at dingy teeth or taste smoker’s breath? All these possibilities would dance through my head just like all the others that I think about daily. Like, if a car hit me, how would I avoid being killed? Or, if my house caught on fire, how would I get my family out safely and go back for my comics? JG has never seen me in the midst of a social anxiety breakdown where I sweat uncontrollably and spit white bullets from cottonmouth. But worse, what if she responded? What if I got so drunk I lost my inhibitions and she responded because she was into me – or most likely drunk off her ass? What would I do? And how could I facer her or my wife afterwards? Those questions kept me at a distance, so I rejected her invites despite my interest.

Asking those questions and again wondering about the possibilities became so overbearing that I got a bright idea: I’d introduce her to my friend Actor who I live vicariously through and find out what she’s like on a date. But that plan backfired because she wasn’t into him. That endeared her to me even more because it showed she has scruples. That, or she knew he would report back to me. Of course, you can never be too sure. They could have been together and I’d never know it – Fuck you, Actor, if that were the case.

Digression…

Ignorance is Bliss –

I was dating this coworker once, when I worked at a comic book store in Santa Monica. Now, this girl, Lori, had already hooked up with another coworker, John, who fathered her child and she was eight months pregnant when I met her. Then Lori dated John’s friend, Lewis, turning the two against one another. And as I watched this drama unfold, I told myself I would never get involved in something so stupid. Then, Lori told me I had a nice ass.

I was sexually confused at the time and told people I was bisexual. This lead to an interesting evening when Lori and John asked me to participate in a three-way and I declined for two reasons: 1) I was too nervous and self-conscious. And 2) She was still nine months pregnant. So, I opted to watch instead. Afterwards, when Lori drove me home, despite just having sex with John, she began badmouthing him and devised a revenge plan by having me pretend to be her new boyfriend. I was desperate and the bisexual thing was turning into heterosexuality, so I went along hoping to get laid. But before our plan could begin, she went into labor. I was one of the only people to visit her in the hospital and was shocked when she called me later that day. She didn’t want to speak to her newborn’s father. She wanted to talk to me.

That call turned into a string of calls that lasted for a week and became very suggestive. She asked what kind of boyfriend I was or how I kissed. We began tempting one another about what we would do when or if we saw each other. Well, sure enough, as soon as she was off the bed, she drove to my place without an invite. Caught off guard, I did not look my best. The visit was short, but we did kiss and next I knew she was calling herself my girlfriend. The relationship lasted a month, maybe two. We’d kiss, but she wanted more and I couldn’t perform because after seeing John’s pecker I felt inadequate. But she became very insistent because, in her mind, a good kisser equaled a good lover and she thought I was a damn good kisser.

We tried twice, both times ended miserably. I kept trying not to picture her ex’s penis – it was huge – but I couldn’t and the comparison made mine shrink in humiliation. That led to her cheating on me with John. When she told me, I tried to dump her, but she wasn’t having it. I think she said she loved me, but I remember she wanted us to stay together. And I was getting off on a female desiring me so much, so I stayed with her when I should have bolted. Her cheating did affect me though, and I went to work the next day, asking her John to be a man and step back. I confirmed that I wasn’t after his kid, didn’t want to be some baby’s daddy, and to just chill while I see if this thing was going anywhere. Meanwhile, Lewis was now with someone else and looking at me like a fool for getting involved as he had. After thinking and telling him he was a fool for getting with Lori, now I was in his place and he was calling me an idiot.

What we won’t do…

Near the end of the summer, Lori told me she was going on a religious retreat. Her parents were Baptist, so I didn’t see anything weird about them trying to straighten out their slutty daughter. She told me she’d be gone for three weeks. But I got suspicious after a month went by with no word, and her parents were obviously covering for her. But I still believed she was my girlfriend that cared for me and was on retreat, no matter how funny things were getting.

Two more weeks went by before Lewis called to chastise me for being such an idiot over a girl who was nothing more than a whore. When I asked what he was talking about, he told me he’d seen my “girlfriend” with her baby’s daddy. She’d been with him all the time and both were talking shit about me and how stupid I was for believing she was on retreat. I was devastated. Despite only being with her for the sex - that wasn’t happening - somewhere I developed feelings for her. Or, maybe I was just insulted that I was rejected like some loser that wouldn’t go away. But I never forgot the lesson I learned: Women lie, and men will lie for them.

…End of Digression.

So, even though she told me she wasn’t attracted to Actor, I still wondered if they were seeing each other, talking about me, or fucking and Actor wasn’t giving me the information. And again: Fuck you, Actor, if you held out on me.

Time passed slowly at my job and possibilities began to fade. It became more apparent that JG wasn’t or couldn’t be into me, if for nothing else, because I was too short. So I just began enjoying my time with her without any one-sided sexual tension that I usually throw into my relations with the opposite sex. But, there were times when it would creep up again. JG would wear these tight shirts that ended just above her waist, giving me just a peek at her panties when she bent over or sat in her chair and I'd wonder if they were thongs - Even a pair of grandma panties can look sexy on the right woman. And when she walked away, the shirts would rise up, revealing the small of her back and had me wishing she had a tattoo. No matter how gay clothing designers may be, there's got to be a straight guy or lesbian somewhere in production who plans for that shit to happen. There were days she’d let her hair down. She has great hair. And when it’s down, you can really see her exotic features. My being black meant I couldn’t avoid looking at her rump whenever she walked away. A small waist with nice curves are hypnotizing, and I’d find myself looking in her direction minutes after she was out of view. And those days where we were the last two people in the office and she’d swear – it was like she just flashed me her tits. I’d go wide eyed and I’d hear her voice in my head saying, “Fuck” or Bullshit” in a continuous loop.

JG was hot. Real hot. The kind of woman that makes a married man pray his wife would cheat just so he’d have an excuse to pursue his infatuation.

And then it was time for her to go.

The closest I ever came to chasing one possibility was finally succumbing to one of her invitations. She’d heard Actor and I in the car one day laughing it up and asked us out for burgers and beer. I backed out originally, but curiosity – and lust – got the better of me and I accepted. But, as luck would have it, she bailed because of family commitments.

On her last day at the hospital, everyone made a big deal about her departure. Rightfully so, she was cool and a great employee who did her job better than her predecessor. But, I didn’t go to any parties. That’s just not my thing. So, before she left, we were in the office, alone, just as usual. We said our goodbyes, and I tried to say something emotional without slipping into something romantic.

Final Digression…

Automatic –

95% of all my relations with women have been romantic. I’ve never had a real female friend. So I have no knowledge of how to be a woman’s friend without being intimate. Being platonic doesn’t come easy for me, I’ve had to work at it and I succeed by just avoiding female friends at all costs. And for that reason, I believed men and women couldn’t be friends without sexual attraction getting in the way. Even if there were none, sex would find a way to creep in. Either, because there’s a mutual attraction, or because the woman’s drunk, horny, or depressed and there’s no one else around.

I often figured meeting the woman of my dreams would happen like in When Harry Met Sally. We’d become friends, she see through the bullshit, fall in love with the real me and we’d live happily ever after. So, if a woman liked me as a friend, that immediately made her a target. I would find a way to convert her fondness into something more. Ironically, my wife and I were never friends until after we moved in together. I think it fair to write that we may not have even liked one another for a while. Our friendship appeared out of the blue. I woke up one day and realized she is the closest friend I have. And that’s the way it should be.

After years of marriage, you’d think I could have female friends, but I still find myself slipping into autopilot. When trying to converse, I have to put forth effort not to be overtly sexual and flirtatious. I have to try not to butter them up or ask them out on a “friendly date.” If I’m writing a letter, I have to try not to be poetic. And God help me if we’re chatting through IM’s because that just goes immediately into cyber. The last time that happened, I had some fat housewife asking me to visit her in San Fran and my wife cancelled our AOL subscription.

Maybe it has to do with generations and how they’ve changed. My wife and I are only three years apart, but she has this knack for separating sex from gender when it comes to friendships. She can be with the best looking guy, but if he’s only a friend, then that’s it. I don’t have that skill, and to avoid danger I have no female friends. But, with JG, I’d really like to try.

I sent her an email today, just to shoot the shit and let her know what’s up. And I felt myself wanting to slip back into form. It had nothing to do with her; it was reflex. I sat in my chair, wondering what I should write and all these flowery words and synonyms came to mind. Then, I wrote that I missed her and how the office was boring without her, and it felt like that wasn’t enough. Like I should write more. But, there wasn’t anymore. That was it. “I miss you.” That’s enough. But, my brain kept pushing for something else. Something romantic and emotional. Something that would woo her or make her feel good in a way I shouldn’t.

That’s when I realized I had a problem.

I’m JPG, and I’m addicted to romance.

…End of Digression.

When we said goodbye, I wanted to hug her, but feared it was too much physical contact. That, or I could pop a woody – that would be my luck, the only woman to give me an erection in eleven years, she’s not attracted to me, and she’s leaving. I stuck out my hand for her to shake. She took it, and we shared a half-hug. She walked out with me looking at her with puppy eyes, even though I tried not to. Despite my physical attraction, she’s a good girl. I smart woman. Someone who’ll really make something of herself and help a lot of people. She made my job easier every day she was around and I’ll miss that. When she left, I remembered when my wife and I had broken up our first year. She’d started walking to her home and I’d gotten in my dad’s blazer, started the motor, was backing up and I looked to see my then girlfriend standing on the curb. She was looking at me and crying. I stopped the car and went to her. We hugged and made up right there and screwed in the back of the blazer.

As JG left, I thought I saw this look in her eyes, like she was really sad to go, and maybe she was really going to miss me. When the door closed, I wondered if she’d come back weepy eyed and grab me for an embrace. No, she wouldn’t declare her “feelings” for me – but wouldn’t that have been cool. But, she’d be really sad to not have me around.

Then the door opened. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe this was happening. What would I do? What if she tries to kiss me? What if she wants to get busy right there in the office? I’m married. I have a wife. Would I sacrifice my life for one hot chick?

Or, could I get laid at the office and use those pheromones to lay my wife later that night?

Her footsteps came closer to my cubicle. I was ready. I knew what I would do. And then…

She opened the door to the mini-fridge, grabbed her half-eaten lamb burger, said goodbye and left.

Ah, the possibilities…

So, it’s been a week (I started writing this the day she left, and now I’m finishing a week and one day later – boy, you should read the unedited version) and this place is deader than shit. It’s retuned to the same way it was before, and in some ways it’s cool. Know It All and I seem to talk more now that JG is gone – and that’s not a good thing. I was welcomed back to the fold, covering the program I started with and left, until they can find JG’s replacement. I keep showing up for work thinking she’ll be here, but her desk is empty. And I stay late wondering why I’m here now that she’s gone. I could leave, but I stay anyway – must take those dick pics.

I sit at my desk, trying to remember her voice, her face, and the images are already starting to fade. Getting older is like a bitch that keeps taking your shit. I wonder where she is, what she’s doing. Sometimes, I wonder if she misses me, or thinks about that cool guy at her job. Maybe I was the ugly fat guy who was so obviously attracted to her, but never said it. Or, the disgusting married guy who should be ashamed for flirting with a coworker while his wife takes care of his two kids – fucking nigger! Was I the letch she was forced to talk to, who wouldn’t let up and almost had her file a sexual harassment claim? Perhaps I was the pathetic guy who couldn’t write for shit and thought he was cool?

Either would work for me, because at least I made an impression.

And for me, when it comes to women, you take what you can get.

The possibilities never cease.

JPG.

THOUGHT BYTES FOR 2005 (Pt. 5)

2005-06-27T14:29:00.000-07:00

Still Coming Back from the Dead –

I’m still recovering from months of deep depression. It’s difficult not to slip back into it, but having too much on my plate is helping to keep my demons down for the moment.

I’m enjoying a run of good luck right now, and even though there are the occasional “catches” that go along with any good thing, overall I’m pleased with what’s dropped into my lap.

In comparison with my other bouts, this was rather short, but feels like it lasted much longer than it did. I feel like I’ve been asleep for months and just getting by on winks and nods. Now that I’m awake, I feel so far behind in my work and I’m anxious to catch up to everything, including my blog site.

But, I’m happy that no matter how bad, Immortal Coils was never left unattended. The penciler, Carlos Rafael, is working on the last chapter and doing some incredible stuff for the book’s climax. These scenes are crucial because it’s all pay-off. While there’s action throughout the story, there’s a lot of character development that goes along with it. I’m a big finisher in my stories. I love big endings with a lot of explosions and action. The ending is so important because it’s what most people remember. You can have a great movie that moves everyone, but if the ending sucks, then that’s all they remember. But, if you have a terrible movie with a great ending, then you’ve got a blockbuster on your hands.

I went to see SW: Episode Three finally, and I wasn’t that impressed. Everything leading up to the third act was okay. I thought the pacing was a little off, moving way to fast to properly explain the character motivations, but it still kept me intrigued to see how things would develop. Everything was great until the film’s climax where Yoda and Palpatine square off as Obi Wan and Anakin confront each other. What bothered me, after setting up such a deep emotional catalyst for the events that lea dup to the climax, the fighting ended up being emotionless. In the end, you just have characters swinging lightsabers around. While the fighting style is remarkable, it’s without substance, and that leads to my opinion that, while Episode Three was flashier, the fight between Luke and Vader in both Episodes Five and Six were far superior. They were slower, less action packed, but fueled by emotion that gave them power far beyond the choreography.

And, ending the movie on such a mediocre note… There could have been so much more to it than what Lucas gave us. In Batman Begins, you have an ending that isn’t action packed, the tempo is slower, and it’s all building up to a sequel, but leaves you on a high. You leave the movie on an upbeat instead of just feeling blah about the whole thing.

Immortal Coils ends with a huge action sequence and alludes to more books to come. Hopefully, readers will like it and there will be more books. But I felt it important that if they didn’t and there weren’t anymore, that I give them an eye full before I said my goodbyes and thank you’s. The more final pages roll in, the less nervous I’m becoming about the whole thing. Carlos is putting a lot into these pages, and through them I can see my story coming to life. There is a story. That was one of my biggest concerns, whether I had an actual story or not. I was afraid that, because I wrote the characters with a pre-existing history, it felt too incomplete. It’s important the reader know these characters have a history. They weren’t just born on page one, they’ve been around for years. Things that have happened in their lives we know nothing about. Every character has a story with a beginning, middle, and end; we’re seeing Lazarus, Verus, and The Speaker in the middle of their stories. If I’ve done my job, people will want to know more. They’ll want to know the beginnings, endings, and all the crap in-between.

Something Unnatural –

I bought a rap cd for the first time in five years.

I’m not sure why I did it; I was having a bad day Saturday. My son woke me up screaming for his mother who was doing dishes and I was pissed that she’d let him scream like that while I’m trying to sleep (I always fall asleep in front of the television on weekends). I was cranky and spat out: “Will someone stop him from crying!”

My wife yelled back: “Why don’t you do it?”

That pretty much got us off on the wrong foot. The rest of the day, until I left that evening for an engagement, everyone was mad at somebody. My wife and I were mad at each other. My daughter was mad at her mother. And my son was mad at the remote control that continuosly escapes his grasp. I was getting annoyed with my daughter who insisted on carrying around a wad of paper from a Toys R Us catalogue. I kept looking at it like it, waiting for my daughter to ask for something and the anticipation was killing me. My daughter is at an age where she asks for everything with no concern about earning it. She just wants it, and she wants it now. We’re trying to teach her the importance of earning things, but sometimes we’re just fed up with her always saying: “I want…”

I hate being mad at my wife. I hate being mad at my kids when I’m not really mad at them, but transferring my anger onto them. It’s happened to me on countless occasions and I won’t repeat the cycle. I knew I needed something to get me out of the funk I was in, something I could buy. So I went to Circuit City without even telling my wife where I was going. She followed with my son in her arms asking: “Where are you going?” I was giving attitude by not answering, but I made sure she followed. Inside, I looked around, but knew I wanted some music. I saw The Game’s debut cd Documentary and grabbed it. I also picked up Maroon 5’s cd, Songs About Jane.

I knew I would like Maroon 5 because I loved the singles I’d seen and heard on MTV. Four out of twelve is pretty good odds, so I felt confident about buying the cd instead of waiting to get it burned. But I wasn’t sure about The Game. I’m not into rap, no matter how MTV inundates me with it via their several channels. I especially haven’t been into gangsta rap since high school and a brief stint in 2000 when I bought several Wu-Tang and Ice T releases. But, something about this caught my eye, and my ear, and I was feeling especially niggarish that day. Thirty dollars for two cd’s – I felt raped. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve bought music. $13.99 is better than the $20 it used to cost for a cd, but it’s still too much when you used to paying $9.99 for music that’s already out of date. I didn’t buy Timberlake’s Justified until everyone had gotten over it. Now, I get looks like: “YOU bought Justin Timberlake?” But a year ago, no one would have bat an eye.

So, I get in the car and pop in the cd. It was good. REAL good. I played it all night as I drove from LA to Highland Park and back again. I even made my friend, The Actor, listen to it. He doesn’t like rap, and I’d turn it off normally, but this time I forced him to listen. It was that good. What really felt good was feeling black for the first time in a while. Even though I’ve never set foot in Compton, I was bobbing my head to bass and throwing up Westside finger signs behind tinted windows, smoking Marlboro’s new miniature cigarettes, pretending they were Black and Milds. I listened to The Game’s lyrics wondering how much was bullshit, but I’d wager very little is fiction.

There are times I wish I’d gone into rap. Some of my very first writing adventures were creating rap songs about my classmates in Orange County. I was the only black kid in the whole of St. Hedwig’s student body. When Crush Groove and Beat Street came out, all eyes turned to me for a taste of the “urban underbelly of LA” these kids had never seen. I remember writing a rap song about my class, going student to student, and it was so well liked they used it during a presentation that I missed on purpose because I was too embarrassed to go on stage. Then, like now, I feared it would suck and no one would like it. Better I just ditch than face that kind of embarrassment. But, the kids told me how successful it was, and the teacher was happy, but disappointed that I failed to attend. I hate when teachers give you that smile, but their eyes are meaner than shit. You think they’re mad, but you’re not sure; you feel like you’re on thin ice for the entire day after that.

Writing rap songs turned to poetry and love stories when I found they were more attractive to females. And, when I moved back to LA, I left the hip-hop scene all together to spite my “brothas & sistas” who’d turned on me; calling me an Oreo because I liked denim jackets, K-Swiss sneakers, and said: “Awesome, dude.” But every now and again, I get the feeling back and wonder if I could have done it. It’s the same feeling I get when I listen to rock music and fantasize about being a musician.

I’m on my way to work and pop in the Maroon 5 cd. Wow, that was really good and I’m happy I didn’t wait for the burn. I noticed a cool fusion of R&B, Jazz, and Blues with Pop Rock that was infectious. Before long, I was mouthing inaudible lyrics, pretending to be their lead singer and filling my head with situations where I would astonish people with my gifts. Several times I’ve thought about taking up guitar lessons, but it never goes anywhere. Then, I thought about writing music, but that subsided thanks to the negative or unimpressed responses I’ve gotten from friends I know who play instruments and claim to love music. The last time I was bitten with this impulse, my wife and I were heavily into Korn, Rage Against the Machine, Deftones, etc. and I found myself surrounded by musicians. The Actor plays guitar and drums. Bloody Pencil plays bass. And the two of them knew other musicians who could fill out a band. I could write the music and maybe, if I took some voice lessons, I could sing. I’m not a bad singer. I’ve sarinated my wife on occasion while listening to Phantom of the Opera. And, I’ve successfully sung my children to sleep when momma’s touch didn’t do the trick. So, I’m not bad and it’s not unreal to think I could be a singer. I dreamed of being on stage and letting the music take me, not a care in the world, just swimming in currents of deep bass and electric guitar riffs with sprinkles of snare drums and symbols. But when I told my little group about my dream, they laughed. They began pouncing all over my dream, my love for what we now call “modern rock”, unknowingly trashing my own musical preferences in the process.

One thing I learned from that experience is not to listen to the “do-nothings.” Those people who talk a lot of crap about how other people suck at things, but they don’t exercise their gifts at all. Like myself, I have my opinions about writers, but I always pay respect to them because they’ve done what I have yet to do. And, maybe that I’m working towards that goal give me some leeway, but not much. Not until I accomplish something. But there are others who have tremendous gifts, do nothing with them, and feel they can trash someone else’s success. Like, Actor hates David Koepp, thinking he’s a hack writer, and yet Actor hasn’t sold one script while Koepp’s name is attached to some of the biggest blockbusters in the last five years. So, here I was, saying I liked Korn, surround by “critics” who thought they sucked based on what? Their vast experiences in the music business, or years on the stage? No, solely on what they liked and what they thought was good music; a love of bands that either no longer existed or travel the circuit playing small bars for the Star 98.7 crowd. And that’s cool, I’m into old groups and 80’s music, but I don’t let that love blind me to the new things going on today. One cool thing about music and art is its immortality and longevity. Not just through reproduction, but in how it inspires the next generation. When I finally heard Metallica, I loved them. But, to this day, I’m marked as someone who likes “new” Metallica and not the original Metallica. And why? Because they cut their hair, or claims they’ve slowed down over the years? Isn’t it enough they’re still around and retain their popularity amidst a generation garage trios from Bakersfield?

Anyway, the experience taught me a lesson about being too critical when it comes to celebrities and other things. I may not like what they do, and I have my thoughts and opinions, but at the end I have respect for what they’ve done. And that’s more than a lot of other people who think just because a band has a number in their name they suck. Who’d a thought Jackson 5 and U2 could fool so many for so long.

Buried Alive –

Four projects.

Four stories.

Four scripts.

How did I go from having no direction to having too much to get done in too little time? I have four stories; all ripe with potential, but only two are closest to being published, so I should focus on those two, but my heart is not really in them.

One is a screenplay: I had this idea one day that I shared with Actor, thinking that he’d stomp it like a lot of ideas I pass his way. But this time, he ate it up. His enthusiasm was infectious and I began thinking more and more about it, asking if he would help me co-write the screenplay. From there, things started to happen. Actor has people lined up to look at the script and the idea alone has raised some eyebrows. I swear, if I could make serious money just coming up with ideas, I would. I know there are people who do just that, but getting those jobs are harder than shit. I’m still trying to attain my Valhalla of working graveyard shift.

So, I have this script to write, but the only time I ever feel like working on it is when I’m with Actor. And, since he’s always gone on a vacation or movie shoot, I’m left alone to push and pull myself from beginning to end on the script. But, when we are together, we crank, and that’s cool. Writing a screenplay is hard. Writing a slasher movie screenplay is fucking murder. How hard is it to write about a guy who goes around slashing people to bits? Not hard at all. But, if you want to do it well, it’s a motherfucker. The one thing that keeps becoming increasingly difficult is staying focused on the premise and not getting lost in the body count. It’s easy to get so into the 187 of it all that you lose site of the concept. Keeping everything together is what I’m trying to do, and it’s very difficult.

The other project is a comic book. I can never go too long without doing a comic story. It’s a reflex; first I see an idea as a movie, then a comic. So, an opportunity arose where I could get a publisher to look at a pitch by going through a friend. There are drawbacks, but they’re minimal and I pushed forward. This story is a science fiction story, my first. It’s not just some hokey comic concept, this is as based on science fact as you can get without losing imagination and I feel strongly that it’s worthy of novelization. But, when I try to write it, I come up blank. I see an end result in my head, what I want and where I’m going, but how I get there is troubling. This, compiled by misunderstandings on the business end, has taken away my interest in the story.

Meanwhile, the other two are all thought out. One is in plot outline and ready to go. The other I’m plotting now and I’m really excited about doing. But, neither one has a bite. Neither one is gaining interest.

Life’s an unfunny bitch with ass-backwards humor.

But, I’m counting my blessings. I could have nothing going on right now, other than my own stuff with no interested parties. Instead, I have two out of four with good chances at going somewhere. Now, if I could just get some interest in to the other two, I could do some serious damage in the next year.

Repeated Exhaustion –

People make mistakes, and it’s more likely they’ll repeat them several times before they learn otherwise. For instance: I have a bad habit of asking the wrong people for advice. And, even though I tell myself I’ll never do it again, I always do because I think this time will be different.

But it’s never different. Seldom are things ever different from anything else. Things repeat themselves because we continue to involve ourselves with the same people. And, if reincarnation is real, then those associations are eternal. Meaning, those same mistakes are doomed to repeat themselves in a continuous “Do Unto Others” loop for eternity.

Sometimes, having people in your life is too complicated and not worth whatever happiness they bring.

JPG.

BEGINNINGS

2005-06-16T15:19:00.000-07:00

As much as I love movies now, many of my friends would find it hard to believe that my fascination with cinema began later than most. The first movie I ever saw was Grease back in 1978 at a drive-in with my mother and brother. Seeing that movie when I was six had lingering repercussions, so I never really was interested in them afterwards. Unfortunately, I missed out on a lot of movies that made a great deal to my generation and others. Films responsible for laying the foundations for so many writers and directors I admire today. I would catch the occasional “event”, like Popeye in 1980, and American Werewolf in London in 1981, back when an adult could still take his kid to a rated R movie. And I did see Superman 2 in 1980 and Return of the Jedi in 1983. But, it wasn’t until the summer of 1984 that things changed. I saw two movies that summer, which was unusual for me. They were Gremlins and the unforgettable Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

Temple of Doom blew me away. I’d never experienced anything like it, where I completely gave myself over and invested in a character; it had never happened to me before. What really connected was the possibility that I could be Indiana Jones someday. I had no shot at being a Jedi or a Superman. But an archeologist? That was doable. The thought laid a foundation for several fallacies I would entertain until I turned eighteen. I thought all archeologists had adventures like that, and maybe studying hard in school was worth it, if you get to travel, carry a gun, and win the sexy blonde with the big boobs. To this day, I think Kate Capshaw is one of the sexiest women in Hollywood. After Temple, I went to every movie I could, looking to relive that experience, but most came up short. I was looking for that virgin high. I’d sit in the front row, a little boy in front of a huge screen, waiting to be engulfed in high adventure. That’s when I experienced another element of incredible filmmaking, the ability to make you feel and identify with a character so you’re not just watching them, you become them.

Back to the Future was released in the summer of 1985 starring Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd, but to me they will forever be known as Marty McFly and Doc Brown. That summer, my mother and I were living in Orange County after spending several years in Hawthorne. Despite our good fortune, things were rough. My mother was a compulsive shopper who infested fancy malls and expensive stores every weekend, but still found the time to harass my father, accusing him of not paying child support, and sending him to court for what seemed like forever. His reaction was to disappear, leaving me without a father. Except on Christmas and my birthdays, when I’d go for a visit and come back fully loaded with a wish list of toys. The gap made it possible for my mother to fill my head with horror stories about him that lasted for years and made my time living with him unbearable for both of us. Luckily, I’ve come to understand his decision, as dealing with her as an adult has proven that the heart grows fonder with distance. I also learned my parents were never married. Believe it or not, this can be traumatic for a child. Especially, after he learns the definition of a bastard. So, when I went to see Back to the Future, instead do being amazed by the adventure, I connected with Marty emotionally. I knew what it felt like to be stuck in an disfunctional and unbearable family dynamic. I wished I had a Doc Brown who built a time machine so I could go back to whenever and change things. I would befriend my father and help him court my mother so they’d fall in love and get married. The end result would be a loving family where my siblings and I were actually related, instead of step-this and half-that. Marty McFly shared my fears of failure, because I was having a hard time in school. And what we didn’t share, I aspired towards, like Marty's courage. To know you're the underdog and still jump in swinging. At the end, when the Delorian flew at the screen and the To Be Continued came up, I was ecstatic. I wanted more. I wanted to know what happened next. Because, somehow, I felt we were alike, and if he could make it, so could I. If he found love, so would I. If he fixed his family life, then perhaps I could to.

That time traveling fantasy stayed with me… for twenty years! I still fantasize about it, although it’s gone through several changes as I’ve grown older. But it’s still there. And Back to the Future has remained my #1 favorite movie all this time. #2 would be The Crow, followed by the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Top Gun , and The Matrix, in no specific order. Once I get past #3, the importance of which movie I like more begins to wane and it just becomes a blur of films I like and could watch over and over again.

But last night, Back to the Future went head-to-head with Batman Begins , and lost.

Despite being a comic book fan, my love of Batman has come and gone over the years, just as the character’s appeal has risen and fallen with various creative teams and publishing agendas. Same for Spider-Man; I’ve always liked him, but my favorite he isn't. But, if something big happens, you can bet I’ll be there to see what’s going on. Batman is like that for me. Until 1989, my most dominant memories of the character were from the television show. I knew there was a difference between that and the comics, but I just couldn’t take him seriously. Maybe being a “Marvel-head” was part of the reason. Marvel always felt so new and up to date, where DC was always campy and goody-goody. But in 1989, I went batty just like everyone else.

I saw Batman at the Hollywood Mann Chinese at 1am. I was with a few friends, and we went early that afternoon, trekking to Hollywood. I was there to see Batman; the others were more into going to Hollywood because it’s Hollywood. All the tickets for earlier shows were gone, except for 1am, so I took it. We walked around all day, even got picked for as members of a studio audience for a pilot. When the sun went down and midnight came closer, we waited in a line that stretched around the block. Finally, we were let in and the first thing we saw was the bat emblem beaming on the screen curtains like the signal light. Everyone screamed, and I was lost in the excitement. I’m one of the few comic fans who like Tim Burton’s adaptation of the character, but what made that moment and the movie so great was the experience. The people dressed in Batman and Joker outfits. Everyone was wearing a Batman t-shirt. People were standing in line, reading graphic novels and playing with Batman action figures. I’d never seen anything like that before. And when the movie started, the cheering was so loud it was hard to hear the movie. I’ve tried to relive the experience since, just like with Temple of Doom, but nothing ever came close. Not even the sequels, and they got progressively worse.

The movie did what DC probably hoped it would do. It changed people’s mind about the character. I didn’t become a die-hard fan, but I did buy the comics for the first time. If not for the movie, I would never have read Son of the Demon, Arkham Asylum, Batman: Year One, and The Killing Joke. But my fandom remained closely tied to the movies. Something I’ve noticed with others to. There was one coworker I had who was a Superman nut, but only from the movies. No matter how hard I tried to tell him there was little difference between them, he was adamant about only liking Christopher Reeve’s Superman. That seemed stupid at the time, but then I was aware I’m the same way. I am more interested in Superman and Batman from the movies than the comics. And as the comics became more like the movies, I began liking the characters more, but still never bought thir books on the consistent basis.

This is important because I want you to understand that I’m not some Batman freak who loves anything with a silhouetted bat on it. My wife is though. So, when I write that Batman Begins is one of the best comic book movies ever made, I want you to know it’s a sincere and objective opinion. I would go so far to write that you could put it side-by-side with Superman and have them share the #1 favorite movie spot in the hearts of comic fandom.

What makes Begins so great is it follows the same rule Richard Donner did: Verisimilitude. You walk out believing that a mulbillionaire would dress like a bat and risk his life to save others. More important, why he would dress like a bat of all things, instead of just going around like Charles Bronson in Death Wish. What this movie accomplished, that none of its predecessors even attempted, was it made you feel for the characters. You feel for Gordon, the only good cop in a bad city. You feel for Bruce Wayne, so driven by anger and guilt that he tries to understand it by becoming what he hates and fears. You even feel for Alfred. Yes, Alfred. Normally just a bit player in the Batman world, Alfred steps up in this movie, and it’s about time. I just recently asked myself why would a person like Alfred stay with Bruce for so long? This movie explains it beautifully. And like Alfred, you want to stick with Bruce to the very end. When Bruce asks: “You still haven’t given up on me, Alfred?” You can feel yourself mouthing the words as Alfred replies: “Never.” Batman isn't just one man, he's a joining of Alfred, Bruce and Thomas Wayne. He's an avatar made of their hopes, dreams, courage, and determination to make Gotham a better place. A perfect place.

This movie probably affected me so because I wasn’t around for Superman. I missed it. And when Superman 2 came out, it was amazing, but it wasn’t the same. Even watching it on television, I was too young to care. I didn’t get into comics until I was in my teens. Before then, I had a life: books, movies, and television were just distractions getting in the way of riding my bike or rolling down a hill for no reason. It wasn’t until high school that I had time to sit and watch in amazement. Most fans of Superman remember seeing it in a theater. My first time was laying on my bed, watching channel 13 play both movies back-to-back on a Saturday night. So, Batman Begins is my Superman. It was my first time seeing someone take a fictional character and make them live and breathe in the everyday world. For the first time, I understand the character and why he exists. It’s not just some explanation spat out on the way to the next action scene. I could feel the emotion and will power behind it. I understand the character now. Not as he is in the comics or the cartoons, but perhaps as Bob Kane saw him and always intended him to be. The "criminals are a supersticious and cowardly lot" was always a little thin for me when it came to why Bruce chooses the bat totem. No matter how supersticious someone is, it never made sense why someone would fear a bat. Especially, one that was obviously a guy in a suit. But Nolon and Goyer finally explain it. It's not about what Batman looks like, but how he operates. It's about making the criminals afraid. Making them fear what they normally wouldn't. Batman attacks like Michael Myers, picking away at criminals from the shadows. Breaking down their confidence and sense of what's real until he finally pounces on them with martial skill.

One of the coolest things about the movie was the touch of nostalgia by using almost the same plot structure as the first movie. But, where Tim went right, Nolon and Goyer go left and around the block. The most important change was letting go the idea that Bruce has to be mentally damaged or quirky to dress in a bat suit and fight crime. The incarnations of heroes are always representative of whatever generation is in the spotlight. In 1989, we were all fucked up and so were our heroes. In 2005, we’re a little smarter. A little stronger. I even sense that we believe in ourselves a bit more now than we did then. We believe the impossible can be achieved. We survived the new millennia. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere (any time soon). And ss our belief in higher powers fade, our self-confidence is increasing. All of these things are personified in Bale’s Bruce Wayne. Our, or perhaps I should write, YOUR Bruce Wayne; YOUR Batman. He’s not a man pushed so far he cracks and it just happens to work out for the good. He’s a man who conquers his fears. He's dedicated to making a difference in the world one life at a time, not because he's angry or driven by guilt, but because he actually gives a damn. And though these elements have been present over the years in books and television, it sometimes gets hard to see through the haze of seasonal crossover events. But for two hours and fourteen minutes, you get pure Batman shot in your veins.

Back to the Future spoke to me. It made my dream of changing my life something I could see somewhere other than in my head. And, it will always be special to me. But, as that was true for the boy, now I’m a man. Yeah, I’m a man. I tried to avoid it, but failed miserably. And as such, I fail all the time. My fear of failure has never left me, it only grew to include my family. Now, I’m not just afraid that I'll fail myself, but I fear I’ll let them down. What Future did for me as a child, Batman Begins connects with me as a father and a husband. From the moment I heard Thomas Wayne tell his son: “Why do we fall, Bruce? So, we learn how to pick ourselves up.” From that moment, it had me. But, when Bruce, as Batman, says: "It's not who I am on the inside, but what I do that defines me." That was the sinker. I thought, not just of myself, but my father. I thought about how, no matter who my dad may be inside, and it's not pretty, his actions have always defined him. He's a good man who tries his best to do the right thing. And no matter how I might think of myself, my actions are what will matter to my wife and kids. Someone who strives every day to better himself. Someone who never gives up, no matter how bleek things looked.

If your in LA, and going to see Batman Begins, look for a fat guy who’s way too excited, wearing a Batman t-shirt, reading the movie novel, and probably slurping a coke from some promotional cup from a fast food restaurant, that’ll be me.

JPG.

TURNING ON A DIME PT. 2

2005-06-13T16:04:00.000-07:00

And, just like that, things can change…

Last Friday, life was good.

Today, it sucks royally, but I’m not sad.

Annoyed.
Pissed.
Rudely awakened to a life that’s nothing more than God’s little comedy.

But, I’m not sad.

Saturday was a really good day. My family and I went to the supermarket and had a lot of fun. Seriously. Shopping for groceries can be fun sometimes, especially when the whole family is there and I’m looking for ways to amuse myself as my wife takes ten minutes to decide if we really need two rolls of paper towels for 5$ or can we get buy with just one at regular price. My daughter and I sing songs and play games, until my little boy wakes up, and then it’s off to the races. My wife and I switch places; I take the stroller reigns and speed walk around the store to keep him quiet. Then, we went to get the family van washed. The mundane can become terribly exciting when looking through the eyes of a child. My daughter was fascinated by the car wash, and quickly made reference to the Whale Wash in Shark’s Tale. My daughter stared at the attendant who added the finishing touches, as my wife and I had a moment to talk like we used to. Not about kids or bills, but getting to know you type stuff that usually occurs on a first dates. Back in the car, I was hit by the compulsion to keep driving instead do heading home. The feeling of a perfect day was still fresh. The kids were in the back, smiling at me in the rear view. My wife was at my side, caressing my arm, a habit she’s never lost in the ten years we’ve been together. Damn, life was good.

I dropped them off and headed to Pasadena where I helped a friend and his new wife move some stuff into their new place. A great new place. If you’re gonna move, make it count, and they did, moving into a house with a huge front and back yard, well away from the LA crap. When I returned home, a treated myself to a pastrami burrito and fell asleep in my new chair that’s the size of a loveseat.

Then, Sunday happened.

My daughter’s teacher told us that yesterday was Kids Day, so we took our kids to the zoo. My wife was stressing out as she always did, so I calmed her down, and then my mother called, and I could feel her fishing for an invite, so I did. After a lot of set-up, we finally made it to the LA Zoo. I never really liked Zoos, and yesterday reminded me of why I don’t like Zoos. The first thing we saw was an alligator and I immediately noticed there was a large bolt laying on it’s back. Then, I saw that it was missing some claws from its two front legs. It looked pathetic. This massive reptile, just lying motionless, might as well have been dead. I watched my daughter who was fascinated to see an animal up close, and then I looked around at the older kids and teenagers who were screaming at it to do something. “Do what?” I asked myself. “What do you expect it to do? Walk from one end of it’s cage and back again, just for your amusement?” The same questions repeated themselves as we went to other exhibits and I heard more and more people screaming at the animals to do something.

We, humans, have done a lot of fucked up thing, but probably one of the worst, the top three, would be what we’ve done to animals. As always, we think we’re helping, but we’re not. What we’re doing is interrupting the natural order. We’re forcing animals that are the essence of nature, creatures so bonded with life they’re charged with it, and we’re sticking them in a cage. We call it “captivity”, but what it is, is slavery. We feed them, provide shelter, and in return we want them to perform for us. We expect these “dumb animals” to not tell the difference between their home and a cage lined with dying grass and fake rocks. I was happy that my children saw real animals, but I was sad that they had to see them like that. Better I spend thousands on an African safari. Sure, I could get my ass chewed off by a lion, but what better way to truly understand and experience wildlife than finding out why you should leave animals the fuck alone.

Going with my mother was a pain. Like most grandmothers, she has this obsession with food, and tried to feed my daughter from the moment we walk through the entrance. My daughter told her repeatedly that she wasn’t hungry, bit no one listened. And I watched as my mother spent over twenty dollars on food that my daughter had no intention on eating because she wanted to see chimpanzees. When the whole thing was over, we piled into the van and I was looking forward to another pleasant family moment as we took the streets back to LA. But, when I started the motor, I noticed the car was making a weird sound and shook harder than normal. When we dropped my mother off, she checked the engine, which was a little emasculating, that my mother knows cars better than I do. But, not so much that it felt worse than seeing a crowd of women taking particular notice of an elephant’s penis earlier that day. I thought I was at some bestial Chippendale’s, watching women stare and comment uncontrollably. They made jokes, but looked way too hard and too long.

But, she gave it a look, and in classic fashion began to grill me like I had done something wrong. She asked when I last had the fluids checked, and that was Saturday. But, then she asked if I got out of the car to watch the station attendant. When I said I hadn’t, she lectured me on how I can’t take people at their word. But I really got pissed when I Said I hadn’t done anything that a lot of people do, remaining in their cars while the attendant checks things out, and she said I was wrong. That’s when I lost it. So, I drove the kids home, pissed as all hell, with a nice day ruined. Then, when I got home, my mother called to ask why I was mad, and why I’m so quick to get angry with her. “What is this anger you have inside you? Where does it come from?” So I told her that I don’t like when she blames me for doing normal things, expecting me to go the extra mile for no reason. But she said she didn’t blame me, so I told her that if she didn’t, the way she spoke to me implied it. But, she cut me off and we started talking at the same time. I let her finish, tried to explain, and again, she did nothing wrong. So I told her that was why I get angry with her and she hung-up the phone. She wanted the answer to a question. I gave it to her, but she didn’t want to hear it. Then, why ask?

That led to this morning, when I was late for work because I took the van to a mechanic who quoted me $500 to replace a water pump. And, of course, in replacing that part, they have to replace the timing belt, thermostat, coolant, and a bunch of other stuff. No way I could ay for that, and I don’t think I should, not all of it. My mother owns the van, it’s hers, but she “gave” it to me. Now, here’s the thing: I never asked for it. She just gave it to me when gas prices were skyrocketing and she couldn’t afford gas. Now, I’m stuck with a ‘97 van that’s constantly having problems.

And, to make matters worse, Michael Jackson gets off molesting another child and I gotta listen to a certain coworker go on and on about how she knew Michael was innocent. What’s annoying is, she based this on seeing him grow up over the years. More infuriating, she ignores Michael’s fame and fortune to being factors that resulted in his acquittal. People like her are the reason I keep quiet. They go on and on about how smart they are, and then they refuse to accept the simplest logical conclusions. They think just because they know everything there is to know about their job, that they’re intelligent. Something like that goes back to school. Just because you get A’s and graduate college, the world says you’re intelligent. And just because your boss pats you on the back for being a good monkey, you believe your superior. Now, you multiply these people and stick twelve of them on a fucking jury and that’s how O.J. and Michael can commit crimes and walk away clean. The million dollar defense attorneys know this, they count on it, and it works without fail. Even now, I’m forced to listen to my coworker go on and on about how she knows Michael is crazy, but not a molester. Well, if he’s crazy, how do you know what the fuck he’s done? He’s crazy. Unpredictable. If a man 40 yrs. Old, crazy, and sleeps with children, odds are he’s a fucking pedophile. But, no he’s not, because we watched him grow up. We know him, and he’s incapable of that. Maybe the black Michael was incapable, but the crazy white version is as big a cracker as anyone and capable of any sexually perverse crime imagined.

So, that’s my day in a nutshell. The downward spiral begins anew, flushing me further down until this weekend, when I have to take my dad for dinner. Not a terrible thing, but nerve racking. Talking to my dad is like talking to God. I can never think of what to say because every topic I can think of becomes insanely stupid to mention. And the last thing I want to do is talk politics or real estate, subjects he’s well versed, because I’d only say something stupid. I’ll probably watch the news all week, just for ideas I can use.

Not everything ends smoothly, so I’ll just stop here.

JPG.

TURNING ON A DIME

2005-06-10T13:31:00.000-07:00

Just when life can totally put you in the shitter, something happens to change everything.

Anyone who’s read my last few entries knows I’ve been feeling pretty bad the last few months. But, a week ago I got some news that has me rejuvenated. I can’t mention anything here because it’s all still a gamble. When everything’s over, I could be wallowing in crap again or find myself knee deep in a new kind of shit I never anticipated. But, I’m happy just the same. And that happiness has rejuvenated me. It’s got nothing to do with my book. I’m always happy about that. No. The difference between my book and the offer I’m entertaining now, what makes one better than the other, is timing. Lazarus is moving forward, but slowly. Everything that can get in the way IS getting in the way. This new opportunity, if it works, would allow me to move faster and get the fuck out the hospital sooner. That’s why I’m so excited. Plus, it gives Laz a great push forward to have my name on another book.

My change in mood has sparked my creativity again. I’m having ideas left, right, and center. Not to mention already having some work to do. The screenplay is finally underway. All in one week, I get an offer I can’t refuse, and my screenplay partner decides it’s time to get some work done. So, we discussed the first 25% and I wrote up an outline. The colorist finished the first twenty-four pages for Laz, and with some minor changes, they’ll rock. Probably the biggest change is my penciler is almost done with the entire book. It’s been going on eight months since this whole thing began, and it’s hard to believe it’s almost over. Once I sign off on the last pages, it done. I feel like Peter Jackson on the last day of shooting Lord of the Rings, trying to hold on just a little bit longer, but knowing the end must come. But, for me, it’s about being afraid to take the next step. The closer I get to having a complete book the more nervous I’m becoming, but I’m excited to. I started this year with one book in the works. And now, if I play my cards right, I may have two. How cool is that? Usually, when I have a string of bad luck or just being depressed, it means there’s some good luck coming down the road. That, or I’ve already had some good luck and now I have to pay for it. I’m hoping all that shit I just waded through was preparing me for this moment.

My wife is still bugging me about not having seen Episode 3, and at this point I don’t really care. Sure, I’d like to see it, but now that all the hoopla has died down, I feel like I can just wait for the DVD. What I won’t wait for is Batman Begins. I’ve been looking forward to that movie since I read Chris Nolan was attached. I immediately knew it was going someplace Blade touched on, but no other comic movie had visited before. Something truly dramatic and character driven. After that, I’ll see Fantastic Four to make my daughter happy because she’s been ranting about it for days now, but I won’t like it. And that’s gotta be the hardest part of being a movie fanatic like myself, paying to see a movie you know will suck, but you do it for someone else.

Part of the reason I’m so hyped for Batman is I’m working on my own vigilante character right now. I’m way behind schedule, mostly because I’ve been too focused on finding an artist for character design work instead of writing the damn story. I’ve written down scenes in spurts, but I haven’t sat down and actually cranked on it. But all that changes real soon. One obstacle is the beginning; I have no idea how to start this damn thing. Even if I “vomit” the first draft, the beginning has me stuck. One of my most nagging problems is trying to separate the time when I write, from when I edit. I keep doing both; instead of having an idea and just rolling with it, I measure how good the idea is and hold everything back until I fix it. In this case, I had an idea on how I could begin, but it was too much like Lazarus, and I want to do the exact opposite. I hate writing two stories the exact same way. But, instead of just using it so I can move past it, I keep holding on, trying to find the perfect start and it’s not coming to me. It makes me remember one of my fave movies, Throw Momma From the Train. I love that movie. I think I saw that film before I even knew I wanted to be a writer, but even then it spoke to me: “A writer writes. Always!” And right now I can hear Billy Crystal in my head repeating over and over: “That’s the beauty of writing…perfect beginnings, perfect words.” So I can’t let go and stop trying to find that perfect beginning, the one that sets the pace for everything. I’m looking for an artist because I can’t see the characters in my head. Well, I can see them as they normally look, but this is a super hero story, I need to see them in costume. And that, I can’t do right now, so I’m trying to find someone who can help me. Boy, is that becoming a pain in the ass. The first thing that makes dealing with illustrators a major pain in the ass is they have a hard time following directions. I think that’s why a lot of them have an ego and will go off on a tangent at the drop of a hat. Telling you what you want, instead of giving you what you want. I placed an ad on Digital Webbing’s job search page, and I was very specific about what I want. I even went so far as to imply that anyone who doesn’t meet my qualifications should not even bother sending in their samples, they’ll be immediately rejected. And still, none of the illustrators that responded suit my needs in any way. Sure, they’re all great artists. But if I’m looking for an “urban graffiti hip-hop animation style” and include names like Scottie Young, Humberto Ramos, and Jason Pearson, then why are pencilers who draw like Jim Lee, John Byrne, or something way more classical answering the ad? I’ve had to go through one artist after the other looking, hoping, and praying the right one will pop-up. How hard can it be? I see graffiti artists every day. They’re everywhere: on street corners, in alleys, in hip-hop magazines, airbrushing jackets, designing t-shirts, everywhere. All I want is someone with a specific knowledge of comics and character design, why is that so hard to find?

Finding someone isn’t just the hardest part. Finding someone professional is next to impossible. I’ve had some artists who were very good and fit what I’m looking for, not a lot, but enough. I talk to them, we set things up, and then they disappear. One artist was all set to do some work, we agreed on a price and everything was go. He told me he was hyped for the work, couldn’t wait to get started, etc. He shined me on and then dropped me when something “better” came along, which usually means it paid more. Oh, don’t get me started about that. $130 for two character designs, and that wasn’t enough fucking money. Hey, I’m not complaining about comic book illustrators and sequential artists who’ve worked in the biz and have a name. I know that if you approach them, 50% of what you pay for is the name alone. The other 50% is the assurance you have that whatever you get will rock hard. I’m writing about the no-names. I'm writing about those who haven’t done dick but want $250 per illustration. For the work I needed, tattoo designs, that’s $500 on top of the $600 I gotta pay to get inked. What makes it worse is I take the time to describe my designs in detail. Granted, the artist still has work to do. He has to turn my words into something you can see, and I take into account that what I have in mind could not work. But, $125, $175, $200 for a fucking pencil drawing? I don’t give a damn how detailed it is, unless your fucking Darrow, there’s no rational for charging that much to draw a fucking angel and a demon. Especially from someone you know doesn’t have that kind of money. I met one artist, cool cat, he did some work for me and he just came right out and told me he has two sets of prices. Those for the company man and those for the guy who just need something. If he’s doing a job for a big business, then he jacks up the prices because he knows they can cover. But, there’s no way he expects some small one-man operation to have that kid of dosh. Wish all artists were like him.

So, I’m still looking. Gave up trying to deal with amateurs and now I’m going to the pros for help. If I have to pay more for the professionalism, then that’s what I’ll have to do. But, in the meantime, I have to get stepping on this story before it goes stale and someone puts it out before me. Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.

Later.

JPG.

STUCK

2005-06-01T14:56:00.000-07:00

I stare at a blank page, looking for words to appear. But nothing happens. I can hear their voices. Characters screaming for recognition. Begging me to write the first words that will become their testament. But my pencil doesn’t move.

That’s how it’s been for the last few days. Nothing. A reflection of how I feel inside. A couple of weeks ago, I became uncomfortably secure knowing, or believing, that depression is my natural state of being, and happiness was something I didn’t experience all that often. And I liked it. I could feel it building walls around me, becoming my sanctuary. It’s not a bad way to be, it’s actually quite soothing. In essence, you’re dead. Nothing really affects you. Nothing gets through; you just go about your day with life’s volume turned all the way down. You spend hours staring at a computer or television. You kill time playing video games where you kill people. Or you go for a walk and watch everyone else living life. You’re the invisible man, walking between the cracks in other people’s awareness. That’s the scary thing, actually. You begin to notice just how little people pay attention to things, especially other people. You begin understanding how serial killers find their victims. How someone could kill their entire family and no one notice, not even when the carcasses stink up the entire neighborhood in the middle of a summer heat wave. How little people care. And that ignorance and lack of compassion fuels you to continue diving deeper in inside yourself until you’re so far gone you can’t find your way back.

Of course, the one problem with this is having a family. It’s hard to die or be sad about anything when a five year old is jumping on you because she wants to play house or something. And your wife, she sees you, sits next to you, puts her head on your shoulder, and give you that look that makes you feel like a God among men. She’s the only one who can make you feel that way, like you’re not a slug sizzling under a mound of salt. It’s hard to hate yourself when you’re surrounded by love. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long, and soon enough you’re right back where you belong. At work, and in hell. Where no one gives a damn and you can wallow in peace.

Everyone has a dream, but few have the strength and determination to follow it. Those that do may never achieve their goals, because the chase is more exciting than the achievement. It’s taken ten years for me to get here. Ten years of fears and self-doubts. Ten years of screaming, crying, and disappointment. But after ten long years, I’m finally within arms length of publishing my first book. And I’m not so happy about it. Because, once it’s over, what’s next? Where do I go from here? Oh yes, write another book. Easier said than done. And where will I get the money to produce another book? I can’t go to my father with my hand out again. And for all I know, I’m probably exhausting whatever inheritance I may have had. The more I move forward, the more I look back at those four boys who all would go their separate ways. I remember how we came together, first as Gothic Studios and then as DMS. I remember the first year after I got married, I had no job and working temp was so consistent that I could take a week off between assignments. I was making more money than I had previously, and every new job upped the ante. My wife was working late afternoon to evenings, so I had all day to hang with my other unemployed friend, The Actor. We’d hang out at his place, watching television and talking about our big plan in comics that would make us rich. At the time, Actor was an illustrator and we were working together in Gothic Studios. He had a vampire story and I worked with Bloody Pencil, another member of the studio. We would all meet on Saturdays, but during the week, when the others were working, Actor and I would drive around LA or just chill, talk, and dream. I miss that time. I miss the time I had just a couple of years ago, when I worked in the clinic as a Scheduler. All I did was answer phones and schedule patients. I came in a 7:30am and left at 4pm, and I loved it. But, I didn’t know it at the time.

How did I end up here? Well, in hindsight, it’s pretty stupid. It’s a parable I could tell my kids one day when I’m preaching against the evils of greed, or not appreciating what you have until it’s gone. I live my life by certain rules. And the reason why I have rules is because whenever I go against them, I’m screwed. Well, one of those rules would have protected me, had I listened.

For years now, I’ve been caught in a conundrum. That being, I’m a writer trying to establish myself at a time when I have a family to support. If I were smarter, I would have established myself first, and then had a family. But as my GPA and poor grammar will prove, I’m not that smart. So, I had to work the grind, support the family, and try to make a career for myself. One rule I had that would make all this possible was simply not to get too involved in whatever work I was doing. Keep my job simple. Stick to being a peon. Sure, I wouldn’t get a lot of money, but anyone in the working world knows that longevity is a moneymaker. I could stick to doing my job, something not too complicated or stressful, and the money would flow in the long run. The point was, with less responsibility, I’d have less stress, and more ability to do what I had to, which is writing. That worked well for a number of years, until I one day I started to care. I started to care about my job. I started to car about my coworkers. I started to care whether my work was being appreciated. And, I started to care about the money. This happened around the same time my daughter was born and followed by my weight loss. I started to see myself as having value. Too much value, and it was soon afterwards that I started to complain about how things were running in the clinic. I started voicing my opinions and making suggestions to the manager. Soon, I became a blip on someone’s radar. And, when a position opened up, one that was higher in status and salary, my name was mentioned.

All I saw were dollar signs.

More money, and the possibility for even more money later on. And, something very important happened. Something I’d forgotten until yesterday, when I met with employee counselor to ask for help and I recounted the story. I’d forgotten that I had met with my old boss about the promotion, and she was selling this new job to me, about how great it would be, a “real opportunity for growth”. I remember she mentioned my writing at one point, because I’d always made it known that this was a pit stop for me, and she said she knew I was pushing to get my writing out there, but that I had to start considering something else. Basically, I had to stop fucking around with this writing bullshit and find a fucking career. And she was handing one right in my lap, no degree required. And for some insane reason, I agreed with her. I wouldn’t give up writing, but for the first time I entertained the thought of having a safety net. A second career opportunity that could payoff in two years vs. the seven or eight years I’d burnt with DMS and still had nothing to show. Sure, I wasn’t qualified. Sure, I was breaking my own rule. But I didn’t care. I’d gotten cocky. Everyone was still patting me on the back for losing all that weight, so I thought I could do anything. I was wrong. The first thing to make me uneasy was signing away my paychecks in the case I get fired. See, here, if we get laid off the hospital continues to pay us based on the number of years we’ve been employed. So, if you worked for five years and get laid off, you get five “free” paychecks. But, since this new job is funded on grant money, I had to give that up. I’m not the only one who had to do it, but I still feel stupid for giving up that safety net. I remember when I signed it; something in my gut told me I was making a mistake.

Why is it we only pay attention to that little voice after we get in trouble?

Next, I knew I was in trouble when I went to my first team meeting and had no idea what was going on. And I still don’t have a clue, because I know very little about medical terminology, and that was a requirement. One that was overlooked, so I could get in. Then, there was the training, or lack thereof. My boss held herself in such high esteem as the “master trainer”, that I felt certain I could do the job after her training courses. In fact, she told me it would happen. I would become a “Super CRA” and pharmaceutical companies would knock down my door and throw money my way. Well, if you were to string all the training days together, it wouldn’t even equal a week. My new boss left another trainee and I twiddling our thumbs, so I spent most the time writing my book. Before I was ready, or even close to ready, I was assigned protocols. Then, word starts to leak to me, about my old job being eliminated and how other more qualified applicants were overlooked. And some of them are my coworkers, and they know they’re more qualified than I am, but were told they weren’t qualified enough. The whole thing stunk and they knew it. Worse, I knew it. And my knowing that they knew made me withdrew into my cubicle for the next two years. I still don’t go outside, unless it’s to smoke. I avoid people at all cost, and since then, I’ve been plagued by paranoia on a level that even scares me. Always wondering if someone is talking behind my back, and wondering what they’re saying about me.

And that’s how I ended up here. Now, I’m stuck. It seems every time I find a way out, I’m stuck right back where I started. Right fucking here. I tried to transfer out, something that was more like my last job. But, the powers sat on their assess until new management took over. And then, that manager left, and now we have no supervision and I was ordered to assist a coworker with her protocols that are harder than the ones I had before, in a program I have no knowledge of. And no one cares. No one cares that I don’t know what I’m doing. No one cares that I’m unhappy. No one even asked me what I want to do. I’ve been trying to transfer out of this department, but the week I was to meet with my old boss, I got the stomach flu. I missed the meeting and she hasn’t written me back to reschedule, even though I’ve written her twice. Two months ago, I started applying for other jobs here, trying to get out of the division and start fresh, but no luck there. My applications haven’t moved. And the head of HR who’s looking into the delay just had a death in the family, so she’s out until next week. And who knows if any of those jobs will come through. Not to mention contending with my own fears that lightening will strike twice, and I’ll be in a situation I could have avoided by just staying put.

I wish I were back working with my father in his restaurant, doing what I hated to do, and being a host and cashier. What I really wanted was to hang in the kitchen washing dishes, so I could listen to the cook and bus boys talking shit.

I wish I were back at L. Medical Center, filing charts all day long.

I wish I were still temping, bouncing from one job to the next. It never mattered how I worked because I was never there long enough. And no one wanted to train me because it was too time consuming to put forth the effort. So, I’d get paid twelve dollars an hour to cut paper or answer phones. I was making fourteen an hour when I came to the hospital as a temp, and had to take a decrease when they hired me, all because I had a kid to support. My Daughter. She wasn’t even a year old.

I wish I were back in the clinic, answering phones and scheduling patients. At four every day, as the last of the patients rolled through, things would loosen up and we’d start having some fun, cracking jokes and having intense conversation. God, I miss that job. I never thought I would. I hated it so much when I was there. But I miss it now.

I wish…

I wish I were at home with my wife and kids. I spent two days with them, and even though I was sick with the stomach flu, it was great being there. I don’t care if I write or not, I just want to be near them.

I can wish for a lot of thing, but they won’t happen.

So to save myself that feeling of despair, I shut myself down and cut myself off. I do what I have to and interact a little, but that’s all. That’s no way to live, but it’s better than the alternative. Feeling afraid every day, in pain, regretful, angry, irritated and annoyed. The paranoia is the worst thing. Always feeling like I’m being watched or talked about. The employee counselor suggested that I might be suffering from an imbalance brought on by aging. She wants me to have a complete physical and mental check-up. Great. I go to my employee rep. looking for a solution to my crappy job and she suggests I’m crazy.

Another eight hours is about to fly by and I haven’t done a damn thing. I’m not working. I’m not writing. I just exist. Or rather, I’m trying not to exist.

So I keep staring at the blank age in front of me, holding the pencil in one hand, and moving the lead across the page haphazardly. And what came out is what you've spent the last few minutes reading, which begs me to ask if you're any more pathetic for reading this than I am for writing it. But this isn't what I want to write. It doesn't sedate the voices in my head that are screaming for release. But this is what happens when I get writer's block. It's not about having no ideas. It's about being so obbssessed with myself that I can't focus on the lives of characters I need to create. And that obssession becomes depression. And that depression is all consuming. And that is when I most feel like God.

This is my life, and I’m dying between the commercial breaks.

JPG.

THOUGHT BYTES FOR 2005 (Pt. 4)

2005-05-20T14:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve been trying to write here all week, but I’ve been too busy to actually do an entire entry on the subjects I had in mind, so here’s just a few snapshots.

ICONS

I watched Smallville on Wednesday and was on the edge of my couch for the whole 80 minutes. The ending blew me away. When Clark threw that crystal, I couldn’t wait to see the Fortress of Solitude. But then, when “To Be Continued” appeared n the screen, I screamed like I woman.

Smallville keeps sucking me in. It’s a great show, with great writing, and the development of Lex Luthor is a showstopper every week. I can’t wait for next season to see where these characters are going. I’ve read rumors that the fifth season is the last one.

As shaken as I was by Smallville’s sudden cliffhanger, the ten-minute teaser from Batman Begins that aired right after quickly silenced me. What I liked most about the movie was how they adapted, not omitted, Tim Burton’s version of the character. I’m one of those few people who liked Tim Burton’s first two movies. I think they were well done, if not for them, we wouldn’t have the Batman we see in comics today. I think the new movie doesn’t ignore those films, but enhances them. Turns the negatives into positives, like using actual locations instead of sets and treating things more seriously. But still, looking at the designs, you can see definite similarities between Burton and Nolan’s visions, and if you’re like me, and watched the first movie after the teaser, you saw you could put Batman Begins ahead of Batman and Batman Returns, and not skip a beat.

I’m looking forward to Batman Begins, and waiting in anticipation for the Smallville’s fifth season opener.

IDEA MAN

Had two ideas earlier this week, and I thought one of them was pretty original. It was a pill that could make men’s semen taste better, so women would be more inclined to give oral sex and swallow. But it turns out someone already had that idea and there’s three different versions on the market.

I haven’t tossed the idea, but I have to actually buy and try these already existing pills to see if there’s any room for improvement. But who will do the taste test?

PROJECTS

Feeling pretty damn good about the writing projects I have lined up, all for myself, still trying to break into that whacky world of professional writing, so I can quit this hell of dying kids and boring people, so I can sleep all day, work all night, and make big bucks creating fictional people who have more character than real ones.

Two are screenplays, one is a comic story, and another is a television series that I’ll hold onto for later, when I have more clout.

The screenplays are cool. One is all already to go, so all I have to do is write. The other is more difficult. It’s a horror story, a slasher film, and that’s more difficult. I can write monster horror, but slasher stories require more character, surprise, and comedic timing. Not that it’s hard, but I just have no experience doing it. And, as my luck would have it, that’s the one I have a lead on with a studio. So now I have to pump this out with my partner and try to get it done asap, beginning with a treatment. But I did jump my first hurtle yesterday. As soon as I got the news about the studio lead, I went outside for a smoke and solved the first problem I was having. I just have to solve the rest.

I’m beginning to think my smoking is linked to my writing, because I do my best work when I’m destroying my lungs.

I’m excited about the comic story, but its main character is black and that’s giving me some problems. I want to break the stereotype that white comic readers can’t identify with black characters. I don’t think that’s true. I think creators put up a race wall, excluding the white majority. It’s a tricky subject, and I don’t have the answers. I do agree with some people who purpose a character’s blackness is related to how accepted they’ll be, and there are examples to prove it. But I know how I feel when I pick up a book with a black character and I’m hit over the head with their blackness, and I’m black.

I feel strongly about contrasts between iconic characters like Batman and Superman, and those black heroes, like Black Panther and Luke Cage, who’ve become icons in their own right, but not sharing the same level of popularity. I can’t shake the feeling there’s a reason why everyone can relate to Spider-Man, but not to Luke Cage. Or how anyone can see himself or herself as Batman, or people wish they were Superman, but not Black Panther, Steel, or the new Firestorm.

I’ve gone back and forth with my character, debating if he should de black at all. Maybe the answer is making a white character with a stereotypical black background. Treat him like a black character, but make him a white guy. Then I thought to screw the whole thing and just whitewash the whole book because I felt the goal itself was stupid. No one will accept black characters like they have Superman and Batman, and who am I to change it? Just tell my story and be done with it.

But that would be the easy way out, and I’m not going that way. Anything worth doing has a road of blood, sweat and tears to get to, and I’m not going to pass up a chance to do something amazing. So, I’m back to the black, but how to make him “acceptable” without whitewashing him? How do I bring the white majority into his world, have them identify with the character, without letting his culture, which is part of his character, keep them at a distance? One possible solution I thought of, make them fascinated by it.

It’s like our love for Japanese samurai and ninja films. Hell, even the new Batman film has Bruce Wayne studying ninjitsu. The mysteries of the culture draw people inward and they want to learn more about it. I think that’s the same effect rap music has on white kids. I think it’s all about differentiating yourself from what you know in one of only two ways, positively or negatively. If you want to be a rebel, then you live in Beverly Hills and listen to 50 Cent. But if you seek acceptance, then you become obsessed with another culture that we deem “exotic”, like Japan, Italy, or Russia.

So, maybe the answer is making black culture more exciting to white readers? God, could that read any more racist and negative? But it’s true, black culture is only appealing to black people. And the white people who do care about it either hate, market, or manipulate it to piss off other white people.

Still thinking…

Meanwhile, I’m writing and crunching out the development in haste so I can move to actually writing the story. Research is cool, but you should read before you write, and that slows things down. That’s what multiple drafts are for, read as you write, then go back and add or subtract during edits.

FEMALE ANALOGY

Okay, here’s the problem with being married…

You meet someone and you think they’re the only one for you. Then you get older, you get wiser, and you realize that there’s more than one person who can meet your ideal. And these people are bumping into you in droves. They were nowhere to be found before you got married. When you were searching for the right woman, all these candidates were invisible. But now they’re all over the place and you keep meeting them. And, in a lot of ways, they’re more of a match to you than your wife.

So, what do you do?

You can’t cheat, both because you really do love your wife and would never hurt her. Or you have cheated, and learned the errors of your ways. Or better still, you have a shitload of money and you’ll be damned if you give up half to someone who didn’t do a damn thing to help you earn it. But, if you’re that loaded, you can have the affair and not get caught anyway, or the wife won’t give a damn because she’s sucking the cock of life on your dime. Fuck if she’s giving that up, even if she would get half, why take that when you have access to the whole thing? So we’ll exclude those lucky pricks, and focus on guys like myself, who love their wives, but damn if they wouldn’t fuck the hell out of the nice chick who smiled at them on the bus.

So, what should we husbands do to get through this crowd of women who we’d all like to know a lot better? Nothing. We just have to tough it out. We were stupid enough to get married in the first place, and now we have to suffer for short-term thinking.

What makes it all the harder are single people telling us how much they envy our marriages. The statement is so full of bullshit it makes me close my eyes and shake my head because nothing can describe the level of funk hitting me in the face.

Hey, I’m not unhappy, that’s a conclusion other married people use frequently instead of facing the truth. That the women we choose for ourselves are probably only 75% for us. There are a lot of other women in the world that come closer to our “match made in heaven.” I think it may be that men hate to shop. No, seriously, I think that may be why so many men end up with women who eventually aren’t quite all there and constantly bump into the bigger, better deal. Men usually just pick-up whatever they need, when they need it. I know I just look at the mannequins, and if they’re wearing something I like, I buy that outfit. I think a lot of men shop that way, very fast, and very immediate, instead of taking the time to really look for something that will last.

After a while sex becomes a biological function, more about dumping a load so you don’t become an insufferable S.O.B., instead of driven by passion, desire, or just a lusting for someone.

What married men probably find so exciting about other women is their freshness. Like the smell of a new car, instead of that old car funk that comes from too many hours of the same people being cooped up together in the same place. Old carpets that have endured shit stains, muddy boots, mashed food and spilled drinks. And after years, no amount of hand washes or turtle wax can bring back the shimmer and shine, the colors are old, faded, and the protective coating is starting to peel. And you start looking at everyone else’s car, how it looks so new. The blacks are deep, the interiors are soft, and you wonder if you’ve got good enough credit to make a trade and afford monthly payments on a new ride.

But you got to give it to that old clunker, she get you from point A to B. You trust her. She’s reliable. She doesn’t breakdown all that much anymore, because most of her stock parts have been replaced. And if you have a vintage model, well, the guys in the new Lexus are wishing they were driving your ’65 Mustang with the ragtop. You may drive her slow, but she roars when she needs to. You keep her inside, waiting for the weekend so you can take her for a ride on Saturday night. Pull into that old school diner on the strip and watch all the young guns stop and stare. They want her, but she’s all yours. She’s got miles on her, but that makes her all the more reliable. You know how she is, what she’s like, how to treat her, and what to do to keep her running. Not like the new cars, always wondering when they’ll breakdown. Most likely it’ll be when the warranty expires. And God help you if you get in an accident, those new cars will fold up on you like paper. But not your Mustang, Charger, or 1961 Lincoln. They plow through 2005 fiberglass like a wrecking ball. That vintage model is built lke a tank and will save your life more than once.

So, what’s my point? I’m not sure I have one really. I guess it’s all about time. The old cars, regardless of manufacture age, are always better than the younger models. Back when safety and durability was as big a part of making cars as aerodynamics and sex appeal.

Mine? She’s a 1975 foreign model who’s given me some problems. I’ve spent a lot on her, but she’s almost just like I want her. A classic in the making, just a couple of adjustments with just the right amount of aging and she’ll be ready for the strip.

LAZARUS

LAZARUS: Immortal Coils is coming along, the colored pages are looking good, but the colorist and I aren't in agreement with some of the computer effects for the book. See, he believes and follows the DC style of coloring, and I’m no one to dispute DC’s way of doing things. They instruct colorists to make sure they don’t distract from the main figure in a panel, and unless you’re real good, you don’t add too many fancy effects like blurs, flares, or textures.

But the scene in question is a car chase, and I think if there’s any point in a book where blurs are necessary, that’s it. I also asked for flares to bring out the light and power of a car explosion, and I referenced pictures of actual car explosions to prove my point. Again, you don’t want to take away focus from the main character. But, in a scene like this, wouldn’t the explosion be the main character? And if not, shouldn’t we at least aspire for realism as much as possible?

The problem I have with DC’s approach, philosophically anyway, is they're too grounded in the medium, comic books, and don’t ask or even dream of aspiring for anything greater. In the past, I’ve been told that I need to remember comics are not movies. And that’s true, but the line between the two is not as thick and wide as many do think. A man in blue tights and a red cape, flying across the sky may be the most unrealistic thing imaginable. But that’s not the point. The point is to make it look real. To make people believe that a man can fly. So, if computer effects can make something look more real, even is it defies some written rule, how could it be wrong? Shouldn't realism supersede whatever comic book standard is written in a book?

That’s the question I’m wrestling with right now. I’ve emailed some professionals, asking for the names to colorists I can talk to and figure out if my thought process is flawed or not. Of course, there are those who will say it is, but my gut tells me I’m not insane. And the proof is inside any anime book on the stands today. No, not manga, anime. In Japan, animes have movie books like our live action movies. In front of the book, the anime is shown in storyboard fashion, frame by frame, skipping a beat here and there of course, but showing you the whole film or episode in detail. The point is, in Japanese anime, within certain respects, realism is a factor. And if you look at those frames, you see how my ideas can work. The realism, with exceptions here and there, sucks you in. And while they do play with reality a bit, the exceptions they make don’t take anything away. They may choose multiple colors in an explosion, but that doesn’t mean the explosion itself looks any less real. In fact, it looks more real, because what does something look like when it explodes in space? And these ideas came from American films like Star Wars. So again, how could I be wrong?

Still, my decision is finale. The colorist will do whatever I want him to do, so I have to make sure that the decision I make is the right one. That’s why I want to talk with someone with some years under his or her belt. I emailed Danny Miki and Joe Quesada because both have been cool in the past and very gracious with their time. I’m hoping they won’t mind my asking for their help again.

We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, an artist friend of mine had a dream, and I try to work by it. He told me: "I dreamt I was at a beach, and there were all these people standing near the shoreline. It was high tide, the waves were crashing down, and everyone, including me, was afraid to go in. Then, as we all just stood there, we saw this little old guy start to walk out, towards the waves. We all screamed for him to get back, because he'd be crushed, but he just kept going. A huge wave rose up against him, and came down so hard we all knew he was dead. And when the water pulled back, he was gone. A few minutes passed, or at least it felt that way, and off in the distance we saw this person swimming, bobbing up and down like a dolphin. Then, they swam to shore, and as they got closer, we could see it was the same little guy who got pounced on. He walked up out of the ocean, and in his hand was this gorgeous oyster. He opened it, and inside was a pearl. And as I was looking at it, and then him, it hit me that the little man was Jack Kirby. He looks at me, and says, "You should go out there more often. Never know what you'll find."

IF SUICIDE WAS EASY, I'D BE DEAD

2005-05-13T16:58:00.000-07:00

My last post generated a little “buzz” from my friends, each trying to help by giving me ideas or information on losing weight. One even threatened me not to do anything stupid. All of their comments were about health and being healthy, which sparked something interesting I’d like to comment on.

Being healthy and being skinny are two different things.

I don’t care if I’m healthy. When in was 237, I was healthy. Despite me laziness, I had no high blood pressure and could walk farther or dance longer than a lot of skinnier people. My blood counts were pristine, I’d never had any serious illness, and rarely did I catch a cold.

When I lost the weight, I was tired most of the time, had bronchitis, and went to the ER with a kidney stone that was so painful I was curled up like a baby, begging for morphine in the ambulance.

But, I still prefer one to the other any day of the week.

I’m hitting a serious low point here because I don’t know what to do with myself. I compared depression to taking a shit, and how it can be a relief once it’s all over. But I didn’t mention that, while it’s happening, it feels pretty bad. What I’m going through now can be compared to taking a shit while having the flu. That painful emptiness in your stomach as your body involuntarily contracts, you keep bearing down, but there’s nothing there. You haven’t eaten because you’re nauseous, but you’re body refuses to accept defeat, and all that comes out is water that’s only making you’re fever worse. Your ass hurts and bleeds from multiple wiping, your leg falls asleep, your stomach is so empty you want to puke, and just when you think it’s over your stomach bears down again, forcing a gush of body sewage.

That about sums up what I’m feeling right now.

I was standing in my bathroom mirror this morning, looking at myself, trying to figure out why I can’t just do what I’m supposed to do. I went through the list of questions in my head, looking for answers, and all of them were unattainable. Well, not unattainable, but unreachable in my immediate future. So I looked for other solutions, and there I found myself. I’m the answer to whatever’s troubling me, no one or nothing else. Just me, and then I broke down and started crying because I’d gone in a big circle and landed right where I started. I know my problems, I know how to solve them, but I just can’t seem to get my head together to do it. The most torturous thing is the not knowing why I can't get my head straight. Not knowing why I just can’t do what I’m supposed to do. Why I have all the confidence in the world in the morning, and by the end of the day I’m right back to where I started. Between work and home, everything that’s important to me changes. I start in the morning, weighing myself. 185, thirty-five pounds past my weight range, and I think that officially qualifies me as obese. I begin with the chip on my shoulder, and building up my ego. I begin mapping out a diet plan in my head, similar to the old one. I go over exercises I need to do, things I should and shouldn’t eat. I leave the house and arrive at work full of hope and confidence. If I’m lucky, I successfully avoid the coffee machine, and no one will buy a cake for no reason at all and sit it in the lounge to tempt me. And, if it’s a really good day, they do, but I beat temptation, get my cup of water and go. But then something happens on my way home. I begin thinking about Coffee Bean Ice blended mochas, about chocolate bars, television shows, and sitting on the couch playing video games. I think about exercise and I can feel my body getting weak. I can feel the pain and stress on my muscles. I’ve already projected myself two months into the future, and I can feel the fatigue, having exercised every day with little to no results because I’m too aware of what I’m doing. And I tell myself I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna walk through that door, do my exercises, eat a decent meal, go to bed on time, get up the next day, get to work on time, and repeat the same thing all over. I tell myself I’m gonna do it, and keep doing it, and the weight will drop off. I won’t think about time. I won’t think about pain, sweat, fatigue and hunger, because I can do this. I’ve done it before, I can do it again, but it’ll be easier this time. I lost 100 pounds in 6 months, so I can lose 30 in less time. And when I’m back in my range, it’ll be second nature, so I’ll keep going, harder and faster, until I’m back to 137. I’m back to size 31 waist pants, a six-pack, muscles, barely any body fat, a sagging ass, and low body temperature. I’ll go back to jogging and wearing sweaters in July because I’m freezing in the middle of the summer. And I’ll make it last this time, I’ll have fun, I’ll buy new clothes, get tatted, and maybe get my dick pierced. It’ll last this time. My life will go back to what it was, when I got to work on time every day, did my job, then went home and wrote for hours. Or I can quit my shitty hospital job and get another one, because they’ll see a skinny, assertive, hard working guy versus the fat lazy guy who just sits at his desk. And if you think fat people aren’t discriminated against in the job market, you’re wrong. I’ll enjoy how big my penis looks and my wife will take pictures I can put on the internet for extra cash, while I join an escort service and have old ladies pay top dollar to jerk me off. I’ll write my screenplay and hit the red carpet. My wife and I will be on E!’s Top 100 Sexiest Couples, I’ll have photo shoots in magazines, sign my comic book at conventions, and all will ask me how did I do it, AGAIN.

But all that changes by the time I get home. All of it slips away into fantasy, and it becomes the impossible, the imagined, or the things that shouldn’t care about or need. I slip into father mode, and all that matters is my wife’s love. She doesn’t care how I look, so have that cake, eat that jar of peanut butter, sit your ass on the couch all day, play video games, and when everyone’s asleep you can pull out the Janine dvd and rape yourself till your dry and it hurts to piss. All that becomes okay.

But then I wake up the next day. I look at myself in the mirror, again. And I cry, again. I shed tears for all the dreams that begin with a “Day 1”.

That’s where I found myself this morning, staring in the mirror, wondering what’s wrong with myself. Why can’t I go back? Why can’t I do it all over again, just like before? Why do I fail before I even try? How did I have all that confidence to do something amazing, and now that I need it again, there’s nothing?

I went from my bathroom to the bedroom, getting ready for another torturous day at the hospital, and my wife met me in the doorway. I looked into her eyes…
I wanted to unload, to breakdown, to curl up like a baby and scream, “Why? Why can’t I do it again? What’s wrong with me? What do I have to do to go back and flip that fucking switch in my head?”

But all I could do was look at her, my tears began to fall, and her face melted from a smile, to confusion, until landing hard with concern. She begged me to tell her what was wrong, but what would I say? Worse yet, what would she say? The same things I already know? The things that have already gone in one ear and out the other?

So I stood there, shook my head for her to ignore me, which is like asking a New Yorker to ignore what happened on September 11, 2001. But my son started crying, her mother reflexes kicked in, and she was gone.

Harder still was listening to a friend who called after reading my blog to give me words of advice. My friends are loyal, they love me, but they don’t understand me. Not even the ones I’ve known over a decade. They don’t really know how I tick, none of them do, so they offer advice on what I should do, what they think I can do, and I listen because I respect them, but they’re not helping. I know what to do already. I know how to get it done. The problem isn’t information or words of encouragement, because they were never there before. It’s me. I’m the problem. I’m the solution. Always have been, and always will be.

I’m the one who has to get myself off the shitter. But my leg is asleep, my stomach keeps cramping, and I’m bearing down again.

JPG.

THOUGHT BYTES FOR 2005 (Pt. 3)

2005-05-11T11:47:00.000-07:00

I’m still trying to get back into the swing of writing here every day, so I’m just going into a ramble and shitting out whatever thoughts come to mind.

SELF-DEFECATION

Sunday, I was helping my daughter sign her Mother’s Day card, and she came to a letter she knew, but couldn’t remember. The first thing she said was: “Daddy, I can’t do it.”

I paused for a second, as I normally do, trying to process the information and figure out how best to proceed. I knew she learned the word, she’d written it before, but children’s memories are short, so she could have forgotten. I helped her by giving clues, and after she thought about it, she repeated: “I can’t do it.”

I knelt down, took her in my arms, and in a soft, but parental voice I told her not to say those words ever again. I told her there’s nothing she can’t do. NOTHING. Then I coached her, taking one letter at a time, and when we got to the letter she “didn’t know” she remembered and wrote it down.

Today, I got to work an hour late. Part of a regular routine I have that might be a symptom of a pre-existing problem. Basically, I hate my fucking job. But, when I passed the glass windows of my building, I caught my reflection and was horrified at what I saw.

I’m fat.

What scared me wasn’t that I didn’t know this, but that I let it happen and did nothing to stop it. I wasn’t repelled by the fat guy in the glass, but more from the man underneath. It wasn’t the fat I found disgusting. It was the laziness, the gluttony, the lack of confidence and courage.

I thought about my words to my daughter, how I told her not to admit defeat, ever. And I saw how daddy needed to follow his own fucking advice. Being fat, for me, is a simple formula: Pleasure vs. Pain. You can either sit on a couch and stuff your face while watching television (and that feels fucking good), or you can get out there, in the sun, and do something until your muscles ache, you’re breathing hard, and your covered in sweat.

Gluttony covers a person’s entire spectrum of behavior, that’s why most fat people are obsessive about everything from food to sex. When I lost weight two years ago, I’d turned my obsessive streak into an advantage by changing the things I obsessed over. Instead of sex, I went crazy with exercise. Instead of food, I would drink water like mad, until my stomach was so full, there was no room for solids. Things progressed to where I hated to eat, and I think that’s where I eventually fucked myself up.

Obsession, when it’s directed, never lasts long.

Some deny that, like comic collectors. Some have obsessed over the same books and characters for decades. But I think all would agree that, at some point, they stopped collecting. Whether it was for financial reasons or not, they stopped. And that pause lasted for weeks, months, and then years. Every comic collector has a “What brought me back” story to tell. And during that time, they pursued something else other than comics.

My obsession for losing weight changed on October 31, 2003. I was celebrating my anniversary and my daughter’s first trick or treat, where she actually went door-to-door. I was in such a good mood, that I felt no wrong in having some candy. Plus, my mother had made a shitload of food, pies, and two cakes. I thought: “it’s a holiday, no worries.” This, after not having any sweets for over a year and you can imagine what it was like.

I could have called me Pooky.

When the first chocolate bar hit my tongue, I was gone. I actually have little recollection of what happened. My sugar high was so strong, I only know what happened when it was over, I was so full it felt like all I had to do was open my mouth, bend over, and everything would come pouring out. That’s when it hit me…

Purge.

I went home, into the bathroom, closed the windows and door, grabbed my toothbrush, and shoved it as far down my throat as it would go.

Throwing up isn’t easy. Especially for a guy with no gag reflex. You’d be surprised how far that toothbrush went before anything came up, and when it did, I saw little difference between that, and what would have come out the other end in about two or three days. I was in there for an hour, getting rid of everything I could. When it was over, I felt good, but knew I had just crossed a line. I’d busted my cherry, meaning it would come easier the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that.

I told my wife, and she freaked. She sent me to a dietician who weighed me and said that, while I wasn’t too skinny, I could gain some pounds. My range is 137 –150, I was 137 in clothes, and the doc preferred that I get to 145. I learned that I was on a starvation diet, eating only one breakfast bar, a salad, and dinner (vegetables, salad, and one serving of white meat) every day, plus working out for over an hour. I left the dietician feeling good. So good, that I thought nothing of eating a brownie for breakfast. It was followed by popcorn and a hotdog at the movies. Then, for dinner, I had a Superstar at Carl’s, chili cheese fries, their chocolate cake…

You get the idea.

I still exercised, but I did it less and less. The switch in my head had been flipped you see, I went from losing, not to gaining, because I was still conscious and paranoid, but to relaxing. Where I was obsessed that I would gain the weight back, as so many have before, I fooled myself into thinking I would never, or could never, go back. So I got lazier about my exercising. My two and a half hour, six day routine went to an hour for five days, then forty-five minutes for four days, etc. My low carbs rule went out the door the first time I had rice topped with ground beef and spaghetti sauce (a home fave). And my secret passion was peanut butter, I never liked it, but suddenly I had become insane for it. The doctor theorized that I was getting so little protein, that the minute I had peanut butter, my body targeted it as a major protein source. And peanut butter can be healthy, but not when you’re eating an entire jar in one sitting. And not when you mix it with ice cream, chocolate, cereal, cookies, cake, brownies, etc.

Exercising went from something that I just did, to an effort. I went from 6 reps of 20, to three reps of 10. Eating right became an event that I had to announce, instead of just doing. Losing weight the first time was unintentional for the first few months; I simply wanted to eat right. Then, once I saw the results, I went further. I never said I was on a diet; I was simply living a better life. But, once I started to backslide, I tried to recover by going on diets, and none lasted. I grew, and kept growing while family and friends around me did nothing.

The hardest part being me, is “fan participation”. In my life, there’s a lot. I’m highly affected and motivated by the people in my life. If they say: “You look great.” Then I do, and I have no worries. But, people aren’t always honest. Most importantly, people don’t always give a shit about you. Not in the way you want or expect them to care. My wife told me it wasn’t her responsibility to help me lose weight. It’ my responsibility to eat right, regardless of my surroundings. In other words, if she comes home with a jar of peanut butter, even though she knows I binge on it uncontrollably, I should have the strength not to eat the whole thing.

Yeah, and a junky should have the strength not to take drugs, and serial killers should know not to kill people.

My point is, people who love you will do and say things, taking for granted that you’re a responsible person. They’ll tell you something to be nice, not considering that you may have a malfunction that prohibits you from processing that information in the right way. So, when I weighed 237lbs, and people would tell me I look fine, I actually believed them and kept eating like a pig. And when I started to gain weight, and people told me I wasn’t, when it was obvious I was, I kept eating. I was hoping that they wuld be my safety net, and warn me, if not stop me, from losing something they knew I’d worke dso hard to achieve.

I was wrong.

If you’re eating a whole cake every day, gaining weight, and people tell you that you look the same, well then, why exercise when you can chill and eat cakes all fucking day?

Another thing, people’s perceptions are most often fantasies.

The saying: “Things are not always as they appear” is a fact when it comes to appearance. How you look to you and others is totally different from how you really look.

Example 1: When I was 237, my wife had no idea. Even though I would suffocate her during sex, even though she was buying size 42 waist pants for me, the news that I weighed so much was a huge surprise to her and my friends. Why? Because she saw me everyday and had become numb to may actual appearance vs. what she saw and cared about.

Example 2: There are some coworkers or mine who, when I was 237, I thought were skinny. But, when I was 137, suddenly I saw them as fat. Now, that I’ve gained weight, they’re getting smaller. Their physical appearance was based on my physical appearance, and how I saw myself.

Example 3: When I was 137, even though my wife experienced increased sexual desire for me, she often complained because I was no longer soft, cuddly, and warm when we snuggled. In fact, we spent little time together because I was so active and tired from exercise. My sex drive had dropped, so I hardly craved sex, making her want to more. But, when we did, my body temperature had dropped significantly, so I was always cold, and my hipbone would dig into her during sex. She also believes a man should be larger than his women, and I was so small, I could wear her clothes. Thus, my losing weight had been uncomfortable for her both physically and mentally.

Example 4: When I war 137, people were constantly on my back, telling me I had lost too much weight. One coworker even tried to force me to eat pizza, and I was harassed whenever there was an office party. I later found their actions were fueled by their ideas about my appearance. They weren’t used to seeing me so small. Their pressure for me to eat was fueled by their desire to have me meet their expectations and what they were used to seeing. They were used to seeing me fat, so they couldn’t’ handle a skinny me. This was proven when I discovered, while I was losing weight, my supervisor was being questioned about my health, asking if I was sick. And I would get people asking me if I was well, and after I told them I lost weight, they’d ask: “Was it intentional?” On top of that, the only person who didn’t harass me, was my boss, and she’d only knew for six-months.

I’m not blaming them, or transferring my regret and disappointment on them, what they did wasn’t intentional. But it proves the point that people are false (ie. full of shit). It’s a default setting in their personalities that, if they’re not aware of, is persistent. They believe what they see, even if it couldn’t possibly be real. In film, its called Suspension of Disbelief, when an audience will believe the unbelievable, and it’s fueled by the same principle that argues the existence of God. If you see it, it must be real. Problem is, it doesn’t take into account that what we see is controlled by our brains, and with most people having some kind of mental malfunction, it just means most of what we see is fucked up.

But, if that’s not the case, then you can always count on one thing. People just don’t care and talk out of their ass way too goddamn much, without taking into account that you can’t say anything to anyone, but people don’t fucking think before they speak.

So, I got fat again.

Not as fat as I was, but getting there over time. I’ve tried to stop it with no success, and again it’s fueled by those who’ll tell me I’m fine when I’m not. And though it’s obvious to me, I’ll listen to them because I want to. Because the alternative takes to much energy and commitment, and sitting on the couch hurts a lot less than jogging.

And there I was, looking at my reflection and thinking of my words to my daughter. I won’t say what I’m gonna do, because losing weight is like suicide, if you talk about it, there’s a 90% chance you’ll chicken out. But I will write this, if I do lose weight again, whether it’s now or later, I’ll never listen to anyone ever again. I don’t care if I’m puking in a bucket for the rest of my life, everyone from my wife to my friends can kiss my ass.

We, fat people, are not happy, and I think it should be avoided at all costs. Even if I get lung cancer and die, if smoking keeps me from eating, then I’ll smoke a ten packs a day until they drill a hole in my throat. Fuck it! I’ll drink my Slimfast through a tube, and wear turtlenecks.

If there’s any fat people reading this, I’m one of you, and I’m telling you to lose weight. Whatever it takes, do it. Don’t let anything stop you. Don’t buy the medical bullshit being stuffed down you’re throats about the “healthy ways to lose weight” because there are none. Being “healthy” today is nothing but a brand name and an expensive price tag. Don’t listen to your family and friends, because as much as they love you, they’re also ruled by their expectations of you. They don’t want you to change, it’s unsettling, and it knocks their world off balance and may even suggest they need to change some things about themselves. Misery loves company, and so does laziness.

To all my friends out there, and to anyone else who has someone who needs to change, I have two words for you: TELL US! Call them on the phone, write them a letter, or just tell them to their face. Say: “You’re fucking fat. You need to lose some fucking weight, or I’ll have to stop seeing you because you’re making me look bad.”

One thing triggered my weight loss.

One thing turned a 237-pound fat ass into a 137 lean machine with a six-pack.

When I asked a coworker what my New Year’s resolution should be, he said: “Lose weight.”

How could he say that? Because he didn’t give a fuck about me, or my feelings.

Friends like that don’t come cheap.

JPG.

OLD SHIT

2005-05-06T14:13:00.000-07:00

I’m trying to catch-up to all the time I’ve been abscent, so here’s some old stuff I have laying around for filler.

Here’s an old poem I wrote back in the day, I don’t think I even had a title for it.

Do you want to be free?
Then you must be evil.
Only evil people are free.
Goodness has too many rules.
People believe the true difficulty of existence is being good,
But the reality is, being good is simple.
The difficulties of life come from doing wrong and living with it.
You think it’s easy to kill someone?
How hard is it to walk away from some asshole, leaving them in “peace and love”?
But, to stare in someone’s eyes and take their soul away,
To embrace the majesty of it, the power, and claim it for yourself without madness taking you…
That’s truly difficult, because you die with them.
You are one, you share the same fragility, and the fallacies of religion come crashing down around you both.
And the power of God can be obtained, by anyone.
Let me ask again…
Do you want to be free?
The power of choice.
Power to choose your own destiny, free of interference from a glorious abomination and damnable revelation.
More importantly, do you want to be eternal?
Living in the darkness, and feeling the cold around you?
To walk the night paths free of fear and dangers,
Roaming the fantasies and nightmares that are your playground.
To feel your victim go limp in your arms and turn to dust before your timeless eyes.
Do you want this evil gift I offer?
If you want it, come for it,
And I will send you to hell.

Yeah, I was a goth. And in serious need of psychotherapy.

Here a couple of porn reviews I did as samples for a porn mag. I’m still waiting for a callback

Biker Chick Cum Easy 2
VCA Pictures. D: D3. Alexis Malone, Lauren Phoenix, Nicole Jordan, Simone, Anell, Casey Pink, Madison Sin, Kim Chambers, August Avila, Scott Styles, Alex Sanders, Lee Stone, Grant Michaels, Dick Tracy, Tyce Bune. 84 Mins.

The term “crotch-rocket” takes on a whole new meaning in this high-octane raunch fest that shifts from soft to hard in 0.6 seconds while you hold yourself for dear life. BCCE 2 is a peek into the lives of bikers and their bitches. They’re modern cowboys on steel charges, the male elite, and the only ones who can satisfy these women of wild abandon.
The tape starts with Alex Sanders in a three-way that remains within legal limits. Followed by Simone who revs things up with a hot striptease lead-in before sucking & fucking Scott Styles in a scene that challenges your dick muscles to stay clinched or blow too soon. It’s balls to the wall action! These chicks demand to get fucked hard, roaring like Harleys and spitting expletives. Amplified by believable surroundings and attention to detail that immerses you in the biking world. Even August’s dildo is zebra striped. And Kim Chambers is a streamlined muscle machine, shooting vaginal juice like hot fire.
BCCE 2 is sure to make rounds at biker clubs everywhere.
Marketing: This video’s uniqueness and energized sex makes it a must have.

Killer Sex and Suicide Blondes
Wicked Pictures. D: Michael Raven. Julia Ann, Jessica Drake, Kaylani Lei, Ice LaFox, Justine Joli, Brad Armstrong, Steven St. Croix, Evan Stone, Gino Greco, Randy Spears; Jonathan Morgan (Non-Sex Role). 95 Mins.

With Hollywood movies like The Brown Bunny, the line between depictions of sex in mainstream and adult cinema is thinning. Some consider the possibility of it disappearing completely to be far-fetched, but Michael Raven proves otherwise. Julia Ann stars as Gemini Black, a trained killer whose mind dances between homicide and suicide, in a film that proves story driven sex is more inciting than any specialty gimmick.
Killer Sex does suffer from limitations - The music is repetitive, sound quality is poor, and a disturbing shot of Brad Armstrong’s ball-sack distracts from the lovely Kaylani Lei’s lips, but the film still triumphs. The story is strong and not so heavy that it slows pacing between sex scenes. The sex choreography repeats itself, but empowered by different character emotions keeps them exciting. Julia Ann is mesmerizing both in and out of bed with her portrayal of a woman driven by grief and hate. Second only to Jessica Drake, whose acting is equal to her beauty and sexual appetite, her scenes with Ice LaFox and Steven St. Croix drives you to masturbation. But Julia’s spotlight isn’t stolen and holds it firmly with Steven and Evan Stone, mixing hate and aggression with a lust for sex and revenge.
Although the film’s character development isn’t sustained, Raven compensates, directing the emphasis from story to sex. It devolves from movie to porno and remains excellent. Diverting attention away from an underdeveloped ending that comes off a little too preachy. Killer Sex and Suicide Blondes is a feature that screams for a sequel.
Marketing: Women will like the story. Men will love the sex. This movie is tailor-made for couples.—

And finally, my pitch for the White Wolf novel contest. As hard as it is to believe, it’s not based or inspired by Underworld. I’d had a similar idea about ten or eleven years ago called Wild Ways. I found out about the White Wolf’s contest with only four days until the deadline, so I updated and pitch it, based on the contest rules that it contain at least one of their new characters.

I don’t think I’ll hear from them any time soon, but it was worth a shot.

In 2004, White Wolf re-introduced their Worlds of Darkness with Vampire: The Requiem, followed by Werewolf: The Forsaken. Newcomers marveled at gothic horror in a modern setting, but loyalists were shocked by the disappearance of several Clans and Tribes from the previous models.

Wild Ways bridges the gap between the two ages in the World of Darkness.

The Garou and Kindred were bitter enemies with humans caught in the middle of a war between two supernatural powers. Foreseeing a holocaust leaving none the victor, oracles from both races forced a truce. A symbiosis called The Pax, where vampires would remain in the cities, werewolves stayed to the wild, and their human allies would safeguard the existence of both.

But werewolves and vampires have their own separate enemies. For centuries The Wrym fought with the Garou, while The Seven conspired against their own vampire race. They join forces to manipulate the Garou and Kindred until The Pax breaks so they can rule remnants of a shattered world.

As battles erupt across the globe, the werewolf oracle, Doomwise, knows the wolf leader Elias Winterborn and the vampire Prince Maxwell hold the power to stop the war. But Maxwell has fallen to the manipulations of Solomon Birch, leading him into a war with Elias’ Storm Lords, one battle between two saviors that would signal the end of everything. Doomwise’s only hope is hiring The Nameless and convincing The Unholy to stop the conflict so Elias and Maxwell can remake the pax.

JPG