Stumbled across a Google cache of a certain crazy part of my past -- well, part of my past's past, I guess, is more accurate.  And it's strange how something so peripherally connected to anything can bring back such strong emotional memory.  Emotion Sickness, says Daniel Johns.

And other such nonsense: music is either a passion or a job, to bring it down to the binary world where things are or aren't.  If it's a passion, you love it, you have no choice but to do it, and while there are bad nights and good nights, the overall experience is one of pleasure, no matter what the surrounding climate is.  Even the worst nights are, for the most part, filled with something positive that you focus on.  Or it's a job, in which you are a freelancer, looking for an audience that is interested in paying for what you provide.

If it's a passion in which you constantly find you have nothing pleasant to hold on to, then you're a miserable person.  If it's a job that you have suffered through time immemorial with no supporting audience, it might be time to find another job.

For years I've heard that there is nowhere in this town to play music / nowhere that supports music / no audience / etc.  But I've also seen bands like Lynam and Vallejo and Downright pack bars out. I know many a musician who does nothing but play -- the guys in Roosevelt Franklin, and Stuart McNair, to name but a few.  I've played many shows with good crowds who dug the music I was playing. 

If you don't like what the town has to offer, move on. Stop bitching and whinging, and do something to change, instead of waiting for change to happen. 

But don't be surprised if this world you live in is a microcosm of the bigger, more real cities.

The only businesses that exist in a city are those that the inhabitants will support.  If a given business has failed time and again in your locale, you are part of an audience that is too small to reasonably support said business.  If you can't live without said business, move.  If you can't move, learn to cope.

Currently listening to: Somewhere Over The Rainbow / If I Only Had A Brain (Tuck Andress).

Coincidence?

I am never again dating a Christian.

Thank you very much.  Good night.  I'll be here all week.  Try the lamb.

How is believing in the possibility of ley lines any weirder than believing that a hippy died to clear the way for you to sin as you deem fit to interpret your Bible? And how can you claim I generalize when you spout on about all Catholics and all Jews and all Muslims this and that?

I used to criticize Melissa for implying that I am anti-Christian, based on my lack of organized religious profession.   In a few more months, I'll have to 'fess up to it, though.

Either that, or I'm going into the ministry.  I can't possibly do any more harm than your leaders are already doing.

Fuck me if Tori Amos isn't right.  Sunshine State my faux blonde head.... It rained literally from the moment I crossed the state line on Friday and has been sunny for about three hours since then. And those hours occured in other time zones.

The soundtrack for MONSTER is brilliant, and has been the only high point of my vacation.  And that's sad.  Oh -- wait.  I forgot about ANCHORMAN and KING ARTHUR.

I have 99% crossed the state of Florida off of my list of places to live.  Not only is it too fucking hot here (seasons?  what seasons?), and the tourist to human being ratio is incalculable by my educated self, but the ley lines south of Alabama are against me, to be kind. 

Every vacation that I've spent in FLorida has been marked by some really bad moments -- last year was my mental state (my fault, purely and unabashedly, but not fun, regardless), this year seems to be a steroid/Effexor withdrawal (or a series of really bad decisions, but that's a call for someone else to make)... Even the summer that Melissa and I went to Destin with the family was less than pleasant, especially after that wonderful fight. 

Ah, what would true love be without that first memorable fight?

More pleasant.

I don't care what anyone says: Van Halen is a wonderful cure all.

Later this week: I interview Norah Jones, which should be nice.  I've only recently discovered her music, out of my catalog as it falls, but I find it a nice change of pace from everything else that would fall into my iPod, could I afford one.  She's got a beautiful voice, first and foremost, and her music is very intimate and passionate.  She's very fortunate, not only to be making a living pursuing her passion, but to be doing so with her music, not some record execs. 

Also later this week, thanks to Wade: I'll call back the producers of a new reality TV show called DOUBLE OR NOTHING.  One email later, and it's entirely possible that I could lose everything I own to one spin of the roulette wheel.

What the fuck, right?  Can't be too much worse off than I am now.  And at least then I would well and truly have the reason to move wherever I choose and start over.

But there's no starting over knowing what I do, is there?  And I can look at that as either brilliant or not.

I would want to go home, but I know it's no better there -- there's nowhere to hide with a sickness inside.  Or somesuch.

Oh, good, the neighbors like rap.  Now, I go to kill random Floridians.

Well, no so random, really.

I'm really too old to be affected by movie starlets.

But then, whatever.

Cloud Connected
Originally uploaded by abstract visionsound.

Angry. Grr. With big pointy teeth, even.

 

I love the colors that sun and clouds can combine to make.

Of course, without sun, the clouds wouldn't really be visible, or even there. So, yeah.

 
Rorshach.  Without the symmetry.  Which is good, says I.

 
It's the very first fotofone pic ever from my little Motorola, right outside the Wildwood Wal-Mart Superstore.
 
Let's hear it for oncoming storms.

 
It's good to be easily amused, I think.

 
Fuck technology. Not only does the steel and glass pale before the wonders of natural fission and evaporation, but the damn camera came nowhere close to capturing the magnificent color.
 
So sad. So sad. 

Ah, the fotofone works at last. And to prove it, a rat-shaped cloud.

I love clouds.

Salon.com Life | "Pussy" galore: "Just before Christmas, my 2-year-old son, London, started saying the word 'pussy.' As the father of two, I understand that new words stick to 2- and 3-year-olds like toilet paper to the bottom of your shoe, yet this ideogramic discovery struck me as different from the others. "

Daydream, delusion, limousine, eyelash
Oh baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet-cakes and milkshakes
I'm delusion angel
I'm fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don't want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we're going
Latched in life
Like branches in a river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I'll carry you
You'll carry me
That's how it could be
Don't you know me?
Don't you know me by now?

(Originally published at RevolutionSF.com, Summer, 2001)

Another big week has come and gone - another convention under the belt, another page recorded in the history books. Was it fun? Sure. Was it a lot of work? You're damn right - I dream one day of going to a convention with nothing but play on my mind. Was it a learning experience? Of course. Why else would I bring it all up?

There's a fine line between being a famous name and another Joe. I was really surprised to run into a few people who were familiar with my name, most notably from my days as an HZG (if you need that explained - tough. I'm trying my best to forget that I ever labored for that particular batch of folks). It was really odd to find myself in conversation with a group of - I had assumed - regular folk, and for someone to suddenly say, "Hey - now I know where you're from - I used to read your reviews every week!"

It turned weird here, every time. We stopped talking about things that we had in common, and started talking about my work. There were plenty of compliments, which, admittedly, were nice, but I quickly found myself getting uncomfortable. Maybe I don't handle compliments well; I think, though, that I just didn't want the focus of the conversation to shift to me as suddenly as it did.

It made me feel a little bad for the guys I had been approaching all weekend - the Judd Winicks, the Carmine Infantinos, the Christian Gossetts. I had done my best to let these guys know what sort of an impact their work has had on me, but when it came time to make normal conversation, I was at a loss.

Now, I'm not a star-struck kind of guy. I've met a billion "famous" people, and I learned a long time ago that they are just like you and me - the only difference is that they have jobs as creators that puts them in the public spotlight. But I discovered that, beyond the compliments and comments on their work, I have very little to say to them, no common ground.

That said (and its really no big deal, as once I've said what I have to say, I walk away), it was really embarrassing to watch what some of these guys had to put up with. There were some amazing moments that bordered on traumatic car wrecks; watching a thirteen-year-old (or worse, a thirty year old) fanboy grill a creator on his or her work is positively frightening. The details that these people know and ask about are so tiny, so ridiculous, that it hurts. It's even worse to watch a writer or artist try desperately to move along politely - of course they don't want to shut anyone out. Of course they are grateful for the attention - after all, these people have helped put them where they are. Still, it's painful to witness.

It made me start to reconsider my dreams of fame. I don't know that I can completely give them up; I have a deep-seated desire to be recognized and adored. Most of us do. However, I wonder if we have the patience and sympathy to put up with the results of fame, to pay the price, as it were.

Don't get me wrong. I still resent Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain, the way that they incessantly bitched and moaned about the price of fame. It's much the same as listening to a football player complain about injuries; none of this should be a surprise. It's part of the job. Perhaps, though, I understand them a little better.

It's probably not a bad idea to try to understand the same thing next time you're hitting up your favorite celebrity as they eat dinner in a restaurant, or wait in line at the grocery store. It's one thing to compliment someone on their work; it's another to geek out and congratulate them to embarrassment.

(Originally published at RevolutionSF.com, 2001)

Congressional hearings on the evils of a form of entertainment. Medical professionals commenting on the downward trends among youth, and pointing at pop culture as the cause. Parents scrambling to protect their young and innocent puppies from the horrors available for less than the price of a grass cutting.

Rock and roll? Movies? Television? Nope - think further back, almost 50 years, in fact, to 1954: Dr. Frederick Wertham's Seduction of the Innocent and the resultant Comics Code Authority. According to Wertham, "Hitler was a beginner compared to the comic industry," and since this is the US Government we're talking about here, a psychologist with half a box of crayons was given full credibility. The comic book industry - at the time focusing more on romance, science fiction, westerns, and horror than the super-heroes of today - was forced to create a self-regulating commission in order to avoid being shut down altogether. The result was a bunch of watered down stories, numbers of publishers closing up shop, and the near end of comic books.

Jump forward to today, and Marvel Comics' recent decision to abandon the Comics Code stamp altogether in favor of a self-regulating code. For reasons that I can't quite wrap my brain around, other companies have decried the move, although the announcement was greeted with rousing cries of apathy from the general public. Why the big fuss?


Frankly, I don't get it. I've always been aware of the little stamp that appeared on the covers of all the Marvel and DC books. You've probably seen it - go back and check back issues. Casual readers (and parents, most importantly), are probably not even aware of it. Of course, this is where the problem comes in.

Were the average parent to pick up a comic for their young child (and by young, I mean under 12, or of the mental / emotional age that parental guidance is still needed), would they notice if the Code stamp were not there? Would they even know what it stands for if they saw it? Somehow, I doubt it. For instance, take a look at the pictures below:


Which one doesn't have the stamp? That's right - Spawn #1, one of the all-time best-selling comics. And while there's nothing particularly adult about the comic (and that may be the understatement of the week on many levels), there are some concepts in there that parents might not want their kids reading about (say, the topic of the hero being a soldier of Hell….).

All that said, the stamp itself has become largely meaningless over the years, nothing more than a meaningless habit. For some examples, look at the provisions of the original Code:

"Policemen, judges, government officials and respected institutions shall never be presented in such a way as to create disrespect for established authority."

Personally, I can't name any comics with dirty cops. Oh, wait - yes I can. And then there was DC's Vigilante - who just happened to be a judge when he wasn't a costumed - er, vigilante. Order in the court, indeed.

"Nudity with meretricious purpose and salacious postures shall not be permitted in the advertising of any product; clothed figures shall never be permitted in the advertising of any product in such a way as to be offensive or contrary to good taste or morals."

Ahem….

"All characters shall be depicted in dress reasonably acceptable to society."

You hear that, Wonder Woman?

"Inclusion of stories dealing with evil shall be used or shall be published only where the intent is to illustrate a moral issue and in no case shall evil be presented alluringly nor
as to injure the sensibilities of the reader."

So - evil is not cool, right? Being rich and powerful like the Kingpin - nah. Being U.S. President, like Lex Luthor? What kid could possibly want to emulate that?

Oh, wait - my favorite:
"Females shall be drawn realistically without exaggeration of any physical qualities."

Heeheeheeheeheeheeee…

Marvel's proposition is to actually put the contents on the front of the book, like so:


Which, frankly, makes a hell of a lot more sense to me. Parents can now more easily identify what they do and don't want their kids reading, or at least what things they need to talk to their kids about before the book gets sealed away in Mylar. Store owners can be forewarned as to which books need to be placed on higher shelves, out of the reach of the little ones.

And I'll finally know which titles will satisfy my lust for blood and graphic sex, feeding my fantasies and plans for the future. But don't worry - I plan on blaming it all on Archie - Comics Code and all.

One of the keys to a happier life is accepting what you do and don't have control over; acting on the things that you do, and letting go of (or working to change) the things that you don't.

(I have no idea where this came from, nor why I decided to pursue the idea. This is way out of my comfort zone -- possibly the only thing other than comedy that is as far from natural to me insofar as writing goes. And that may explain it, too. At any rate -- part one. More to come, just because I think I need to finish this.)

He walks in from the gray, a soaking wet study in misery and exhaustion. The stultifying blindness of the people building careers off of his work, the daylong mist that had only become a downpour when he decided to make the four block trek to his car, the inarguably moronic masses of flesh who insisted on driving as though the sky would fall -- the people in his world and the day itself had come crashing in around him, and now he finds that he wants nothing more than a long hot shower, a drink, and his sofa.

As he puts his keys on the sidetable and his bag on by the door, he catches a flash of her as she walks quickly past on the other side of the hall. He walks down the hallway, feet scuffing unnoticed on the hardware planks. A straight line to the refrigerator brings him to a drink, cool and wet, slaking his thirst. It's days like this, he thinks, that I could really stand to be past the cigarette cravings.

She's stepped out of the kitchen, as quickly, apparently, as she passed through his field of vision. He calls out her name once, and hears no response; but a blink later and her hand is around his waist, turning him firmly but slowly around to face her. She's beautiful, of course -- especially after a day of dealing with the populace of primates in his world, her simple features and petite frame have no equal in his eyes. The long dusky blond hair, the piercing blue eyes, the slender nose bridging to her paled strawberry lips, the lightly freckled complexion that knocks her age back so many years in the eyes of the public; these are the things that captured him on first glance, imprisoning him, and he is never shocked to find that he has learned to love his captor.

He expects her usual greeting, a kiss, a hello, another kiss, but sees a glint of mischief in her eye. The smirk on her face is shortly lost in a warm kiss, soft but insistent, her tongue darting in past his lips, teasing, exploring, and the kiss quickly becomes more potent, forceful, determined. Without warning she pulls away from him and steps back. She stares at him, the slight and devilish smirk returned to her mouth.

He is again taken by her, thrown into the cell that her grace locks him in. And again, it's the simplicity that is so magical to him -- she wears a t-shirt, oversized and almost long enough to be a dress (albeit a very short one), the light brown accentuating out the bronze shimmer of her tanned skin. She always does that -- wearing clothes that are too big for her small body -- and he gives her grief about it all the time, for hiding her taut and naturally sculpted body from the world; today, though, now, it's perfect, everything he ever has found attractive, erotic, even some things he was never aware of until this moment. The tan fabric drapes across and over her shoulders and flows down and outward from there, obscuring all but hints of the details of what is underneath. The secrecy implied sets his imagination to work, and for a moment it is as though she is brand new to him, never before seen or even imagined. He pictures curves, shapes, textures he can only guess at, and then for a moment the old and new merge, and he struggles to capture the feeling of mystery and wonder inspired by a body that he knows fits perfectly against his own.

She abruptly turns and walks toward the bedroom they share, taking his hand and jerking him along at the last moment. Her walk (more of a half-run, at that) betrays her playfulness, her sense of adventure and wondrous innocence; the look she throws back over her left shoulder reclaims her womanhood.

She's been waiting for him, preparing, laying candles about and dimming the other lights to nothingness. The rain continues to fall outside the windows, and her breathing seems to merge with the falling drops to create the opening of a ballad, perhaps an ambient soundscape or a soft love song. She stops and turns to him, leaning in to kiss him again, but pulling away at the last moment, taunting him. She takes his left hand and places it on her cheek; he feels the soft warmth of her gossamer skin, and she gently smiles at the touch, pushing his right hand down from her hip until it, too, is resting on the bare flesh of her thigh. He shifts his hand up, tracing a path from the leg to the lower back, feathersoft, and her eyes close slowly as a soft moan climbs from somewhere in her throat.

(...to be continued)

There is a dream I have yet to dream.

The sunlight creeps lazily through the cracks in the blinds, fitting for a Sunday morning. I sit, back to the wall, comfortable on the floor to watch her dreaming fitfully in the amber dusky dawn. She is a painting stolen from childhood dreams, dreams of hope, hopeless dreamer I was.

And now she is here, stirring before me, trusting me to watch over her as she dozes, my first, last, and every thought.

She rises, gliding from point to point as she moves about her day. She stops to kiss me gently on the lips, to run her hands playfully through my hair, to touch my hand. She is unconscious of how radiant she is, of how my heart sometimes forgets to beat and my lungs forget to draw air when I am with her, of how much she means to me.

And she pauses, by the bedstand, in front of a picture of us. And she smiles, forgetting my presence for a moment to think of me. And she sees the note I wrote her as she slept, picks is up, unfolds it, reads the dream that I never dreamt but lived instead. She is silent, motionless, but when she finally does turn toward my seating place, I see a small solitary tear running down her cheek. She smiles, moved by my words and my eyes and the way they drink her in, and whispers.

I love you.