Getting your brain to function at 7am is a little more difficult than when you planned to wake up at that time the previous night. Physically and mentally drained, I collapsed and shut down early Monday night at a little after 9pm. I've had things slowly start up since I've woken and now, now I feel like I can put something down on paper.
As a city, I've always liked Marion. There's family to visit here, but, everything is different here than PB. I know that the handful of people that read this will be like "Inevitably, every place is the same" which I suppose is ultimately true, but, on the surface here it's not. We stopped at a Wal-Mart Monday night and I was surprised that they can look inviting and clean.
I should backtrack and emphasize just how opposite the Bluff's Wal-Mart looks. It was one of the first "supercenters" back in the 90's, but, the building has seen better days. Added to which, the uniform dress code doesn't apply to all, the floors look filthy, the bathroom's are not always clean, the store runs low if not out of certain items, and to make matters worse, there's always wooden pallets or carts in the middle of aisles unopened and impeding any flow of traffic. One time, you could pick and choose when to go to Wal-Mart for stuff (which was early morning) but now, it seems like regardless of the day you're doomed for a headache.
I said that to say how odd it was to have the exact opposite experience. From the checker who was actually smiling and courteous to floor help actually there to assist. It was like a parallel universe. Despite the over lighting of the building, the layout was condensed and organized. No pallets left in some random spot in an aisle. Even at the deli, there was prompt service. The deli at home is some inefficient, you have to take a number and listen to the employees discuss the finer gossip in the building as they slowly prepare your order.
That may be something else to note, and it's probably because I don't know anyone here, but the staff looked focused on their job. Pleasant and serene faces helping in different departments. Stepping in Wal-Mart at Poplar Bluff is much like stepping in to a multi storied soap opera with bad plots, dialogue, and no interest. There's a sense of soul crushing with the employees because employment in the Bluff is so horrid, you can't just up and leave the job without a backup job.
Maybe I'm making something bigger than I should. I don't know. It may be me looking at the city and it's businesses with rose colored glasses. I really don't want to return to Poplar Bluff. Physically there are a few things that keep me there, but, in the end it doesn't really matter. I get to return home in a few short hours. Return to my job that's been a disappointment for the better part of the year. Blah!
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Monday, May 27, 2013
Here and Now (fighting slumber)
I close my eyes, and you're there. Even better than in the flesh it would seem. In the here in now, nothing good seems to come easy. Everything is a struggle in some way shape or form. The square pegs don't fit the round hole. When I'm with you, I feel at peace. The weight of my world is off my back. In you, I find solace. Safe harbor rests on your lips. A calm nestled in your voice.
I close my eyes and we're functional as functional as can be. No sorrows nor anger. No resentment nor duplicity. The general boring mundane things we overlook and take for granted are not done that way when I close my eyes. Every moment matters. Every word counts. Every action is a chorus of magisterial beauty. All the obstacles that we place in front of ourselves have been removed. The shields are down. The defenses lax. In you, I find rest. I find contentment in your arms. We're good for each other when I close my eyes. No worries or fears. We compliment each other admirably.
I close my eyes and I smell the detergent in your bed sheets. The muted fragrance of a candle lit. The incandescent glow of a cell phone turned on. Sounds from the outside rise and ebb like the tide. These feelings, sights and sounds are with me as I close my eyes here and now.
Here and now things work. No harm, no troubles. Peace. The way I feel in a parallel world things would work. Me at my most romantic and you at your most receptive. I close my eyes and can hear your breathing calm and relaxed. The longing to repeat these moments rise. I wake and have to get a drink of water. I feel like I'm rambling. This doesn't quite make sense, but then, some of the best things we experience in life don't make sense at all.
I close my eyes and we're functional as functional as can be. No sorrows nor anger. No resentment nor duplicity. The general boring mundane things we overlook and take for granted are not done that way when I close my eyes. Every moment matters. Every word counts. Every action is a chorus of magisterial beauty. All the obstacles that we place in front of ourselves have been removed. The shields are down. The defenses lax. In you, I find rest. I find contentment in your arms. We're good for each other when I close my eyes. No worries or fears. We compliment each other admirably.
I close my eyes and I smell the detergent in your bed sheets. The muted fragrance of a candle lit. The incandescent glow of a cell phone turned on. Sounds from the outside rise and ebb like the tide. These feelings, sights and sounds are with me as I close my eyes here and now.
Here and now things work. No harm, no troubles. Peace. The way I feel in a parallel world things would work. Me at my most romantic and you at your most receptive. I close my eyes and can hear your breathing calm and relaxed. The longing to repeat these moments rise. I wake and have to get a drink of water. I feel like I'm rambling. This doesn't quite make sense, but then, some of the best things we experience in life don't make sense at all.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
...And Then the Wheels Fell Off
After the early morning encounter, I was being routinely visited by my
new girlfriend. She of course didn't want to be known as a girlfriend,
we were merely friends with benefits. I didn't mind the classification,
because in all truth the conversations we had were staccato and empty.
There was nothing in common to relate with each other. She would humbly
recite incidents in the life she was passing through the underbelly of
Southern Arkansas, the drugs and the cops and while at first it was
intriguing and morbidly fascinating it quickly became desperate and sad.
Of course my every day nonsense was wearing thin on her I'm sure. You
could only revise so many times the daily workings of long suffering
employment. To top things off, the heated carnality was quickly waning,
as if the satisfaction had peaked early and was beginning to bottom out.
Once, I was preparing to head out to the bar to join some friends when she came in and was crying once more. She wanted to talk to me and she preceded to tell me how dishonest she had been. It was really mean and cruel for her to continue this charade and then showed me this small engagement ring excavated from her purse. She was technically engaged to some other guy in Arkansas and she couldn't continue to pull the cliched wool over my eyes. In her purse, were threatening letters from some illiterate buffoon, accusing her of a cornucopia of offenses. She says to me that she can't help but to still love this guy, even though he's flattened her tires at work and even though he would cheat on her and smack her around she knew the real guy inside and he was worth saving.
I stood there in the wake of this revelation not really surprised. I had my suspicion about it, and here it was in broad daylight trembling and muttering nonsense about saving someone. Then she opens her mouth and tells me that she wants to be friends because I am "too nice of a guy", to continue to sleep with.
If I had a dime for every time that cliched overused statement had been said to my face, I could be a millionaire. A sequence of different faces and voices I could recall telling me that statement. I stood there and just nodded, dejected by the news. I could offered a good argument for her to stay, but what was the point really. She would only leave this guy on a gurney or in a paddy wagon. I was was insubstantial in her eyes. Insignificant.
We hugged and that was the last time I would ever see her.
Later, the ex would call just to find out how I was doing, and I in turn would ask her the same questions. She asked about the new girl, to which I replied that things were over with her before they really began.
"Good," the ex replies. "She wasn't all that anyway. You'll be better off without her."
Once, I was preparing to head out to the bar to join some friends when she came in and was crying once more. She wanted to talk to me and she preceded to tell me how dishonest she had been. It was really mean and cruel for her to continue this charade and then showed me this small engagement ring excavated from her purse. She was technically engaged to some other guy in Arkansas and she couldn't continue to pull the cliched wool over my eyes. In her purse, were threatening letters from some illiterate buffoon, accusing her of a cornucopia of offenses. She says to me that she can't help but to still love this guy, even though he's flattened her tires at work and even though he would cheat on her and smack her around she knew the real guy inside and he was worth saving.
I stood there in the wake of this revelation not really surprised. I had my suspicion about it, and here it was in broad daylight trembling and muttering nonsense about saving someone. Then she opens her mouth and tells me that she wants to be friends because I am "too nice of a guy", to continue to sleep with.
If I had a dime for every time that cliched overused statement had been said to my face, I could be a millionaire. A sequence of different faces and voices I could recall telling me that statement. I stood there and just nodded, dejected by the news. I could offered a good argument for her to stay, but what was the point really. She would only leave this guy on a gurney or in a paddy wagon. I was was insubstantial in her eyes. Insignificant.
We hugged and that was the last time I would ever see her.
Later, the ex would call just to find out how I was doing, and I in turn would ask her the same questions. She asked about the new girl, to which I replied that things were over with her before they really began.
"Good," the ex replies. "She wasn't all that anyway. You'll be better off without her."
And Now, For the Poorly Lit, Drunk, Clumsy, and Brief Love Scene....
She manages to come in through the front door without collapsing, which
is good in a sad way because I'm somewhat inert on the sofa, bleary
eyed, but looking like the picture of health next to her as she flops
down on the sofa next to me. Her eyes are pink and wet as if she's been
crying and the smell of pot is really heavy on her clothes, but it
really doesn't bother me now if it did when I would be sober. She's
moaning again about her mother and how she downed a pint of whiskey and
there was cursing involved and now here she is, telling me this,
fighting tears because she's wanting something a little more normal and
not so melodramatic in the way of her family life. I try to be
supportive and caring to say the words that could very well start her on
the road to a new beginning or something as equally saccharine but I
keep slurring out things like, "That's messed up" or "She sounds like a
total bitch." My friends have seemed to have melted into the background,
either they are listening to this drunk conversation by two people who
have the sex glint in their eye or they just are talking amongst
themselves and I am oblivious to the conversation.
Before long she excuses herself to the restroom, and I pause to think how to properly move my legs in a forward motion to get to the door of the bathroom. I'm thinking about how she's looking tonight which is rough and skanky in brutal honesty but it looks like a million dollar ticket I could very well cash in. I manage to get to the door and knock and I come in as she's just looking in the mirror complaining about how she's looking tonight, but I tell her that she looks exquisite, and that if she would simply stay with me all her problems would be taken care of. I would be some rock for her in her trials, a safe haven, using every line man has ever scripted to get her to just kiss me in overwhelming passion, but it doesn't work and I make the move with quick motion.
The preceding is all a drunken blur. Pants and sighs admist hands groping legs and necks. Arms intertwined, torsos moving and dipping as if they were clued into some dance we couldn't hear but only feel. I begin to sweat as I pinch her nipple, and her hand starts to grab a hold of my waist. We eventually stumble into the bedroom.
On the California king size mattress we make out some more, slowly removing clothes. Her skin is cream colored in the harsh desk light, while I fondle her ass and begin to suck on her nipples. Her hand grips my cock and then I begin to blindly finger her like a it was a string instrument in a furious symphony. She begins to moan and then moan louder. Loud enough to alarm me in stopping the kissing and try to hush her because it occurs to me there are really other people in the living room, not to mention the ones in the apartment above and here this girl is making some diaphragm induced moans and groans asking me to keep going, while I tell her I will but she has to keep it down. It's no use, she comes twice and she still is really vocal about how good it is, even with my hand over her mouth, she just bites my palm and then my neck. She demands to be fucked as the room is heavy in humidity and passion, to which I oblige by slipping on a condom and then sex begins.
It's hard work when you're drunk on a lot of beer. My stomachs doing somersaults with the motion, skin is all slick with sweat, and I feel winded because this is sadly the most exercise I have gotten in the last month. I ask her if she wants to roll over and go on top to give me a breather, to recline like a slug, and she says no, I'm hitting it fine, and plus she has a old volleyball injury that prevents her from going on top, something involving some messed up knees. I finish, after the blood curdling scream that rattles the window and causes snickers in the other room. It's a weak orgasm, partly because I feel like throwing up a couple pints of bud light on the floor, partly because of the heat in the room. We lie next to each other, glistening in the afterglow. I notice the stereo has been turned up in the other room. I comment how well she looks naked, and she makes a comment about how she hates her small tits and how her ass is too big for a white girl. I ask her if she wants another round to she quickly says yes to, but then dictates there could be no doggy, nor any cowgirl because of the volleyball injury. "I have little to no cartilage in my knees", she says. " You can fuckin' pile drive it in man like you did tonight. I hadn't anything like that in months. That and some head."
"Do you give as well as receive?" I ask her.
"Sorry. I don't suck cock. Just a rule I hold myself to. No ass fucking either."
We dress after she mentions about getting home before dawn and I head into the living room where the snickers I had heard earlier have erupted into laughter. I try to play dumb to no avail and then one of the guys says that I have some nasty bruising on my neck. I run over to the bathroom and look in the mirror. There are three large hickeys on my neck. Dark and black they lie there with glee telling me it's going to be turtleneck sweaters for the next week.
to be continued...
Before long she excuses herself to the restroom, and I pause to think how to properly move my legs in a forward motion to get to the door of the bathroom. I'm thinking about how she's looking tonight which is rough and skanky in brutal honesty but it looks like a million dollar ticket I could very well cash in. I manage to get to the door and knock and I come in as she's just looking in the mirror complaining about how she's looking tonight, but I tell her that she looks exquisite, and that if she would simply stay with me all her problems would be taken care of. I would be some rock for her in her trials, a safe haven, using every line man has ever scripted to get her to just kiss me in overwhelming passion, but it doesn't work and I make the move with quick motion.
The preceding is all a drunken blur. Pants and sighs admist hands groping legs and necks. Arms intertwined, torsos moving and dipping as if they were clued into some dance we couldn't hear but only feel. I begin to sweat as I pinch her nipple, and her hand starts to grab a hold of my waist. We eventually stumble into the bedroom.
On the California king size mattress we make out some more, slowly removing clothes. Her skin is cream colored in the harsh desk light, while I fondle her ass and begin to suck on her nipples. Her hand grips my cock and then I begin to blindly finger her like a it was a string instrument in a furious symphony. She begins to moan and then moan louder. Loud enough to alarm me in stopping the kissing and try to hush her because it occurs to me there are really other people in the living room, not to mention the ones in the apartment above and here this girl is making some diaphragm induced moans and groans asking me to keep going, while I tell her I will but she has to keep it down. It's no use, she comes twice and she still is really vocal about how good it is, even with my hand over her mouth, she just bites my palm and then my neck. She demands to be fucked as the room is heavy in humidity and passion, to which I oblige by slipping on a condom and then sex begins.
It's hard work when you're drunk on a lot of beer. My stomachs doing somersaults with the motion, skin is all slick with sweat, and I feel winded because this is sadly the most exercise I have gotten in the last month. I ask her if she wants to roll over and go on top to give me a breather, to recline like a slug, and she says no, I'm hitting it fine, and plus she has a old volleyball injury that prevents her from going on top, something involving some messed up knees. I finish, after the blood curdling scream that rattles the window and causes snickers in the other room. It's a weak orgasm, partly because I feel like throwing up a couple pints of bud light on the floor, partly because of the heat in the room. We lie next to each other, glistening in the afterglow. I notice the stereo has been turned up in the other room. I comment how well she looks naked, and she makes a comment about how she hates her small tits and how her ass is too big for a white girl. I ask her if she wants another round to she quickly says yes to, but then dictates there could be no doggy, nor any cowgirl because of the volleyball injury. "I have little to no cartilage in my knees", she says. " You can fuckin' pile drive it in man like you did tonight. I hadn't anything like that in months. That and some head."
"Do you give as well as receive?" I ask her.
"Sorry. I don't suck cock. Just a rule I hold myself to. No ass fucking either."
We dress after she mentions about getting home before dawn and I head into the living room where the snickers I had heard earlier have erupted into laughter. I try to play dumb to no avail and then one of the guys says that I have some nasty bruising on my neck. I run over to the bathroom and look in the mirror. There are three large hickeys on my neck. Dark and black they lie there with glee telling me it's going to be turtleneck sweaters for the next week.
to be continued...
...But, Do You Dig Me When You're Sober (part 4)
Memories of the ex:
Long dinner conversations of space, of exploration, the meaning of the universe, whether or not there was a omnipresent presence engaged in watching the billions of stories unfolding on the earth. A sleek new Mercury Cougar, with a sun roof and 6 disc changer in it's trunk. Kids or no kids? How difficult it is growing up admist disappointment. The future and what both of us would like to see ourselves in 5 years. The lack of sex due to her being "burnt out" after years of carnal mileage, when in a blunt reality I was never really that good to appease her appetite and adequately explained the toys she brought in... Sloppy housekeeping, the reluctance to settle in a house together, then the abandonment I executed when she was ready to play house in college town.
And now she's here, and we haven't been having the FWB sex nor really talked in sometime, but that's all of a sudden rendered null and void as she's asking about the stray cat she brought over to my apartment because she loves the cat more genuinely than she ever did me which I was almost disgusted by when thinking about it and then thought who cares as long as she's here.
And then there's my new "friend" sitting there smiling a mile wide frantically piecing together this new face and where it belongs in my life. The exchange a brief greeting and then the ex asks where the cat is currently hibernating. I tell her in the bedroom on the window ledge. She excuses herself over to the bedroom and the new friend is starting to question me hard on the ideninty of my visitor and if I'm trying to play her, which I quickly answer no and then it occurs to me how quickly and with great shame I would return to my ex if she merely mentioned it leaving the new girl in the distant memory category.
It's a tense few moments where all natural sound has entered a vacuum, and I can only stand there dazed marveling at the impeccably bad timing of my ex and the fact that the promise of sex with my friend has quickly shriveled and dried to a crisp under heavy scrutiny.
Needless to say, I don't see my friend for a few days, and question the timing of the ex as deliberate planning on her part.
Flash forward to a few more nights down the road. Hip deep in empty beer bottles I find myself watching this low budget indie film called Gummo, nursing a 9th beer, grumbling to myself that there's nothing to do in this town and the door knocks. It's my friend Walt who's a full fledged insomniac of a vampire addicted to cheap Mexican food. Walt's the usual, bored, and decided to visit since my light was on. Then, the door knocks again as if this apartment has become some station between towns. It's Colby who's of course been drinking, more than I have tonight, and we of course all sit down and launch in blue tirades about exes, bosses, the Cardinals, and what rap music is good and what music needs to completely buried. All this talk has me drinking more, because I feel this new developing power where either Walt or Colby are speaking and then the sound goes out, I can only see their lips move or quiver and this only occurs when I take another hit of beer.
Then, the phone rings. I grab a hold of the cordless and it's my friend. Colby remarks she was probably locked up I tell him to shut up. She asking what's going on and how I'm doing and again with the apology of just disappearing on me because there was a lot of shit that went down in Arkansas with some of her friends from the factory involving some speed and weed and the no money so they abandoned me with a dealer named Skip, but I was able to get my step dad to come down and get me out of trouble explanation that makes nailing her almost a priority now in my drunken haze. If I could not close the proverbial deal, I might as well retire my dick to a museum. I ask her if she wants to drink a little, and she slurs she's drunk a little playing Texas Hold 'Em with her mother's friends, but it wasn't much and she wants to come over for something to drink. I lie to her and tell her I have some Seagrams 7 for her consumption but she only has 15 minutes to get here. I neglect to tell her that I have other people over, but I really don't notice them while on the phone with her nor do I really care, as I apply my new super gift at will now instead through just drinking.
15 minutes later.....
Long dinner conversations of space, of exploration, the meaning of the universe, whether or not there was a omnipresent presence engaged in watching the billions of stories unfolding on the earth. A sleek new Mercury Cougar, with a sun roof and 6 disc changer in it's trunk. Kids or no kids? How difficult it is growing up admist disappointment. The future and what both of us would like to see ourselves in 5 years. The lack of sex due to her being "burnt out" after years of carnal mileage, when in a blunt reality I was never really that good to appease her appetite and adequately explained the toys she brought in... Sloppy housekeeping, the reluctance to settle in a house together, then the abandonment I executed when she was ready to play house in college town.
And now she's here, and we haven't been having the FWB sex nor really talked in sometime, but that's all of a sudden rendered null and void as she's asking about the stray cat she brought over to my apartment because she loves the cat more genuinely than she ever did me which I was almost disgusted by when thinking about it and then thought who cares as long as she's here.
And then there's my new "friend" sitting there smiling a mile wide frantically piecing together this new face and where it belongs in my life. The exchange a brief greeting and then the ex asks where the cat is currently hibernating. I tell her in the bedroom on the window ledge. She excuses herself over to the bedroom and the new friend is starting to question me hard on the ideninty of my visitor and if I'm trying to play her, which I quickly answer no and then it occurs to me how quickly and with great shame I would return to my ex if she merely mentioned it leaving the new girl in the distant memory category.
It's a tense few moments where all natural sound has entered a vacuum, and I can only stand there dazed marveling at the impeccably bad timing of my ex and the fact that the promise of sex with my friend has quickly shriveled and dried to a crisp under heavy scrutiny.
Needless to say, I don't see my friend for a few days, and question the timing of the ex as deliberate planning on her part.
Flash forward to a few more nights down the road. Hip deep in empty beer bottles I find myself watching this low budget indie film called Gummo, nursing a 9th beer, grumbling to myself that there's nothing to do in this town and the door knocks. It's my friend Walt who's a full fledged insomniac of a vampire addicted to cheap Mexican food. Walt's the usual, bored, and decided to visit since my light was on. Then, the door knocks again as if this apartment has become some station between towns. It's Colby who's of course been drinking, more than I have tonight, and we of course all sit down and launch in blue tirades about exes, bosses, the Cardinals, and what rap music is good and what music needs to completely buried. All this talk has me drinking more, because I feel this new developing power where either Walt or Colby are speaking and then the sound goes out, I can only see their lips move or quiver and this only occurs when I take another hit of beer.
Then, the phone rings. I grab a hold of the cordless and it's my friend. Colby remarks she was probably locked up I tell him to shut up. She asking what's going on and how I'm doing and again with the apology of just disappearing on me because there was a lot of shit that went down in Arkansas with some of her friends from the factory involving some speed and weed and the no money so they abandoned me with a dealer named Skip, but I was able to get my step dad to come down and get me out of trouble explanation that makes nailing her almost a priority now in my drunken haze. If I could not close the proverbial deal, I might as well retire my dick to a museum. I ask her if she wants to drink a little, and she slurs she's drunk a little playing Texas Hold 'Em with her mother's friends, but it wasn't much and she wants to come over for something to drink. I lie to her and tell her I have some Seagrams 7 for her consumption but she only has 15 minutes to get here. I neglect to tell her that I have other people over, but I really don't notice them while on the phone with her nor do I really care, as I apply my new super gift at will now instead through just drinking.
15 minutes later.....
Saturday, May 25, 2013
30 Minute Night Gardening
It's late in the evening, quickly approaching midnight. The moon is full and the beams have broke through the window pane, spilling across the floor and spreading across the bed in which I lay. My mind races backwards and forwards on my internal timeline, seeing faces, hearing loving statements and sentiments long since gone in the wispy tendrils of fading memory.
It's 1993 in a gymnasium where I'm sitting in a metal folding chair, draped in polyester robes, sweating profusely as someone stands at a lectern delivering a speech about leaving childhood behind or something as equally banal, stock, and innocuous as most speeches in high school are wont to come off. I remember the photo from 1992, dressed in a two piece hunter green suit sitting in a vinyl chair trying to look stoic and mature. I had a thicker head of hair and not as much weight around the middle.
It's 2013 and I'm sitting cross legged in front of a laptop exercising my creative muscles trying to put onto the screen the remnants of memory before I lose them forever. I wish I could be able to tap into my brain's potential capacity to keep things clear and defined. Categorized and cataloged. Time changes everything is what I've read and quickly understand. There's another great line from a film called Magnolia where it goes "we may be done with the past, but, the past isn't done with us". I don't know exactly what this means in the overall context of this post other than it seems pretty truthful.
I sometimes try and recall past girlfriends and lovers, remembering their attractive qualities. The way their hair fell just so. A smile, the way their eyes looked, a walk, simple gestures with speaking and not saying anything. I have longed since mined the resource of regret and self pity at the failures of these relationships. It's not my fault. It's not my fault. I want to tattoo this on me if I didn't have any regret about doing this afterward.
I'm gardening my mind. Tilling the fertile soil of creativity, tossing out the weeds of negativity that can strangle and kill good thoughts. I'm above that nihilistic thinking that permeated my thoughts in the last decade. I want to cultivate the things that make me smile and chortle a little.
1996- a photo booth in West Park Mall. There was so much hope and happiness in our eyes. I filled a composition book for Christmas in poetry, illustrations, stories. Forgoing the usual gift, though, I'm sure I got one of those.
2000- Sitting on a couch in my living room, staring out my window for a visitor who would never come. I listened to Sand In the Vaseline The Best of The Talking Heads. It would be a few years later when I awake from sleep to notice the time of a nocturnal visit from a former girlfriend, that was in all likelihood a potential physical encounter, pass with no call nor apology. It just happened.
2004- With a girl in a hotel room as we make out in happenstance. 1994- heavy petting and dry humping lead to a premature accident that is forwarded as a punch line for the girl's friends. 1997- sobbing like some infant over a breakup 2007- fighting back tears after a knock on the door informed me that a very good friend of mine had asphyxiated on his own vomit in his apartment. Going through the apartment days later and horrified by the degradation of the place. Caps of duster litter the floor along with trash, pizza boxes, and beer bottle caps. 1995- sharing feelings to this tender red head, and getting brushed off by capricious youth. 2005- Her now ex boyfriend getting confrontational about it while he was half conscious and fully drunk.
I have to stop. Entranced by the power of the moon tonight. Memories can wait.
It's 1993 in a gymnasium where I'm sitting in a metal folding chair, draped in polyester robes, sweating profusely as someone stands at a lectern delivering a speech about leaving childhood behind or something as equally banal, stock, and innocuous as most speeches in high school are wont to come off. I remember the photo from 1992, dressed in a two piece hunter green suit sitting in a vinyl chair trying to look stoic and mature. I had a thicker head of hair and not as much weight around the middle.
It's 2013 and I'm sitting cross legged in front of a laptop exercising my creative muscles trying to put onto the screen the remnants of memory before I lose them forever. I wish I could be able to tap into my brain's potential capacity to keep things clear and defined. Categorized and cataloged. Time changes everything is what I've read and quickly understand. There's another great line from a film called Magnolia where it goes "we may be done with the past, but, the past isn't done with us". I don't know exactly what this means in the overall context of this post other than it seems pretty truthful.
I sometimes try and recall past girlfriends and lovers, remembering their attractive qualities. The way their hair fell just so. A smile, the way their eyes looked, a walk, simple gestures with speaking and not saying anything. I have longed since mined the resource of regret and self pity at the failures of these relationships. It's not my fault. It's not my fault. I want to tattoo this on me if I didn't have any regret about doing this afterward.
I'm gardening my mind. Tilling the fertile soil of creativity, tossing out the weeds of negativity that can strangle and kill good thoughts. I'm above that nihilistic thinking that permeated my thoughts in the last decade. I want to cultivate the things that make me smile and chortle a little.
1996- a photo booth in West Park Mall. There was so much hope and happiness in our eyes. I filled a composition book for Christmas in poetry, illustrations, stories. Forgoing the usual gift, though, I'm sure I got one of those.
2000- Sitting on a couch in my living room, staring out my window for a visitor who would never come. I listened to Sand In the Vaseline The Best of The Talking Heads. It would be a few years later when I awake from sleep to notice the time of a nocturnal visit from a former girlfriend, that was in all likelihood a potential physical encounter, pass with no call nor apology. It just happened.
2004- With a girl in a hotel room as we make out in happenstance. 1994- heavy petting and dry humping lead to a premature accident that is forwarded as a punch line for the girl's friends. 1997- sobbing like some infant over a breakup 2007- fighting back tears after a knock on the door informed me that a very good friend of mine had asphyxiated on his own vomit in his apartment. Going through the apartment days later and horrified by the degradation of the place. Caps of duster litter the floor along with trash, pizza boxes, and beer bottle caps. 1995- sharing feelings to this tender red head, and getting brushed off by capricious youth. 2005- Her now ex boyfriend getting confrontational about it while he was half conscious and fully drunk.
I have to stop. Entranced by the power of the moon tonight. Memories can wait.
...But, Do You Dig Me When You're Sober? (part 3)
Two weeks pass.
I'm working and it's late and lo and behold, she shows up from thin air. I ask her where she went that night instead of my apartment and replied something along the lines of she kind of got cold feet at the last minute and ducked out to a friends house to get high. She fell asleep and then just went home. It wouldn't be the first time I would have heard this explanation.
The next day, there's a note left on the windshield of my car. She wants to see me again, and this time promises no ducking out or anything. Yeah, whatever I tell myself as I get in the car and set the note in the passenger seat. Her phone number is on the note, so reluctantly I call it, thinking that this is probably a non-working number.
She answers after the third ring, and we proceed to make small talk. She rambles on about how she enjoyed that night, how relaxing and refreshing it all was to her. She was really going out of her way to butter me up, but I kept wincing because her voice projects Fran Drescher in the deep south visual. I tell her I'm open to getting together for the proverbial dinner and the movie date, because I know there's something there on a sexual level that I would be an idiot not to seize. She agrees that we should do the date, but then surprises me when she arrives knocking on my door a couple hours later. I thought I told her in a couple of days, but I won't squash any enthusiasm. Maybe this girl DID dig me...
So once again, in my apartment, we are sitting there making small talk, delaying what we really want to do, to come off as if we're each more about the whole person than the sex. The delusion breaks shortly after all topics of conversation had been exhausted, and the embrace and the kissing picks up from that night in the bar. Heated and sloppy, like two novices attempting a professional sport. My immediate problem is I am in the 4th gear of gratification. I want to remove clothes and begin things proper but she wants to go nice and slow.
"I'm not a slut," she moans as her skin flushes out red while I kiss her neck. I manage one hand up her shirt, slowly circling her right breast with my hand, while my other hand is placed on her crotch. It's like I'm some chef checking on the oven to make sure it's heating up properly. Her hand is rested in my lap, trailing up towards the belt, when...
A knock on the front door.
She gets away from me and leans towards the other side of the couch. I get up, trying to think of every mundane and rather cold thing to myself to reduce the erection I was sporting too obviously. The knock goes off again. I get to the door and unlock it and then I see..
My ex-girlfriend.
to be continued....
I'm working and it's late and lo and behold, she shows up from thin air. I ask her where she went that night instead of my apartment and replied something along the lines of she kind of got cold feet at the last minute and ducked out to a friends house to get high. She fell asleep and then just went home. It wouldn't be the first time I would have heard this explanation.
The next day, there's a note left on the windshield of my car. She wants to see me again, and this time promises no ducking out or anything. Yeah, whatever I tell myself as I get in the car and set the note in the passenger seat. Her phone number is on the note, so reluctantly I call it, thinking that this is probably a non-working number.
She answers after the third ring, and we proceed to make small talk. She rambles on about how she enjoyed that night, how relaxing and refreshing it all was to her. She was really going out of her way to butter me up, but I kept wincing because her voice projects Fran Drescher in the deep south visual. I tell her I'm open to getting together for the proverbial dinner and the movie date, because I know there's something there on a sexual level that I would be an idiot not to seize. She agrees that we should do the date, but then surprises me when she arrives knocking on my door a couple hours later. I thought I told her in a couple of days, but I won't squash any enthusiasm. Maybe this girl DID dig me...
So once again, in my apartment, we are sitting there making small talk, delaying what we really want to do, to come off as if we're each more about the whole person than the sex. The delusion breaks shortly after all topics of conversation had been exhausted, and the embrace and the kissing picks up from that night in the bar. Heated and sloppy, like two novices attempting a professional sport. My immediate problem is I am in the 4th gear of gratification. I want to remove clothes and begin things proper but she wants to go nice and slow.
"I'm not a slut," she moans as her skin flushes out red while I kiss her neck. I manage one hand up her shirt, slowly circling her right breast with my hand, while my other hand is placed on her crotch. It's like I'm some chef checking on the oven to make sure it's heating up properly. Her hand is rested in my lap, trailing up towards the belt, when...
A knock on the front door.
She gets away from me and leans towards the other side of the couch. I get up, trying to think of every mundane and rather cold thing to myself to reduce the erection I was sporting too obviously. The knock goes off again. I get to the door and unlock it and then I see..
My ex-girlfriend.
to be continued....
...But, Do You Like Me When I'm Sober (part 2)
She drives a rundown maroon celebrity. It sputters before reluctantly
coming to life. I'm already anxious at the possibility of getting some, I
contemplate jerking off in the bathroom to steady myself for foreplay
and sex while she fixes a jack and coke or a 7 of 7 while her headlights
stick close behind my car as we drive down the main boulevard. The
anticipation is really mucking with my initial calm demeanor. It's like
I'm 8 years old at Christmas at the sight of my yard covered in fresh
snow.
We get to the turn onto a secondary street. I hang left and she follows suit. Then, suddenly, she breaks on the first right onto this side street. I'm dumbfounded at this move. I pull over to my apartment building that's just further up the street. I sit in the idling car, overwhelmed with panic, wondering if she's playing and will double back around to the secondary street. Maybe I should look for her? Maybe she had to buy cigarettes or breath mints or even her preferred condom at Wal-Mart. Slowly, these questions are answered as if she had become a Scooby-Doo ghost by vanishing into thin air. 30 minutes pass in vain searching before I angrily go home.
Ring.
"Hello," I ask.
"Hey man!" It's the club DJ from earlier in the evening. He lives in the apartment building behind mine. "You were looking pretty lucky there tonight."
"Yeah."
"She looked good. Color me impressed. How drunk was she?"
"Not so much."
"She has a good looking ass."
"Yeah," I sigh.
"It wouldn't be next to you in bed passed out would it?"
"Actually...no. She was following me to my place, and then BAM! ditches me at the last possible second."
"Oh my God! Dude! You have the worst possible luck ever."
"Tell me about it," I grumbled.
"Like you were born with one testicle, or with a kick me sign on the back. Or maybe, you've had nothing but full moons and madness..."
"Listen dude, now's not the time for comedy."
"Hey, it's alright. Don't stress. what was she thinking about? Was she worried out in the parking lot?"
"No. Your guess is as good as mine."
to be continued...
We get to the turn onto a secondary street. I hang left and she follows suit. Then, suddenly, she breaks on the first right onto this side street. I'm dumbfounded at this move. I pull over to my apartment building that's just further up the street. I sit in the idling car, overwhelmed with panic, wondering if she's playing and will double back around to the secondary street. Maybe I should look for her? Maybe she had to buy cigarettes or breath mints or even her preferred condom at Wal-Mart. Slowly, these questions are answered as if she had become a Scooby-Doo ghost by vanishing into thin air. 30 minutes pass in vain searching before I angrily go home.
Ring.
"Hello," I ask.
"Hey man!" It's the club DJ from earlier in the evening. He lives in the apartment building behind mine. "You were looking pretty lucky there tonight."
"Yeah."
"She looked good. Color me impressed. How drunk was she?"
"Not so much."
"She has a good looking ass."
"Yeah," I sigh.
"It wouldn't be next to you in bed passed out would it?"
"Actually...no. She was following me to my place, and then BAM! ditches me at the last possible second."
"Oh my God! Dude! You have the worst possible luck ever."
"Tell me about it," I grumbled.
"Like you were born with one testicle, or with a kick me sign on the back. Or maybe, you've had nothing but full moons and madness..."
"Listen dude, now's not the time for comedy."
"Hey, it's alright. Don't stress. what was she thinking about? Was she worried out in the parking lot?"
"No. Your guess is as good as mine."
to be continued...
...But, Do You Dig Me When You're Sober? (part 1)
The posting below was originally written in October 03, 2005.
Monday, October 03, 2005
..But, Do You dig Me When You're Sober? (Part 1)
She isn't a dime piece.
She's not incredibly ugly, because she does have a pleasant face, lithe supple limbs and a rear end that's more round than flat. Her blue eyes always have a glint, a sparkle to them. A smile that could power a small neighborhood block.
And, there's that voice.
Loud. Grating. Like nails across a blackboard. Deep and husky southern drawl often slurring from ingesting too many whiskey shots. A laugh that's all smoky and full of congestion which makes you wish momentarily that she starts speaking again. Her short tongue, the insides of her mouth always have some cigarette taste weighed in sugar residue.
And she's the best you can do for a date. It feels cheap and desperate, which kind of gets tucked away after a few beers. Lots of beer helps bury the guilt.
When I first met her, it was by some arcane connection. Sometimes you can simply exchange pleasentries with someone and can mentally picture you and her in some afterglow admist tangled sheets and sweat. She sent this "cut the shit, I'm interested," vibe. Who knows why exactly. I wasn't wearing my desperation fragrance that night.
Numbers are exchanged, phone conversations commence, a meeting at a nightclub is arranged.
We get a corner booth, making small talk under the oppressive music selection the DJ is spinning. I would wish that I could have subtitles to make out what she's saying about her pet dog, her drunk mom, her boring job, but it doesn't really matter much, because she grabs my hand under the table, rough and course, extinguishes a menthol cancer stick with the other hand. Her drink sweats as heavy as I do because it suddenly feels as if someone turned up the heat. I lean in for the kiss and she meets me halfway. Sloppy and out of practice make out session begins. She pulls back, laughs, and then excuses herself to the ladies room. As she exits, I exhale, look up for a second at the DJ booth, and the DJ gives me the thumbs up with a quick wink.
When she returns, she's applied fresh lip gloss, complaining of the heat. I pay her a rather lame compliment that would have any self respecting drunk woman to exit stage left, but, she just smiles a flattered look and then quickly asks me if I have a roommate.
Picturing her clothes crumpled on the floor I reply "No".
She then asks if my place was any cooler than this annoying nightclub.
Now envisioning her lying on her back naked, I tell her the thermostat is dead locked on 70 degrees. I'm quick to follow up this revelation with I have alcohol if she needs any, all the while picturing her riding cowgirl. Wondering if her small perky breasts taste like a cigarette filter and if I should have some Altoids on hand for the foreplay. I don't have a spare tooth brush.
She tells me how much she digs me and how hot I'm making her. "It's so stressful to be this frustrated," she says, lighting another cigarette. "Can you relieve the tension?" she bluntly asks.
"Get your keys and follow me," I reply, hoping she gives oral.
to be continued....
She's not incredibly ugly, because she does have a pleasant face, lithe supple limbs and a rear end that's more round than flat. Her blue eyes always have a glint, a sparkle to them. A smile that could power a small neighborhood block.
And, there's that voice.
Loud. Grating. Like nails across a blackboard. Deep and husky southern drawl often slurring from ingesting too many whiskey shots. A laugh that's all smoky and full of congestion which makes you wish momentarily that she starts speaking again. Her short tongue, the insides of her mouth always have some cigarette taste weighed in sugar residue.
And she's the best you can do for a date. It feels cheap and desperate, which kind of gets tucked away after a few beers. Lots of beer helps bury the guilt.
When I first met her, it was by some arcane connection. Sometimes you can simply exchange pleasentries with someone and can mentally picture you and her in some afterglow admist tangled sheets and sweat. She sent this "cut the shit, I'm interested," vibe. Who knows why exactly. I wasn't wearing my desperation fragrance that night.
Numbers are exchanged, phone conversations commence, a meeting at a nightclub is arranged.
We get a corner booth, making small talk under the oppressive music selection the DJ is spinning. I would wish that I could have subtitles to make out what she's saying about her pet dog, her drunk mom, her boring job, but it doesn't really matter much, because she grabs my hand under the table, rough and course, extinguishes a menthol cancer stick with the other hand. Her drink sweats as heavy as I do because it suddenly feels as if someone turned up the heat. I lean in for the kiss and she meets me halfway. Sloppy and out of practice make out session begins. She pulls back, laughs, and then excuses herself to the ladies room. As she exits, I exhale, look up for a second at the DJ booth, and the DJ gives me the thumbs up with a quick wink.
When she returns, she's applied fresh lip gloss, complaining of the heat. I pay her a rather lame compliment that would have any self respecting drunk woman to exit stage left, but, she just smiles a flattered look and then quickly asks me if I have a roommate.
Picturing her clothes crumpled on the floor I reply "No".
She then asks if my place was any cooler than this annoying nightclub.
Now envisioning her lying on her back naked, I tell her the thermostat is dead locked on 70 degrees. I'm quick to follow up this revelation with I have alcohol if she needs any, all the while picturing her riding cowgirl. Wondering if her small perky breasts taste like a cigarette filter and if I should have some Altoids on hand for the foreplay. I don't have a spare tooth brush.
She tells me how much she digs me and how hot I'm making her. "It's so stressful to be this frustrated," she says, lighting another cigarette. "Can you relieve the tension?" she bluntly asks.
"Get your keys and follow me," I reply, hoping she gives oral.
to be continued....
Monday, May 20, 2013
The Guy Who Wasn't There
The question was pretty simple in my mind. What does having talent mean when you don't apply it? I keep this query in the notepad as I'm set to meet with Jeremy Dawe at a local restaurant. I was tasked by my editor in finding this man and trying to discover what it was that prevented him from taking the next step forward in the creative process. Research done has unearthed flashes here and there. A copy writing gig here. A well received blog post there. Colleagues would say the man had a really sharp mind and was very verbose at times. Despite the praise, no matter if it was gushing or reserved, there was an underlying question that had to be asked.
What does having talent mean when you don't apply it?
The restaurant my subject selected has seen better days. Worn and faded columns support the dining room. A sad looking buffet sits next to the booth I'm in as I await for Jeremy's arrival. The fake plastic foliage hasn't been cleaned in several weeks if I had to estimate. When I receive my water from the waitress, Jeremy appears from the front door. Ambling slowly with some extra weight around his middle, his hair slightly thinning. He doesn't look like much of anything except a guy rapidly approaching middle age and nothing to show of it. What was the deal with this assignment?
"He was really imaginative in my class," One of Jeremy's creative writing teachers told me earlier in the day. I'm sitting in a sterile feeling office as she kind of nods to herself in approval over her previous statement. "He was always working on something. Generally it was macabre, dark stuff. It was like he was trying to exorcise anything in his self onto the page. Thematically it wouldn't always add up, but, the passion and raw talent were there on display. I told him to write what he knew. That would get him on a road to somewhere by writing more of his day to day life, and less the puerile flights of fancy he was prone to turning in. I'll never forget what he said in reply. He said, 'No one would want to read that. Not even me.' "
I relay Jeremy this as his water he ordered is brought to him. He nods and says it's still pretty much true. "Who wants to read about a guy who's somewhat kind of failed at life? It only makes interesting reading to someone if they're trying to feel superior over the subject."
"What makes you think you failed at life so far? I'm writing a piece on you. Failures don't get that luxury."
"Look around you man. Look where I live. If the surroundings around you don't scream quit than you aren't looking too hard."
Jeremy is telling me of some of the misfortune that has come his way since high school. He tells me that as a senior, he was pretty much incognito amongst his peers as transferring from another school, the majority of classes needed for credits were taken his freshman and sophomore years, therefore, he was able to take nothing but electives. "I was anonymous in the best sense of the word. I would usually keep to myself for the most part. The people I did talk to were generally underclassmen. I just didn't understand the need for a car or any dominant issue that young people at 18 had. I was perfectly content just staying invisible and dreaming big of being the next big thing."
That dream didn't necessarily go according to plan. Dawe found himself in junior college not particularly driven to finish. It's a sore subject for him still. "I was more concentrated on trying to get with girls, and had none of the skills to really get a girl to date me. I would go out on a date occasionally if I worked up enough courage to do so, but, it was more patronizing than attraction."
How difficult was it to relate to the fairer sex? I asked him. He sits for a second contemplating this question and then he leans back a little in his chair.
"It's still difficult. I was told when I was younger, and it has been repeated off and on as an adult, that there is someone out there just for you. That's complete hokum in nicest of terms. As you get older, relationships really thrive from the sheer exhaustion of seeking the one person who not only fills the criteria you seek, but, you just acquiesce and settle".
"Have you gotten close to marriage?"
"Yeah. Once. And then, out of nowhere all this unsolicited advice comes in from all sides, family, workers, you know. 'It's a mistake' dressed a little nicer than what was intended. I bailed on the girl like a coward, already knowing in my mind this was a monumental mistake."
"Were you able to reconcile?"
"No. She found someone else and happiness that went with it. I've dated other women who just can't handle 'nice' or 'respectful'. They would like that in theory, but, when you're used to having emotional battery on a daily basis, and then someone comes along and tells you that you're pretty great, I can see how that could rattle a person. It's pretty foreign."
to be continued...
What does having talent mean when you don't apply it?
The restaurant my subject selected has seen better days. Worn and faded columns support the dining room. A sad looking buffet sits next to the booth I'm in as I await for Jeremy's arrival. The fake plastic foliage hasn't been cleaned in several weeks if I had to estimate. When I receive my water from the waitress, Jeremy appears from the front door. Ambling slowly with some extra weight around his middle, his hair slightly thinning. He doesn't look like much of anything except a guy rapidly approaching middle age and nothing to show of it. What was the deal with this assignment?
"He was really imaginative in my class," One of Jeremy's creative writing teachers told me earlier in the day. I'm sitting in a sterile feeling office as she kind of nods to herself in approval over her previous statement. "He was always working on something. Generally it was macabre, dark stuff. It was like he was trying to exorcise anything in his self onto the page. Thematically it wouldn't always add up, but, the passion and raw talent were there on display. I told him to write what he knew. That would get him on a road to somewhere by writing more of his day to day life, and less the puerile flights of fancy he was prone to turning in. I'll never forget what he said in reply. He said, 'No one would want to read that. Not even me.' "
I relay Jeremy this as his water he ordered is brought to him. He nods and says it's still pretty much true. "Who wants to read about a guy who's somewhat kind of failed at life? It only makes interesting reading to someone if they're trying to feel superior over the subject."
"What makes you think you failed at life so far? I'm writing a piece on you. Failures don't get that luxury."
"Look around you man. Look where I live. If the surroundings around you don't scream quit than you aren't looking too hard."
Jeremy is telling me of some of the misfortune that has come his way since high school. He tells me that as a senior, he was pretty much incognito amongst his peers as transferring from another school, the majority of classes needed for credits were taken his freshman and sophomore years, therefore, he was able to take nothing but electives. "I was anonymous in the best sense of the word. I would usually keep to myself for the most part. The people I did talk to were generally underclassmen. I just didn't understand the need for a car or any dominant issue that young people at 18 had. I was perfectly content just staying invisible and dreaming big of being the next big thing."
That dream didn't necessarily go according to plan. Dawe found himself in junior college not particularly driven to finish. It's a sore subject for him still. "I was more concentrated on trying to get with girls, and had none of the skills to really get a girl to date me. I would go out on a date occasionally if I worked up enough courage to do so, but, it was more patronizing than attraction."
How difficult was it to relate to the fairer sex? I asked him. He sits for a second contemplating this question and then he leans back a little in his chair.
"It's still difficult. I was told when I was younger, and it has been repeated off and on as an adult, that there is someone out there just for you. That's complete hokum in nicest of terms. As you get older, relationships really thrive from the sheer exhaustion of seeking the one person who not only fills the criteria you seek, but, you just acquiesce and settle".
"Have you gotten close to marriage?"
"Yeah. Once. And then, out of nowhere all this unsolicited advice comes in from all sides, family, workers, you know. 'It's a mistake' dressed a little nicer than what was intended. I bailed on the girl like a coward, already knowing in my mind this was a monumental mistake."
"Were you able to reconcile?"
"No. She found someone else and happiness that went with it. I've dated other women who just can't handle 'nice' or 'respectful'. They would like that in theory, but, when you're used to having emotional battery on a daily basis, and then someone comes along and tells you that you're pretty great, I can see how that could rattle a person. It's pretty foreign."
to be continued...
Tales From My Childhood 1985 Part 2
Subscriptions to comic titles last for only a year. I think my run of Incredible Hulk concluded at issue #308 or 09. I was determined to try and finish the story via news stand because for whatever adult reason my parents had escapes me now, the subscription service concluded and there was no way to pick up another. I would continue to keep tags on the book ESPECIALLY when John Byrne* got to write and illustrate the Jade Giant's adventures once the character returned to Earth from exile.
*(John Byrne is still my brother Jon's favorite artist. Byrne's illustrations and storytelling are still pretty great to go through, if you can turn a blind eye to the things Byrne says in public forums)
At some point, during the reprieve of receiving a monthly comic, I found secluded on the bottom of some spinner rack at Key Drugs a new title that I would fall for completely. The title was Power Pack. Issue number was 14. Title was School Daze.
To those uninitiated, Power Pack was the story of four siblings (2 boys and 2 girls) with the last name of Power who received fabulous powers from Whitey, an emissary from an alien race known as Kymellian. The children, with the help of Whitey's smartship Friday, stop the planet from being destroyed and rescue their parents from the clutches of the Snarks, a reptilian alien species who want to rule the galaxy.
Primed at young readers as the team kept their powers and super hero identities from their parents, Power Pack was something completely different in the Marvel Universe. As written by Louise Simonson and drawn by June Brigman, the kids looked and certainly read like siblings. More often than not in each issue the creative team was able to handle the dynamics of the siblings and have them face off with a villainous threat that was mild of the normal Marvel Manner.
Issue 14 was unlike anything my young eyes had ever seen. It focused more on the pressures and trials of each child in their respective school. The oldest child Alex trying to come off as physically impressive to his classmates. His sister Julie isn't prepared for test, and already knows that some of her peers have the test answers. Her brother Jack has been bit by the hero bug big time, as all he wants to spend his days is out in the public adventuring than getting an education. The villain of the issue was an old business partner of their father's, who saw his nefarious plans for wealth upended in the first story arc and now was seeking revenge for this action.
Needless to say, I was pretty much hooked. Power Pack would be the first title I would actively pursue every month. Before I was able to get another subscription, I had to pursue the title in specialty stores in town. The subject of preteen superheroes wasn't exactly the most sought after title compared to the likes of the X-Men and Spiderman. The first 30 or so issues are really worth looking into if you're curious and makes a decent read for kids from 9 years old and up.
*(John Byrne is still my brother Jon's favorite artist. Byrne's illustrations and storytelling are still pretty great to go through, if you can turn a blind eye to the things Byrne says in public forums)
At some point, during the reprieve of receiving a monthly comic, I found secluded on the bottom of some spinner rack at Key Drugs a new title that I would fall for completely. The title was Power Pack. Issue number was 14. Title was School Daze.
To those uninitiated, Power Pack was the story of four siblings (2 boys and 2 girls) with the last name of Power who received fabulous powers from Whitey, an emissary from an alien race known as Kymellian. The children, with the help of Whitey's smartship Friday, stop the planet from being destroyed and rescue their parents from the clutches of the Snarks, a reptilian alien species who want to rule the galaxy.
Primed at young readers as the team kept their powers and super hero identities from their parents, Power Pack was something completely different in the Marvel Universe. As written by Louise Simonson and drawn by June Brigman, the kids looked and certainly read like siblings. More often than not in each issue the creative team was able to handle the dynamics of the siblings and have them face off with a villainous threat that was mild of the normal Marvel Manner.
Issue 14 was unlike anything my young eyes had ever seen. It focused more on the pressures and trials of each child in their respective school. The oldest child Alex trying to come off as physically impressive to his classmates. His sister Julie isn't prepared for test, and already knows that some of her peers have the test answers. Her brother Jack has been bit by the hero bug big time, as all he wants to spend his days is out in the public adventuring than getting an education. The villain of the issue was an old business partner of their father's, who saw his nefarious plans for wealth upended in the first story arc and now was seeking revenge for this action.
Needless to say, I was pretty much hooked. Power Pack would be the first title I would actively pursue every month. Before I was able to get another subscription, I had to pursue the title in specialty stores in town. The subject of preteen superheroes wasn't exactly the most sought after title compared to the likes of the X-Men and Spiderman. The first 30 or so issues are really worth looking into if you're curious and makes a decent read for kids from 9 years old and up.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Tales From My Childhood 1985 pt 1
The longest affair I've ever conducted has been with a hobby I began when I was 10 years old. It was at a Kroger's on the north end of my town, near the pharmacy in the building. A spinner rack with super hero comics sat, beckoning eager and hungry imaginations to come and read. Thus began a long torrid love affair.
It wasn't that dramatic. Comics were there as an extension of programs that I watched every Friday night and Saturday morning. Back in the now canonized halcyon days of the early 80's, CBS carried the Incredible Hulk and then Dukes Of Hazzard. On Saturday morning, you could watch more adventures of the Hulk, albeit in animation as well as Spiderman & His Amazing Friends. To a young boy, this was pretty much nirvana that hit all the sweet spots. Besides Superman the Movie, these were the first long standing relationships with super heroes and science fiction.
My brother Jon and I would proverbially jump at the chance to go with one of our parents to Kroger or IGA or Key Drugs since newsstands regularly carried plenty of comics in those days before they were marginalized into specialty shops and book stores. With either sweet cajoling or bargaining we could manage to get 50 cents or 65 cents for a Marvel or DC comic.
One of the best things about comics storytelling was you didn't need to have purchased half a year worth of stories to solicit any enjoyment with what you were reading. Each issue read as a complete story in itself, sometimes telling a larger story. The artwork was splendid in it's workmanlike presentation. Action was conveyed clearly on the page, the vocabulary had me go to a dictionary in search of a word I had recently discovered. You had to put in work to read an issue of any given book, but it was worth it. Even the letters pages were entertaining with repeat writers like Uncle Elvis.(Though it took me a while to realize that 'nuff said was merely a statement and not an actual guy named 'nuff)
I was pretty much hooked. Over the course of a year or so, Jon and I would pick up random titles who's covers sold it well. Master of Kung Fu, Spiderman, X-Men, Daredevil, JLA, Flash, ElfQuest. The first title we both agreed needed to be read from start to finish was Secret Wars which we had a few toys from the crossover promotion. The novel concept of an omniscient presence selecting Marvel Comics greatest heroes and villains and placing them on Battleworld to fight for his enjoyment was so appealing, it was imperative to get all the issues we could find. Being that these were news stands, some months the next issue wouldn't ship, or other variables you connect with not subscribing. Add to that was the fact you had parents who were watching every penny to put food on the table, so you would crap out with your request. Jon and I did get about half of Secret Wars though. At least being witness to the biggest change of the event, Spiderman's new symbiotic suit.
Our father had suggested to us to get subscriptions to one book a piece since Marvel was all about offering deals for more than one subscription on it's back page. Jon selected The Thing, which continued the story of Ben Grimm on Battleworld after Secret Wars concluded. John Byrne wrote the tale, including a soliloquy Ben had internally to his love Alicia Masters which my brother used as a love letter to a girl in his class. I selected Incredible Hulk.
Six or eight weeks after sending the money off, a brown slipcover dropped through the house's mail slot. This was your clue that the comic you subscribed to had arrived, usually bent down the middle in order to get it through the mail slot. To me, getting that mail was like Christmas once a month. The Incredible Hulk was in the mid 290's when I began receiving them. Bill Mantlo and Sal Buscema had been working on a tale that had the jade giant with Bruce Banner's mind, wearing trunks, and strangely walking with a leg brace and crutch. He was seeing Kate Waynesboro instead of Betty Ross and the immediate dilemma was Banner was losing his grip on the Hulk. The savage side of the Hulk was taking over slowly. The villain Nightmare posed problems for Bruce and the story culminated in issue 300 where the Savage Incredible Hulk was laying to waste New York City. Every Marvel hero at the time were trying to stop him to no avail. It took a spell by Doctor Strange to cast the rampaging out of control monster to another dimension all together, and begin the Cross Roads storyline in issue 301.
Good comics done well can have a lasting effect on a boy. I wanted to know more and expand my reading. A kid in my 5th Grade class had issues of the official Marvel Handbook which I read in my free time instead of socializing with my peers over the A-Team or Knight Rider. I was searching for a new book, one that felt more relatable than a one ton jade behemoth with anger issues.
to be continued...
It wasn't that dramatic. Comics were there as an extension of programs that I watched every Friday night and Saturday morning. Back in the now canonized halcyon days of the early 80's, CBS carried the Incredible Hulk and then Dukes Of Hazzard. On Saturday morning, you could watch more adventures of the Hulk, albeit in animation as well as Spiderman & His Amazing Friends. To a young boy, this was pretty much nirvana that hit all the sweet spots. Besides Superman the Movie, these were the first long standing relationships with super heroes and science fiction.
My brother Jon and I would proverbially jump at the chance to go with one of our parents to Kroger or IGA or Key Drugs since newsstands regularly carried plenty of comics in those days before they were marginalized into specialty shops and book stores. With either sweet cajoling or bargaining we could manage to get 50 cents or 65 cents for a Marvel or DC comic.
One of the best things about comics storytelling was you didn't need to have purchased half a year worth of stories to solicit any enjoyment with what you were reading. Each issue read as a complete story in itself, sometimes telling a larger story. The artwork was splendid in it's workmanlike presentation. Action was conveyed clearly on the page, the vocabulary had me go to a dictionary in search of a word I had recently discovered. You had to put in work to read an issue of any given book, but it was worth it. Even the letters pages were entertaining with repeat writers like Uncle Elvis.(Though it took me a while to realize that 'nuff said was merely a statement and not an actual guy named 'nuff)
I was pretty much hooked. Over the course of a year or so, Jon and I would pick up random titles who's covers sold it well. Master of Kung Fu, Spiderman, X-Men, Daredevil, JLA, Flash, ElfQuest. The first title we both agreed needed to be read from start to finish was Secret Wars which we had a few toys from the crossover promotion. The novel concept of an omniscient presence selecting Marvel Comics greatest heroes and villains and placing them on Battleworld to fight for his enjoyment was so appealing, it was imperative to get all the issues we could find. Being that these were news stands, some months the next issue wouldn't ship, or other variables you connect with not subscribing. Add to that was the fact you had parents who were watching every penny to put food on the table, so you would crap out with your request. Jon and I did get about half of Secret Wars though. At least being witness to the biggest change of the event, Spiderman's new symbiotic suit.
Our father had suggested to us to get subscriptions to one book a piece since Marvel was all about offering deals for more than one subscription on it's back page. Jon selected The Thing, which continued the story of Ben Grimm on Battleworld after Secret Wars concluded. John Byrne wrote the tale, including a soliloquy Ben had internally to his love Alicia Masters which my brother used as a love letter to a girl in his class. I selected Incredible Hulk.
Six or eight weeks after sending the money off, a brown slipcover dropped through the house's mail slot. This was your clue that the comic you subscribed to had arrived, usually bent down the middle in order to get it through the mail slot. To me, getting that mail was like Christmas once a month. The Incredible Hulk was in the mid 290's when I began receiving them. Bill Mantlo and Sal Buscema had been working on a tale that had the jade giant with Bruce Banner's mind, wearing trunks, and strangely walking with a leg brace and crutch. He was seeing Kate Waynesboro instead of Betty Ross and the immediate dilemma was Banner was losing his grip on the Hulk. The savage side of the Hulk was taking over slowly. The villain Nightmare posed problems for Bruce and the story culminated in issue 300 where the Savage Incredible Hulk was laying to waste New York City. Every Marvel hero at the time were trying to stop him to no avail. It took a spell by Doctor Strange to cast the rampaging out of control monster to another dimension all together, and begin the Cross Roads storyline in issue 301.
Good comics done well can have a lasting effect on a boy. I wanted to know more and expand my reading. A kid in my 5th Grade class had issues of the official Marvel Handbook which I read in my free time instead of socializing with my peers over the A-Team or Knight Rider. I was searching for a new book, one that felt more relatable than a one ton jade behemoth with anger issues.
to be continued...
When Comics Anti Heroes Go Mature...
When reading comics, some characters can seem pretty tricky to write. You have the likes of Superman, who you is essentially a benign God, yet, you want to make him relatable to your readers. There's characters like Mr Fantastic, in which you want him to sound smart, but, not come across as illogical. The superhero genre of sequential story telling and cartooning are littered with different characters.
The idea of Deadpool struck me as a one man Shane Black script. Take the ideas and various punchlines from shows like Lethal Weapon and lease it to a certifiable maniacal assassin. When the idea is executed well, it brings in a lot of interested readers. When done poorly, it can be a nonsensical chore. Joe Kelly was able to achieve some good with the character in the late 90's, creating a whole world for a character who up till that point was a supporting character that stole stories from the primary characters. It was a pretty fun ride for a couple of years. As a reader, I fell out of reading the nonsensical adventures of Wade Wilson when Kelly departed the book. I've sampled different issues here and there based on acquaintances reactions via social media, but, nothing seemed to really stick.
Marvel's boutique adults only line, Max, drafted David Lapham to write and Kyle Baker to illustrate a straight up adults only Deadpool story. Not adult where there's explicit sex (there's some, but, implied) nor graphically violent (Well, you got me there. It IS known as Deadpool) but situational comedy that could go for the four letter dirty words rather than imply them. The main duo cross paths from with characters like the Taskmaster, terrorists, the mob, the government, Christians, coked out pimps, hookers, sociopathic orphans, and surprise guest stars from the primary run Joe Kelly wrote many years ago.
The pairing of Lapham & Baker was really inspiring to me reading as it feels the two guys were able to hit it off creatively and they compliment each other amiably. The plot of their story reads that Deadpool and his handler Bob are working with the government to stop the forces of Hydra, a nefarious terrorist organization. Each issue the main plot is paralleled with backstories of the primary characters. Given the nature that Deadpool is indeed insane, it's up to the reader to determine what's real and what's fiction. Bob isn't much better. As his character is greedy, callow, and manipulative. What he says and does are two entirely different things.
Baker is an inspired choice as the artist for Lapham's unhinged story, as Baker's distinct cartoony style lends itself perfectly. As single issues, Deadpool Max works allright, however, as you read the whole series, the much larger story is played out and is delightfully absurd, pitch black comedy. If you're a fan of the current incarnation of Deadpool written by Duggan &Poeshn or of the earlier Joe Kelly version, or, if you haven't checked in a few years, this is well worth investment.
The idea of Deadpool struck me as a one man Shane Black script. Take the ideas and various punchlines from shows like Lethal Weapon and lease it to a certifiable maniacal assassin. When the idea is executed well, it brings in a lot of interested readers. When done poorly, it can be a nonsensical chore. Joe Kelly was able to achieve some good with the character in the late 90's, creating a whole world for a character who up till that point was a supporting character that stole stories from the primary characters. It was a pretty fun ride for a couple of years. As a reader, I fell out of reading the nonsensical adventures of Wade Wilson when Kelly departed the book. I've sampled different issues here and there based on acquaintances reactions via social media, but, nothing seemed to really stick.
Marvel's boutique adults only line, Max, drafted David Lapham to write and Kyle Baker to illustrate a straight up adults only Deadpool story. Not adult where there's explicit sex (there's some, but, implied) nor graphically violent (Well, you got me there. It IS known as Deadpool) but situational comedy that could go for the four letter dirty words rather than imply them. The main duo cross paths from with characters like the Taskmaster, terrorists, the mob, the government, Christians, coked out pimps, hookers, sociopathic orphans, and surprise guest stars from the primary run Joe Kelly wrote many years ago.
The pairing of Lapham & Baker was really inspiring to me reading as it feels the two guys were able to hit it off creatively and they compliment each other amiably. The plot of their story reads that Deadpool and his handler Bob are working with the government to stop the forces of Hydra, a nefarious terrorist organization. Each issue the main plot is paralleled with backstories of the primary characters. Given the nature that Deadpool is indeed insane, it's up to the reader to determine what's real and what's fiction. Bob isn't much better. As his character is greedy, callow, and manipulative. What he says and does are two entirely different things.
Baker is an inspired choice as the artist for Lapham's unhinged story, as Baker's distinct cartoony style lends itself perfectly. As single issues, Deadpool Max works allright, however, as you read the whole series, the much larger story is played out and is delightfully absurd, pitch black comedy. If you're a fan of the current incarnation of Deadpool written by Duggan &Poeshn or of the earlier Joe Kelly version, or, if you haven't checked in a few years, this is well worth investment.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
A Great Essay from Chcuck Klosterman About Nemesis
The
Importance of Being Hated
In this golden age of enmity, friends are for suckers. What you need are a pair of well-chosen foes.
by Chuck Klosterman | Apr 01 '04
"It's not what you know," they say. "It's who you know." We have all heard this sentiment, and we all reflexively
agree with it. This is because "they" are hard to debate, especially since "they" never seem to be in the room whenever anyone makes reference to them. Yet they have a secret shame, and it's a shame they can't deny: They are losers. They are failures. They don't realize that life is—almost without exception—an absolute meritocracy, and everyone who succeeds completely deserves it.* The only people who disagree with this are people who will never succeed at anything. You see, "they" want you to believe the passageway to power is all about cultivating allies, so they spend all their time trying to make friends and influence people. And this is why they fail. It rarely matters who is on your side; what matters is who is against you. Unlike Gloria Loring, you don't need a friend and you don't need a lover. What you need is a) one quality nemesis, and b) one archenemy. These are the two most important characters in the life of any successful human. We measure ourselves against our nemeses, and we long to destroy our archenemies. Nemeses and archenemies are the catalysts for everything.
*The exceptions being Dale Peck, MTV on-air personalities who aren't Kurt Loder, Al Franken, and myself.
**This is speculative.
HOW TO MAKE ENEMIES
In this golden age of enmity, friends are for suckers. What you need are a pair of well-chosen foes.
by Chuck Klosterman | Apr 01 '04
"It's not what you know," they say. "It's who you know." We have all heard this sentiment, and we all reflexively
agree with it. This is because "they" are hard to debate, especially since "they" never seem to be in the room whenever anyone makes reference to them. Yet they have a secret shame, and it's a shame they can't deny: They are losers. They are failures. They don't realize that life is—almost without exception—an absolute meritocracy, and everyone who succeeds completely deserves it.* The only people who disagree with this are people who will never succeed at anything. You see, "they" want you to believe the passageway to power is all about cultivating allies, so they spend all their time trying to make friends and influence people. And this is why they fail. It rarely matters who is on your side; what matters is who is against you. Unlike Gloria Loring, you don't need a friend and you don't need a lover. What you need is a) one quality nemesis, and b) one archenemy. These are the two most important characters in the life of any successful human. We measure ourselves against our nemeses, and we long to destroy our archenemies. Nemeses and archenemies are the catalysts for everything.
Now, I know that you're probably asking yourself, How do I know the
difference between my nemesis and my archenemy? Here is the short answer: You
kind of like your nemesis, despite the fact that you despise him. If your
nemesis invited you out for cocktails, you would accept the offer. If he died,
you would attend his funeral and—privately—you might shed a tear over his
passing. But you would never have drinks with your archenemy, unless you
were attempting to spike his gin with hemlock. If you were to perish, your
archenemy would dance on your grave, and then he'd burn down your house and
molest your children. You hate your archenemy so much that you try to keep your
hatred secret, because you don't want your archenemy to have the satisfaction of
being hated.
If this distinction seems confusing, just ask your girlfriend to explain it
in detail; women have always intuitively grasped the nemesis/archenemy
dichotomy. Every woman I've ever known has had at least one close friend whose
only purpose in life is to criticize her actions, compete for the attention of
men, and drive her insane; very often, this is a woman's best friend .
Every woman also has a former friend (usually someone from high school with
large breasts) whom she has loathed for years (and whom she will continue to
loath with the intensity of a thousand suns, even if she sees her only once
every ten years). This is her archenemy. Women intrinsically understand human
dynamics, and this makes them unstoppable. Unfortunately, the average man is
less adroit at fostering such rivalries, which is why most men remain average.
Males are better at hating things that can't hate them back (e.g., lawn mowers,
cats, the 1986 Denver Broncos, et cetera). Most men fail to see a world beyond
themselves; if given the choice, they would connect themselves to nothing. But
greatness cannot be achieved in a vacuum, and great people know that.
In the 1980s, Larry Bird's nemesis was Magic Johnson, and it was always
beautiful when they tangled. But Bird's archenemy wasn't Magic; it was Isiah
Thomas. When the Celtics played the Pistons, it was a train wreck, and it went
deeper than basketball: In 1987, Isiah supported Dennis "Rush" Rodman when he
claimed Bird was famous only because he was white. Larry forgave Isiah in
public, but he still iced him in the end; the first thing Bird did after
becoming president of the Pacers was fire Zeke as head coach. Steve Jobs is Bill
Gates's nemesis, but if Gates had only one bullet in his revolver, he'd shoot
David Boies. J. R. Ewing was at war with nemesis/brother Bobby for twelve
seasons (thirteen if you count the year Victoria Principal dreamed he was dead),
but Cliff Barnes was the true Minotaur of Southfork. Jack White turned Von
Bondies singer Jason Stollsteimer's face into a speed bag, but Stollsteimer
barely even deserves nemesis stature; White's archenemy is Ryan Adams (although
he'd be better off if it were Julian Casablancas of the Strokes). The Joker was
Batman's nemesis, but—ironically—his archenemy was Superman, since Superman made
Batman seem entirely mortal and generally nonessential. Nobody likes to admit
this, but Batman hated Superman; Superman is the reason Batman became an
alcoholic. **
This fall, George W. Bush will seek reelection, and whoever the Democrats end
up nominating will become Bush's "nemesis by default" (although not his true
nemesis; that will always be John McCain). But none of the candidates has a
shot at becoming Bush's archenemy; that designation is inflexible. W's archenemy
is Bill Clinton (mostly because Bill beat up his dad in '92). George W. Bush
will never face the man he hates most; this is why George W. Bush will never
achieve greatness. However, when we get to 2008—when Clinton's wife faces the
little brother of her husband's archenemy—it will be a bloodbath. When the
families of archenemies collide, skulls get pounded into pulp. Jeb–Hillary will
be like Frazier–Ali III.
I was sitting in the passenger seat of my nemesis's Buick Skylark when he
punched me in 1992; I jacked his jaw at a keg party in '94. These days I mostly
just read his blog, although we did have a pressure-packed lunch at the Fargo
Olive Garden over Christmas. Meanwhile, I've had the same archenemy since eighth
grade: He's a guy named Rick Helling, and he grew up in Lakota, North Dakota.
Last year, Helling pitched a few innings for the Marlins in the World Series; in
1998, he won twenty games for the Rangers. I went to basketball camp with Rick
Helling in 1985, and he was the single worst person I'd ever met. Every summer,
I constantly scan the sports section of USA Today , always hoping that he
got shelled. This is what drives me. I cannot live in a world where Helling's
career ERA hovers below 5.00, yet all I do for a living is type . As long
as Rick Helling walks this earth, I shall never sleep soundly.
I realize there are those who don't think it's necessary (or even wise) to
consciously create adversaries; Will Rogers claimed that he never met a man he
didn't like. But what is Will Rogers famous for, really? For telling jokes that
don't have punch lines? For wearing a bandanna like an ascot? Who wants that for
a legacy? There is a reason they say, "Keep your friends close, but keep your
enemies closer." Granted, "they" usually don't know what they're talking about,
but sometimes "they" get lucky, you know?
*The exceptions being Dale Peck, MTV on-air personalities who aren't Kurt Loder, Al Franken, and myself.
**This is speculative.
As the accompanying essay makes clear, you'll need a nemesis and an archenemy
if you wish to be successful in this world. The good news is, it's entirely
possible that you already have each of these entities in your life; perhaps you
just don't realize it (or maybe you can't tell them apart). As a public service,
here are a few signs.
RECOGNIZING YOUR NEMESIS
•At some point in the past, this person was (arguably) your best friend.
•You have punched this person in the face.
•If invited, you would go to this person's wedding and give him a spice rack, but you would secretly hope that his marriage ends in a bitter, public divorce.
•People who barely know both of you assume you are close friends; people who know both of you intimately suspect that you profoundly dislike each other.
•If your archenemy tried to kill you, this person would attempt to stop him.
•At some point in the past, this person was (arguably) your best friend.
•You have punched this person in the face.
•If invited, you would go to this person's wedding and give him a spice rack, but you would secretly hope that his marriage ends in a bitter, public divorce.
•People who barely know both of you assume you are close friends; people who know both of you intimately suspect that you profoundly dislike each other.
•If your archenemy tried to kill you, this person would attempt to stop him.
RECOGNIZING YOUR ARCHENEMY
•Every time you talk to this person, you lie.
•If you meet someone who has the same first name as this person, you immediately like him less.
•The satisfaction you feel from your own success pales in comparison to the despair you feel at this person's triumphs, even if those triumphs are completely unrelated to your life.
•If this person slept with your girlfriend, she would never be attractive to you again.
•Even if this person's girlfriend was a hateful bitch, you would sleep with her out of spite.
•Every time you talk to this person, you lie.
•If you meet someone who has the same first name as this person, you immediately like him less.
•The satisfaction you feel from your own success pales in comparison to the despair you feel at this person's triumphs, even if those triumphs are completely unrelated to your life.
•If this person slept with your girlfriend, she would never be attractive to you again.
•Even if this person's girlfriend was a hateful bitch, you would sleep with her out of spite.
Retro Post- The Trouble With Online Dating 3/3/10
(The following below is a 3 year old post. Will have a regular post in a while. Just a mere highlight of my "luck" as it were.)
I have been lurking about on okcupid the past month or so, in the means of finding a friendship connection, and perhaps grow and nurture this into something else. It hasn't gone as well as planned.
Sure, in the beginning, it was peaches and cream. I had clumsily wrote a quick few lines to some vague female stranger and got a reply. A couple of brief conversations turn into a number exchange. The exchange begat a couple of phone conversations and some text messages. It seemed to be stubbornly progressing, at least in my opinion, but this wasn't to met the same way, and despite her request to meet up some venue and some time, 72 hours later, she says personal yadda yadda, and don't contact me again. Add insult to injury, I guess I'm blocked as a security measure.
Now, your humble narrator wasn't playing the whole clingy whiny pathetic motormouth sap card as he is usually prone to do with the opposite sex. It was quick, clever, and brief. Yet, once again, I feel as if I had moved too fast, or something equally trivial to give her the strength to say no. Hmmm, I didn't get forward with her, unless you consider a message of how you're doing forward, or how was your day. I can see the potent forwardness in that question.
So, life lesson learned right? Yeah, and a couple of others as well.
Lesson 1) No matter how much humor is interjected into a site like okcupid, it's still feels slightly creepy to me. I feel all I'm missing is a rustic van with tinted windows and no backseat with shag carpeting, whilst I troll from picture to picture. It's foolish to think you can devise the makeup of one's personality gleaned from a few paragraphs and some photos. There is no instant connection when looking at pictures other than the unchecked feeling of lust that begins to stir. The site was better when I was just taking the occassional quiz or answering some open ended ethics question.
Lesson 2) I may be pretty straight forward and honest when I'm trying to strike up some conversation, but a lot of women and probably guys double stack their page with bullshit. Yeah, I hear you all going "Duhhhh!" collectively reading that statement, but color me either naive or capricious in thinking different. It's a dating site, and the desperation quotient is pretty high for thousands of people putting themselves out there on the internet. You may read how said member is wanting to find a guy who listens and has a sense of humor, and how you will at least get a good friend of the prospective partnership, but alas, it's all for naught. It's contradictory in thinking you will discover that soul mate, or potential good friend or casual sex partner online, and then develop a sense of standard suddenly. All statements made should have subtitles. Like, if you read something about how it matters what a person looks like inside, they are still jonesing for chiseled man candy with the impeccable hair and jaw line, not the lemur looking cat who's trying to get a reply from her.
Here's another one- It doesn't matter how much money you make, only as long as you are independent. In reality, it really matters what your wealth is, as your credit history is probably combed over once before another conversation.
The best one, the real clincher online is- I like to think of myself as open and honest. I will tell it to you straight and not afraid to do so. Translation- I'm sad and lonely in need of some form of conversation. I cannot swallow my fear or articulate my feelings, so I will merely avoid and ignore you long enough until you get the hint, so I feel as guiltless as an innocent babe, and give you an inferiority complex.
In light of all these recent discoveries, I really wonder if continuing this exercise is beneficial, outside of the humorous aspects of the fumbling about and ego withering shoot downs. I am a glutton for punishment though, a masochist. Chances are, there will probably be a few more posts detailing some new nameless woman without a heart this year. Biological clocks ticking and all.
BTW, if I can maintain a signal, I will try and post more often. Exercise my flabby cortex and weak medulla. Au Revoir!
I have been lurking about on okcupid the past month or so, in the means of finding a friendship connection, and perhaps grow and nurture this into something else. It hasn't gone as well as planned.
Sure, in the beginning, it was peaches and cream. I had clumsily wrote a quick few lines to some vague female stranger and got a reply. A couple of brief conversations turn into a number exchange. The exchange begat a couple of phone conversations and some text messages. It seemed to be stubbornly progressing, at least in my opinion, but this wasn't to met the same way, and despite her request to meet up some venue and some time, 72 hours later, she says personal yadda yadda, and don't contact me again. Add insult to injury, I guess I'm blocked as a security measure.
Now, your humble narrator wasn't playing the whole clingy whiny pathetic motormouth sap card as he is usually prone to do with the opposite sex. It was quick, clever, and brief. Yet, once again, I feel as if I had moved too fast, or something equally trivial to give her the strength to say no. Hmmm, I didn't get forward with her, unless you consider a message of how you're doing forward, or how was your day. I can see the potent forwardness in that question.
So, life lesson learned right? Yeah, and a couple of others as well.
Lesson 1) No matter how much humor is interjected into a site like okcupid, it's still feels slightly creepy to me. I feel all I'm missing is a rustic van with tinted windows and no backseat with shag carpeting, whilst I troll from picture to picture. It's foolish to think you can devise the makeup of one's personality gleaned from a few paragraphs and some photos. There is no instant connection when looking at pictures other than the unchecked feeling of lust that begins to stir. The site was better when I was just taking the occassional quiz or answering some open ended ethics question.
Lesson 2) I may be pretty straight forward and honest when I'm trying to strike up some conversation, but a lot of women and probably guys double stack their page with bullshit. Yeah, I hear you all going "Duhhhh!" collectively reading that statement, but color me either naive or capricious in thinking different. It's a dating site, and the desperation quotient is pretty high for thousands of people putting themselves out there on the internet. You may read how said member is wanting to find a guy who listens and has a sense of humor, and how you will at least get a good friend of the prospective partnership, but alas, it's all for naught. It's contradictory in thinking you will discover that soul mate, or potential good friend or casual sex partner online, and then develop a sense of standard suddenly. All statements made should have subtitles. Like, if you read something about how it matters what a person looks like inside, they are still jonesing for chiseled man candy with the impeccable hair and jaw line, not the lemur looking cat who's trying to get a reply from her.
Here's another one- It doesn't matter how much money you make, only as long as you are independent. In reality, it really matters what your wealth is, as your credit history is probably combed over once before another conversation.
The best one, the real clincher online is- I like to think of myself as open and honest. I will tell it to you straight and not afraid to do so. Translation- I'm sad and lonely in need of some form of conversation. I cannot swallow my fear or articulate my feelings, so I will merely avoid and ignore you long enough until you get the hint, so I feel as guiltless as an innocent babe, and give you an inferiority complex.
In light of all these recent discoveries, I really wonder if continuing this exercise is beneficial, outside of the humorous aspects of the fumbling about and ego withering shoot downs. I am a glutton for punishment though, a masochist. Chances are, there will probably be a few more posts detailing some new nameless woman without a heart this year. Biological clocks ticking and all.
BTW, if I can maintain a signal, I will try and post more often. Exercise my flabby cortex and weak medulla. Au Revoir!
Friday, May 10, 2013
The Unseen Dragon
In 1992, seven prominent pencillers in the field of comics storytelling did something unthinkable. They broke away from the established business model of working either at DC Comics or Marvel Comics and went out on their own, forming Image Comics.
Each creator had their own creation to which they knew in that speculator boom market of the early 90's, that their names attached to a whole new creation would be a sizable hit right out of the gate. It was a fun and exciting time to be a comics reader and collector, as these new titles would pop up to significant fanfare off the sheer audacious nature of seven artists bucking conventional thinking and work to forge their own path of self publishing.
As Rob Liefeld introduced the world of comics to Youngblood, Todd McFarlane excited readers with his modern updating of Faust in Spawn, and Jim Lee introduced his X-Men variants known as the WildC.A.T.S. These were fun books, but, to this reader the best book was yet to come.
Erik Larsen introduced his hero, Dragon, in a four issue miniseries that I still marvel at to this day. I read the back story on how Larsen had created the characters in the miniseries as a child, working on stories during school with friends. I could relate as I spent most of fifth grade trading characters and illustrations with a classmate when we should have been paying closer attention to the reading assignment, we were exchanging comics.
To the uninitiated, the character Dragon is a green skinned amnesiac found in a burning field. With seemingly endless strength and the ability to heal from injury quickly, he's courted by LT Frank Darling to join the Chicago Police Department. The city of Chicago is being overrun by a super powered villainous gang known as the Vicious Circle and they're led by Overlord.
This was all you needed to know. The hook of the story was immediate in the pages therein of the miniseries. For a perceived neophyte writer, Larsen wrote fantastic action sequences and had the ability to juggle multiple plots in keeping the reader engaged. (As a side note, I'm always disappointed when I read that blanket statement that Image Comics early years were all art and no story. These criticisms never seemed to actually read Savage Dragon and seemingly lumped it into the category)
Following Larsen's character from his miniseries to his ongoing series was a treat, and, it only got better when he was began his ongoing series. Vividly on display, page of page of sheer unbridled joy creating wild scenarios, brutal fights, and jaw dropping cliffhangers. As it continued, Larsen was adding characters and taking some out with the same blunt action Robert Kirkman would do in his signature title The Walking Dead. The reader saw Dragon win battles, lose some, relationship problems. Issues in the police station. Stories could be read with no need to pick up previous issues because there would be a nice recap of events to new readers while progressing the story.
As a reader, I've always got this impression in reading Savage Dragon of Erik Larsen just drawing sequential art and then later adding dialogue to the finished product. Whatever was in his head would be put out on paper. In the 20+ years since it's initial publication, the enthusiasm and boundless joy Larsen showed readers has not ceased one iota. He would say in his lettercol that there was no way he would ever give the title to someone else. He couldn't imagine it. This was his dream job and it still shows to this day.
That letter column has been great as well. For a period of time, it would run 6-8 pages of insightful and interesting fan letters from readers and from guys who worked in the business as well. There was a healthy debate in there for a while between Peter David and Larsen himself who debated primarily the formation of Image Comics if memory serves correct. Each creator took fun swipes at each other in their respective books as well.
Over the course of 20 years though, the long time readers have seen Dragon work for the police and later the SOS, leading a crew of super powered heroes into different adventures and never feeling too comfortable about it. At issue 75, Larsen just wiped his present story slate clean and began an alternate timeline. It's gotten so complex and complicated in it's sheer love for comics of old, Savage Dragon has it's own wiki page run by super fan Gavin Higginbotham that keeps all the various plot points and characters in line.
What I've rambled essentially for several paragraphs is this. To anyone wanting a really fun, intricate, unexpected thrill ride that comes out monthly (mostly) you should give Savage Dragon a chance. You really won't be disappointed.
For more information go to www.savagedragon.com, follow @GavHigginbotham, @DragonFanBlog @ErikJLarsen, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savage_Dragon.
Each creator had their own creation to which they knew in that speculator boom market of the early 90's, that their names attached to a whole new creation would be a sizable hit right out of the gate. It was a fun and exciting time to be a comics reader and collector, as these new titles would pop up to significant fanfare off the sheer audacious nature of seven artists bucking conventional thinking and work to forge their own path of self publishing.
As Rob Liefeld introduced the world of comics to Youngblood, Todd McFarlane excited readers with his modern updating of Faust in Spawn, and Jim Lee introduced his X-Men variants known as the WildC.A.T.S. These were fun books, but, to this reader the best book was yet to come.
Erik Larsen introduced his hero, Dragon, in a four issue miniseries that I still marvel at to this day. I read the back story on how Larsen had created the characters in the miniseries as a child, working on stories during school with friends. I could relate as I spent most of fifth grade trading characters and illustrations with a classmate when we should have been paying closer attention to the reading assignment, we were exchanging comics.
To the uninitiated, the character Dragon is a green skinned amnesiac found in a burning field. With seemingly endless strength and the ability to heal from injury quickly, he's courted by LT Frank Darling to join the Chicago Police Department. The city of Chicago is being overrun by a super powered villainous gang known as the Vicious Circle and they're led by Overlord.
This was all you needed to know. The hook of the story was immediate in the pages therein of the miniseries. For a perceived neophyte writer, Larsen wrote fantastic action sequences and had the ability to juggle multiple plots in keeping the reader engaged. (As a side note, I'm always disappointed when I read that blanket statement that Image Comics early years were all art and no story. These criticisms never seemed to actually read Savage Dragon and seemingly lumped it into the category)
Following Larsen's character from his miniseries to his ongoing series was a treat, and, it only got better when he was began his ongoing series. Vividly on display, page of page of sheer unbridled joy creating wild scenarios, brutal fights, and jaw dropping cliffhangers. As it continued, Larsen was adding characters and taking some out with the same blunt action Robert Kirkman would do in his signature title The Walking Dead. The reader saw Dragon win battles, lose some, relationship problems. Issues in the police station. Stories could be read with no need to pick up previous issues because there would be a nice recap of events to new readers while progressing the story.
As a reader, I've always got this impression in reading Savage Dragon of Erik Larsen just drawing sequential art and then later adding dialogue to the finished product. Whatever was in his head would be put out on paper. In the 20+ years since it's initial publication, the enthusiasm and boundless joy Larsen showed readers has not ceased one iota. He would say in his lettercol that there was no way he would ever give the title to someone else. He couldn't imagine it. This was his dream job and it still shows to this day.
That letter column has been great as well. For a period of time, it would run 6-8 pages of insightful and interesting fan letters from readers and from guys who worked in the business as well. There was a healthy debate in there for a while between Peter David and Larsen himself who debated primarily the formation of Image Comics if memory serves correct. Each creator took fun swipes at each other in their respective books as well.
Over the course of 20 years though, the long time readers have seen Dragon work for the police and later the SOS, leading a crew of super powered heroes into different adventures and never feeling too comfortable about it. At issue 75, Larsen just wiped his present story slate clean and began an alternate timeline. It's gotten so complex and complicated in it's sheer love for comics of old, Savage Dragon has it's own wiki page run by super fan Gavin Higginbotham that keeps all the various plot points and characters in line.
What I've rambled essentially for several paragraphs is this. To anyone wanting a really fun, intricate, unexpected thrill ride that comes out monthly (mostly) you should give Savage Dragon a chance. You really won't be disappointed.
For more information go to www.savagedragon.com, follow @GavHigginbotham, @DragonFanBlog @ErikJLarsen, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savage_Dragon.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Trilogies Done Right
As a comics character, I never really got into reading Iron Man. Billionaire Playboy Genius Philanthropist doesn't quite get handled the same way on the printed page as he does on the big screen. Whenever I would sample a story from the book, it was invariably some corporate espionage or baroque posturing between characters. It seemed for years Marvel Comics drove the, Tony Stark: Recovering Alcoholic, character into the ground. In short, the book never came off fun to me in any capacity to keep up with monthly. I realize that is not only a stereotype of the book, but rather disingenuous of me in such a broad statement because there are probably plenty of arcs outside of say Demon In a Bottle or Extremis that are worth reading.
As a movie character, Iron Man seemed custom made for a closeup. Played by Robert Downey Jr, Tony Stark/ Iron Man was humorous, intelligent, quick witted and a pleasure to watch. The first film was a fine and sure footed obligatory origin story for not only the relative unknown comics character, but also a good ground work for the Marvel cinema universe that would subsequently follow the picture.
Iron Man 2 was a mixed bag. It felt far too long in spots, with the optimistic rogue charm of Tony Stark from the first film morph into an insufferable navel gazing character in the second film. I think the only take aways from the second movie was the fight scene on the race track and Scarlett Johansson in a skin tight leather outfit.
After the triumphant assembling on the Avengers, the bar seemed raised for Marvel Studios. When Jon Favreau stepped aside for the Iron Man 3, Marvel made the ingenious choice of selecting Shane Black as his replacement. Black has been a fantastic screen writer, renovating the action/ buddy cop genre for the last two decades with Lethal Weapon. His first feature, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, a modern noir set in LA cast a then toxic actor, Robert Downey Jr as the lead. It was a fantastic pairing and the film is very quote worthy and worth watching if you haven't seen it yet.
Iron Man 3 deals with Tony Stark's fallout after the events in the Avengers. Suffering from PTSD, and up for days at a time, Stark is creating more armor in a heightened state of awareness. Meanwhile, Aldrich Killian (Guy Pearce) has approached Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) in regards to a breakthrough of science he wants Stark Industries to fund. Then there's the international terrorist The Mandarin (Ben Kingsley) who interrupts signals and shows various heinous acts with verbal sabre rattling as a voice over.
There are many things to really like in Iron Man 3, and I took away it was structured somewhat like the noir piece of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang in a sense. Stark as well as his friends are involved in a plot that turns and twists in strange places. The humor and one liners are quick and funny in this film. The special effects are quite good as there is a scene involving Air Force One getting taken down from the sky, playing to the inherent smarts and good will Tony Stark has when faced with the dubious challenge of rescuing 13 falling passengers.
One thing I found great was in a more thematic way, this film's ending suits it well. Unlike DKR, who's ending was infuriating, the one displayed here is a natural progression of things regarding the character and the universe he inhabits. There are some Easter eggs for comics readers, and it deviates from source material in the comics, but, modern comics have been doing that for decades much to the chagrin of some fans.
Iron Man 3 is something you will get joy from on multiple viewings. Shane Black has made a fitting conclusion to the Iron Man story as he makes this story with a beginning, middle, and end. How refreshing!
As a movie character, Iron Man seemed custom made for a closeup. Played by Robert Downey Jr, Tony Stark/ Iron Man was humorous, intelligent, quick witted and a pleasure to watch. The first film was a fine and sure footed obligatory origin story for not only the relative unknown comics character, but also a good ground work for the Marvel cinema universe that would subsequently follow the picture.
Iron Man 2 was a mixed bag. It felt far too long in spots, with the optimistic rogue charm of Tony Stark from the first film morph into an insufferable navel gazing character in the second film. I think the only take aways from the second movie was the fight scene on the race track and Scarlett Johansson in a skin tight leather outfit.
After the triumphant assembling on the Avengers, the bar seemed raised for Marvel Studios. When Jon Favreau stepped aside for the Iron Man 3, Marvel made the ingenious choice of selecting Shane Black as his replacement. Black has been a fantastic screen writer, renovating the action/ buddy cop genre for the last two decades with Lethal Weapon. His first feature, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, a modern noir set in LA cast a then toxic actor, Robert Downey Jr as the lead. It was a fantastic pairing and the film is very quote worthy and worth watching if you haven't seen it yet.
Iron Man 3 deals with Tony Stark's fallout after the events in the Avengers. Suffering from PTSD, and up for days at a time, Stark is creating more armor in a heightened state of awareness. Meanwhile, Aldrich Killian (Guy Pearce) has approached Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) in regards to a breakthrough of science he wants Stark Industries to fund. Then there's the international terrorist The Mandarin (Ben Kingsley) who interrupts signals and shows various heinous acts with verbal sabre rattling as a voice over.
There are many things to really like in Iron Man 3, and I took away it was structured somewhat like the noir piece of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang in a sense. Stark as well as his friends are involved in a plot that turns and twists in strange places. The humor and one liners are quick and funny in this film. The special effects are quite good as there is a scene involving Air Force One getting taken down from the sky, playing to the inherent smarts and good will Tony Stark has when faced with the dubious challenge of rescuing 13 falling passengers.
One thing I found great was in a more thematic way, this film's ending suits it well. Unlike DKR, who's ending was infuriating, the one displayed here is a natural progression of things regarding the character and the universe he inhabits. There are some Easter eggs for comics readers, and it deviates from source material in the comics, but, modern comics have been doing that for decades much to the chagrin of some fans.
Iron Man 3 is something you will get joy from on multiple viewings. Shane Black has made a fitting conclusion to the Iron Man story as he makes this story with a beginning, middle, and end. How refreshing!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)