The Book of Night With Moon

I think I may have had a seizure recently without realizing it.  In my sleep, as it were.  I say this because of two bits of evidence:  first, the right side of my body was sore like the dickens, and second, I had bitten my tongue severely on the side, just like the seizure in Dorothy Lane Market.  In fact I  only realized I had bitten it because of the small stream of blood trickling from my mouth when I got ready for work.  That's when I noticed the tenderness of the tongue... on the right side of the tongue, as you'd expect from my case, and it looks like it must have hurt something awful.  I believe I heard once that human saliva (many forms of saliva actually) have certain healing properties.  Perhaps that's why a body part, such as the tongue, that is constantly immersed in it can heal with such rapidity.

Indeed even now the scar has subsided, although I am sure it will be a day or two before I break fast on anything more challenging than yogurt or perhaps a soft banana.  Not quite there yet.

I was all ready to post pictures of my colonoscopy, but it appears my printer's software was lost in The Great Wipe a few months ago, I'll have to look into that.  Pretty useful thing, a scanner, unless you want to instagram everything.

Still, the possible seizure worries me.  Why didn't I wet myself, like in Dorothy Lane?  That's what the girl in the gas station did, it was only after that that I found out it was common and many people having seizures do lose control of their bladder... or worse.  I should count my blessings that I didn't shit myself.  One good thing about anti-depressants, you can't take a dump if you don't have anything already.

I guess I'll make an appointment with my doctor and see if there's anything up I should prepare myself for.

**************

Re-reading some books I've always loved.  Neil Gaiman and P. Craig Russel wrote and drew an amazing short story about Creation's first murder, and not only who did it to whom, but why.   It casts Lucifer Morningstar as the ultimate anti-hero, which is somebody cast as the villain against his desires even when he was just doing his job.

I've also picked up the first of what would have been a trilogy of books from Diane Duane, The Book of Night With Moon.  The reason this book is special to me delves deeper than the story, and I guess it doesn't matter anymore, but it is still very satisfying to read about a coven of witch-cats who live in the New York subways and protect us from evil machinations.

There was a sequel, Off to London to Visit The Queen, which wasn't as good, and the planned self-published The Big Meow, which Duane was trying to get off the ground before self-publishing became as easy as it is, and it went tits up in a big messy way that I'm not going to recount here, because I contributed to its "kickstarter" in hopes of having the perfect birthday gift for somebody I cared about.

Things do not always turn out so kind.

Also I watched Penny Dreadful on Showtime tonight and they had two dicks in it.

My Baby's Got A Poopy Diaper

Health update, I guess.  (about 11 minutes in to get to the title track)

I am far healthier than I was just two years ago.  This was not an instant change, even after my stroke.  It took some time.  I've gained some weight back.  I seem to be constantly wavering in my weight like I did before... adding/dropping 10-15 pounds from week to week, but basically staying near 320.  One week my weak leg circulation will kick in, then I lose some weight for whatever reason, and the next week I'll be okay.  My blood pressure seems to be on the high side of good, but still in the Goldilocks zone.  I haven't had another seizure since that one in Dorothy Lane Market, after which I started to be militant in taking my Keppra pills.

My medical bills are nearly paid off.  Within a year I'll be able to be out of credit card debt again, which will be good, then I can look into buying a condo.

One important health update.  I no longer have poo-poo undies.

I thought I was just a fat slob, and that's what caused it.  Well, I am a fat slob, but I thought the fat part was why I always had bacon strips.  Most of my adult life I've had this problem.  I could use half-a-roll and still wake up in the morning with skidmarks.

No.  It was not because I was fat.  It was hemorrhoids. 

I should have had it looked at a long time ago.  I mean, the blood was a clue.  It was a regular occurrence, but occasionally there was some in my stool.  I chalked it up to drinking.  But no, it was hems.  Or rather, one hem, according to my doctor.  That's why I had the colonoscopy.  Granted, I should have done it earlier, given my uncle died from colon cancer and the blood.  I just was too scared about the possibility that my blood wasn't from drinking.

I don't know what the doctor did, but to know I've had this problem all my life and could have had it gone with a simple procedure embarrasses me.  I remember when Ex first moved in, he wanted to do my laundry, and I wouldn't let him, because poo-poo undies.  Like, he wasn't going to find that out anyway, living with me.

(That's how I knew he was going to leave me.  I did my own laundry, but if I did mine first, he'd take my clothes out and hang them up; then one day he made a point of letting my clean laundry sit next to the TV, not touching it.  That was pretty depressing to sit there and look at that basket and have it judge me, but I left it for a few days hoping he'd do them, show me that he still cared and wasn't going to dump me... sounds stupid.   Was stupid.)

Basically, the colonoscopy was the best thing to come out of my stroke.  I can finally wear white undies again.  And I don't have to worry about where my Burt's Bee's Wax has been.

Addicted to your aftertaste.

Needless to say, I didn't have a great Easter weekend. 

Of course I don't find anything special about Easter or have any great Easter memories as a kid.  My little brother had a pet rabbit, so I tend to think of them as little shit machines rather than as adorable bunnies.  So Leo running off was more of a concern than the holiday weekend.

(Easter is also one of those useless holidays because everybody is basically closed, and if you don't plan ahead you're fucked.)

Once Leo was found my Easter weekend mainly involved waiting on a text that never came for a date that I knew I'd get stood up on (third time now), playing Titanfall, sleeping, and killing ants.  And occasionally very worrying dreams.  I have some weird stuff going through my head.  One thing is obviously some kind of Hero Complex.  While it's not quite lucid dreaming, I find myself with superhuman abilities... but usually fail in my goals.  A recent one involved Ex.  I was still in Boston in this dream, and Ex had been physically hurt somehow.  I needed to get him to a hospital, which should have been easy, you can't turn around in Boston without your ass hitting a hospital.  No matter how hard I tried, carrying Dale in my arms, I couldn't find one.  Then I noticed that I had not paid attention, and that we'd been hit with a flash snow-storm (which are freaky things).  Ex's face was covered in snow and hail.  I brushed it off him and checked his eyes to make sure they weren't frozen.  Then he said something that snapped me out of the dream, awake.  I remember what he said  but it doesn't matter.

Those kind of rescue mission type dreams are pretty common.  They are frustrating because I have a specific goal, somebody to protect, but I never do a good job of it.

Another dream becoming more common is the "Have I had another stroke" dream.  I think the nature of how the stroke felt... or didn't feel, I guess... is what causes this one.  The one I had last night, I was obviously in a high tech hospital.  White surfaces, clean rooms.  I stumble out of bed and almost lose my balance, which was just like when I had the stroke.  I manage to keep my balance, stumbling into a room filled with white desks and I sit at one.  A red haired older man is sitting across from me, on the desk between is what looks like a Wii-mote with just one  red button on it.  In the same way that you know what's going on in a dream without being told, I knew what this was.  The red button would cure me of the stroke, at the cost of a stranger's life... meaning, the red-head.  The guy starts to explain it to me anyway, "Remember, if you push that button..."

That's as far as he got.  BOOM.  Button pushed.  It would have been funny if I hadn't felt so vicious doing it.  He slumps over in midsentence.  Then something else happened and I woke up. 

Disturbing.

I've got something new to listen to to get to sleep, too:  Good Omens, read by Stephen Briggs.  It's been forever since I've dived into this book, and the audio version is top notch.

Gotta work now.

Words with friends

Usually I start out a post with a red herring, which is to say, something unrelated to the topic and then halfway through talking about that I pull the rug out and do the gotcha, showing that it is totally related and the reader is stupid for not realizing this.  This is not an uncommon method of writing, and it can be pretty effective if utilized correctly.  Kind of like when you drop from a monologue to a single sentence to make a point.

Because anything isolated is stronger.

See?  That makes no sense but it works.  So does the red herring opening.  Get the reader invested in one topic, then throw the monkey wrench in and get to your real point.  The effect this causes is to catch the reader off-guard, because then it's easier to make him question beliefs he or she may have held, and sway them to your side, or at least get them to acknowledge that there is in fact another side that they haven't considered.

I only mention this now because I could not think of a good red herring to open this post with, since I didn't have a central theme to it, and perhaps explaining the red herring introduction would make the rest of my post more interesting.

It probably won't.

(Did you see what I did just then?)

I saw an Instagram that referenced a very obscure, well for me anyway, song that I heard after a series of unfortunate events a couple of years ago, which strangely resulted from attempting to retrieve my Wonderfalls DVDs from my brother.  Wonderfalls is one of my favorite shows of all time, not only because it introduced me to the incredible Tracie Thoms (the lady version of Samuel L. Jackson motherfucker) but also because the fans made me feel like part of something bigger.  When Fox said they'd release the whole series on DVD, we rejoiced, as if we'd won something... the truth is, Fox had already finished producing most of the series, so why not finish the last two eps and try to make some money with a DVD release.  And they did.

A song from the show spoke to me.  I researched the song and found it on another TV show's soundtrack.  Listened to that soundtrack, found a song by another artist I liked, researched them, and that's what the Instagram photo was referencing.  Convoluted but true.

I guess I've lost the weight, somehow, that I'd put back on (fifteen pounds?  maybe twenty) because my left leg is no longer fluffing up during the day.  My left shoe no longer hurts.  I guess I haven't been eating properly, but I can't blame that on anti-depressants now.

I'd read that near-beer, which is made with hops, is a good natural sedative.  I've tried having a couple before bed... just made me get up and pee in the middle of the night.  BAH.

Something I've wanted to harp on is confirmation bias.  This is what allows Fox News viewers to believe the nonsense shit that network broadcasts... because they already believe it, but now that somebody else is saying it out loud, well it must be true!  It also allows somebody to believe an obvious falsehood if the false thing means they're not to blame.  Hey, sorry your school district's funds got rescinded, but I can't vote in your county's elections, although the Senator I sent to Congress is the one who took those funds away, but hey, not my fault.

It's easy to say that only one side of an argument is wrong and only one is right.  But that's rarely true.  Everybody has confirmation bias, but most of us tend to ignore it when we're the ones perpetrating it. 

Ah.  I was going to make a bigger point but it's time to shower and go to work.  I wonder how the chicken is doing in Stanton.

LEVEL 15 - I Will Always Love You

So I'm quite digging Titanfall, even if I'm not that great at it.  It reminds me of the frantic early days of Quake, only you get to also play as a robotic Shambler (Titan) as well as a grunt (pilot).  I got home early this morning, took out the trash, did the few dishes I'd let soak, started laundry, and finally joined and finished the second campaign, almost dinging level 16 in the process.  For me, that was enough progress.  Perhaps I'm just old now, but spending all night on Xbox (at least, gaming) is not for me anymore.  Although I do have an annoying Cyril-like tendency to shout "SUPPRESSING FI-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-RE" during games, getting one or two levels is pretty much all I need before moving on to something else.

On the health side... things are mostly good.  Things not mostly good:  Apparently there is a tipping point, around 320 pounds, where somebody with low circulation in their legs begins to get "plumping" again, because after going off my anti-depressants I've put on some weight again, just enough to push me back into the low-circulation club again, which makes my left foot swell to the point of pain in my Chucks at the end of the day.  Not as bad as gout, but it still hurts, until I get home and take my shoes off.

There's also contact psoriasis, or eczema... not sure which.  It's never really been a big enough problem until recently, because I could hide it (like most sufferers do).  It's spreading to the point where I want to nip it in the bud, because I remember Larry having it and it infesting a large portion of his body, and the cure (one of them) involves steroids, and I've never been on steroids, but I don't wanna be.

Saw Muppets Most Wanted yesterday with Kelly.  It was very good.  The guy from Flight of the Conchords of course did another awesome job with the songs, but there was no "Pictures In My Head" song, which I guess I should be grateful for, because I suspect I'd still lose it.

Speaking of.  Looking for something on Keith's Roku to watch last night, I saw that Amazon Prime had CC's Drunk History up for streaming, and of course I went straight for the Dolly Parton episode with the backstory between her and Porter Wagoner and the real behind the scenes story about the song "I Will Always Love You."  So many younger people have no idea about it, what it really meant when it first came out.  If you have Amazon Prime, you owe it to yourself to watch the whole story.  I mean, fuck, Porter, chill out.

Forever evil?

I find that one of the reasons I'm being turned off of comics once again is one of the basic conceits of the medium, and often of fiction writing in general, is that there is good and there is evil and very few grey areas.  This has always bothered me.   I see these types all the time and it bothers me because nobody is really like that, unless they are unhinged in the head.  There is no Snydely Whiplash twirling his comically long and evil mustache and imagining the nefarious plans he has in store for that Dudley Do-Right. 

Likewise, I do not believe in the concept of a being who lives for only doing good, aside from people like Mother Theresa, whom I'm sure had other flaws, but one may have been, was she doing all these good deeds because of a kindness in her heart, or in an attempt to gain eternal access to heaven?  This is, of course, a needlessly cynical thought, but it is not an evil one.  It does question what her motivation was, because, let's face it, more people would do what she did in her work with the poor and sick if good was real.

It all comes down to the shades of grey.  I can't believe that Lex Luthor is evil per se.  Selfish?  Definitely.  Devious?  Yes.  But doing evil for evil's sake just doesn't make sense to me. 

Let's put it this way:  even when I was at the lowest in my bouts of depression, I truly wanted to be a good person.  I just didn't feel that inside of me.  I'd do things for friends and loved ones, not because I wanted to, but because that's what a good person would do.  But I was also naïve.  I believed that doing good things like that always led to good results, but that's not always the case.  What if you do something good for somebody and they don't notice or acknowledge it?  It can stain your perceptions, and one thing I can tell you about harboring negative emotions is that they breed like rabbits.  Furry, pus-dripping rabbits leaving little pellets of negativity all over your nice carpet.

Everybody has a dark place inside them.  How it materializes is always different.  I have a friend who I'd write about right now who continues to be a perfect example of this, at times a walking contradiction of opinions and actions, but to write more would be telling a little much.  But I don't think he's evil. Like me, he overthinks things, which can lead to the wrong choices.  Enough wrong choices can snowball, to the point where you're at the top of the hill and all below you has been run over.

That's what I think real good and real evil are.  Just conflagrations of different perceptions.  This person wouldn't sacrifice that act for me so I will treat her with animosity.  That person didn't see how much such-and-such behavior bugged me, so he needs to be cut out of my life.  Both of these could be confused for evil.  But in the same way, so could I'm gonna take this friend I have in life to a concert I know he'll enjoy and he'll notice my sacrifice because I really don't like this group, stuff like that.

Basically, unless you're a telepath and can read minds, I don't believe in evil or good.  There are shades in the spectrum but not absolutes.  That's why the reveal of Alexander Luthor being Mazahs! (Evil Shazam I guess since it's backwards) just made me reach for the last issue of Saga and wonder when it was going to be on shelves again.

Orphan Green

Only on the sixth ep of Orphan Black right now, ho-hum, Paul's beating up Vic in the garage and nail gunning him in his poor little hand... nothing special here...

 Nothing remotely gay in this scene at all.

Wait, what's that in the background?...

OMG ALLISON DRINKS ALE 8-1!  KENTUCKY REPRESENT!

The Stroke

Today, the first time in a while, I nearly died due to my own incompetence.

By "nearly died" I mean there could have been a good chance of me snapping my neck because I wasn't concentrating on where the left side of my body parts were.  This is called "kinesthesia."  From online:

•  Kinesthesia is the precise awareness of muscle and joint movement that allows us to coordinate our muscles when we walk, talk, and use our hands. It is the sense of kinesthesia that enables us to touch the tip of our nose with our eyes closed or to know which part of the body we should scratch when we itch.

So basically, I've lost my sense if kinesthesia, part of my ability to coordinate my movements without being completely focused on them, at least on the right side of my body.  Which is why I now brake while driving with my left foot as opposed to my right, since there's a good chance that if I use my right foot, I may brake too hard, or mis-place my foot when moving it back to the gas pedal.  After lots of practice, it has become background noise to me.  I know I'm constantly focusing, but it becomes habit.  I no longer worry about keeping a glass of liquid on the right side of me, because I know it's there constantly.  You normally forget these things in day-to-day, they become automatic, which is different from habit.

Basically I recently upgraded my meds bag to a Bag of Holding from ThinkGeek, so that I could start taking my laptop on road trips.  The box for it was big, and I left it standing in front of my bookshelf of geekdom.  Sometime today it fell over, and, as I juggled everything I was carrying in from work this afternoon, I tripped on it.  I began stumbling, too stupid to drop my items but also very cognizant that my fucking geek shelf was to the right of me and my incredible HDTV was to the left.  Rather than take a chance on either of those, I gambled with my own life, tripping eventually to the floor ahead of me and landing on my keys GODDAMN.

I could have died though.  Anyway, time for spaghetti and Kroger meatballs.  They are yum.

A Dream of Flying pt. 3

One thing that I hate about trying to be sober, as I fight to do every day, is what goes on in my head when I'm unconscious.  I'm Spider-Man.  That is to say, I'm still me, only with Spidey's powers/abilities and without the silly suit, which really wouldn't do me any favors anyway.

These dreams happen frequently, and I have no idea why.  They usually involve me trying to save family members while villains attack, which makes sense I guess.  I always fail, or, more pointedly, I never succeed before waking up.  

Still, those dreams are preferable to the ones where I am driving up Mt. Vernon and go through the guardrails, only to land, with apparently super-shock absorbers, unharmed.  And yes, that used to be a thing.

The other night I had a dream that involved my current car White Betty, although I was still in DC for some reason, and villains were after my family and I had to save them and also buy comics because I was at the mall that had the comic shop I used to buy from.  HULK TAKE SHIT!

So Miracleman.

The end of the Kid Miracleman/MM initial fight (oops spoilers), and it is just as effective as it was when it was first printed and reprinted.  This includes the after story, where Mike goes off with his wife to some glen to test his powers and find out what all he can do; Evelyn Creme and his sapphire teeth (which I guess is now called a grill?  Grille?), and Project Zarathustra.

Basically this marks the first two thirds of Alan Moore's MM story, before handing the "poisoned chalice" to Neil Gaiman, who will finally get to finish his story.  And then Miracleman can finally join the Marvel U proper and we can dispense of all this Hyperion nonsense.  

Also I'm giving up on Jonathan Hickman's AVENGERS title, so right now the only things keeping me in comics are Miracleman and SAGA.

Pictures In My Head

I've done a good job, I guess, of avoiding the self-pity train for the past few months, aside for a few exceptions.  Saw something tonight that made me think of this song, which took on a whole new meaning to me sometime early last year.  Listened to it again just now and can't keep it together.  So I'm posting the video, despite wanting to really write about how awesome work has been and wanting to post some really great promos I did for a new morning show we're adding Monday:



Life is never going to really be happy for me again, I think, listening to this.  He was only pictures in your head.

Edit:  I did not realize that anybody in my life or knowing what I've gone through these past few years was reading this.  I mean, my little brother wasn't, why would anybody else?  But somebody pointed out that it's possible I'm not Kermit in this song.  Which I appreciate and agree with, but that means I'm Miss Piggy.  Well.  Okay.

Pluto, gnash

If I had a lot of viewers of this blog, I might lose some of them after this.  Lucky for me that practically nobody even knows this thing exists, even after posting on Facebook begging for attention.  But this post is going to be a bit political.  

We're discussing the subject of America becoming a plutocracy-- (from Wikipedia) defines a society or a system ruled and dominated by the small minority of the wealthiest citizens. 

Seems that's the direction we're headed.  Politicians are mostly bought.   This nation...heck, the entire world, is turning into a plutocracy.  The highest bidder wins.  "Corporations are people too," and all that idiocy.  The one percent, butt-hurting that the Poors are lambasting them.  The race to decry a living minimum wage.  Seriously, the argument that we're giving generously to the poor, enough that they live some life of luxury, is hysterically ridiculous.  I was poor.  I was on welfare.  Nothing motivated me more than that sorry existence to get out of its clutches and live my own life.  

I make a good living now.  I can pay all my bills.  But if being a welfare queen was so awesome, I promise I'd still be there.  I'm fucking lazy, and that's before taking my daily meds.  

I begin this with Warren Ellis' apparent entry into comics, which was DOOM 2099

This.

This, I'm told, is Ellis' foray into the idea that corporations might rule in the future, led of course by Dr. Doom.  Or his son.  Or clone.  This was also Ellis' first work for Marvel, which is kinda why I cautiously bought the collection in the first place, because I knew the earlier works of authors you romanticize can bite your ass.  I think my first exposure to Ellis was HellStrom, and then Druid, both of which ended just as they were building mythologies.  I am struggling with this volume, but still reading.  But I'm interested in seeing where it goes.

Buy this.

They Live was so prescient it almost makes John Carpenter seem psychic.  This is practically what is happening right now in America.  Plutocracy out of control and no way to stop it, seemingly.  Rich keep getting richer, but hey, if you give up your morals you can join them!  As long as you don't mind boning blue inside-out aliens, AMIRITE?  I still pop this in at least once a year.  I had no idea Roddy Piper was so hot til I saw this movie.

(Full disclosure:  Piper was on an episode of Celebrity Ghost Stories recently and has not held up on the hotness scale.  Then again, it's not like I'm posing for centerfolds either.)

Ben Elton was one of the driving forces in the 80s "alternative" comedy scene, with his best known works being The Young Ones and co-writing the Black-Adder series.  He's also, it turns out, a pretty prolific author of imaginative fiction.  This book opens as the Earth is teetering on the brink of total eco-collapse, and how the one percent make plans to save their own asses, rather than curb their lifestyles for the overall good of the planet.  While I liked the book when I first read it, I thought it was hippie nonsense, but now, re-reading it, I'm not so sure of its implausibility.  Climate change deniers abound these days and seem to have the loudest voices in the room.  Meanwhile, more and more freaky weather becomes common, and if I hear one more forecaster mention the goddamn polar vortex I will forcibly shit my pants.

A good friend of mine once took to his Facebook... on a night I'm sure was tinged with some alcohol... and posted this:

If the federal government shuts down on Tuesday because of the incompetency and childish -- insanely childish - actions and behavior of the house - all y'all republicans just need to unfriend me... Those children need their asses whooped XXXXXXXX style - belt - yard stick - whatever - just whooped. No one elected you to go to Washington and blow up the government and stomp around like a spoiled little bitch because you're not getting your way. 1,000's of people will go without paychecks - but the house voted this morning to keep receiving their paychecks - even if they start a government shutdown. Embarrassing and shocking and true. My only hope is that it will be the final nail in their coffin - that maybe will finally be rid of the homophobic - abortion/vagina obsessed - ignorant, narrow minded - party of the stupid. For all my "poor" friends - or those on government assistance - that it's republican because of your love of God and guns - they hate you. I have no idea why you continue to vote for these people that clearly hate you - they play to your fears and exploit your beliefs - and you still vote for them. They. Hate. You. Wake up.

That's pretty much what these books were describing.  And he lost a lot of friends posting that, because when you tell people the truth about themselves, they break the sound barrier with how quickly they bury their heads in the sand while screaming "LALALALAICANTHEARYOUUU..."

So the world is ending, and like everybody else, I'm avoiding the truth by watching the boob tube and reading funnybooks.

Schadenfreude, kinda

Once in a while you come across something online that can't be coincidence, but has to be.

I do not believe I will ever be in another relationship again.  Any future relations will probably be purely sexual.  I say this partly because I've realized the type of person I am attracted to is also not cut from the cloth of relationships, but also because of... ah, I won't go into it.

I was doing my regular pervy surfing, looking at profiles online for people I'll never speak to, when I saw a pic of my ex, with his current beau.  Not Dale, who has seemed to drop off the face of the internet again, but He Who Shall Not Be Named.

(I've always thought that calling Voldemort that was stupid, because by doing so, you ARE naming him.  It's like Louis C.K. ranting about how the "n-word" is worse than the word "nigger."  By saying "the n-word" you make ME think nigger, which makes me the racist by reverse default.  Anyway.)

It was (I suppose still is) a B411 profile, with a picture of the happy couple, X seemingly happy as can be and his partner who seemed to just be a fatter version of me.

I just found it amusing is all.  We couldn't make our short relationship work because of his neurosis about relationships.  We couldn't be friends because of various other reasons.  And now he's dating somebody who pretty much looks exactly like me only 50 pounds heavier than my heaviest.

I wish there was some freaky foreign word that describes how I laughed about this that didn't set off NSA alarms looking for Nazi saboteurs.

Lying Cat, my hero

Damn.

Brian K. Vaughn might not necessarily be the best writer ever in comics, but he's sure trying his best.  And his best is fucking good.  Better than most of the crap out there.

Today brought issue 18 of SAGA, which I thought was kind of a pompous name until I read the first issue.  There are almost no comics I can name besides this one and maybe V for Vendetta, and okay The Sandman that I read one issue of and was immediately hooked (mind you, the first two were #1s and The Sandman was issue #8, which was the intro issue for Death and anybody who wasn't hooked by that issue has no soul).  No concept of what the story was about, just looked interesting, picked it up because it was a number one, BAM, addict.  I've mentioned in my last post what all makes SAGA special, but, like Pam Poovey on Archer, it seems the fan favorite breakout character is an unlikely choice:

lying...

 

The apparent death of Lying Cat in a recent issue nearly had fans doubled over in nauseous shock and wanting the head of BKV on a pike in Times Square so that we might pelt it with rotten tomatoes.  That's the sign of a good storyteller, I think, somebody who can make you care so much that you go apoplectic with rage when you even think that character might die.

 

I first encountered this with Douglas Adams when he killed off Marvin, the Paranoid Android.  I think now, looking back, it was because I identified with Marvin so much.  I was always paranoid, trying to hope for the best in life but totally expecting the worst.  And of course, making everybody laugh along the way, no matter what I really felt.  Kind of... he was killing off the only character I'd ever really bonded with.  And it was obvious that he was doing it just as a fan-service, because he was very caustic in stating Marvin's death... The lights went out in his eyes for absolutely the last time ever.  Not as big a "fuck you" to Hitchhiker's fans as the comedy-less ending of Mostly Harmless, but enough to make a very young version of me hand-write a letter to this author I revered and tell him that he, in fact, should be the one fucking himself, after fucking all of Marvin's fans like that.

 

Your plastic pal who's fun to be with!

 





So while I was picking up SAGA, I made sure to pick up the next reprint issue of....

 

...Miracleman #2.  I forgot how vicious and death-lusty Kid Miracleman was until I saw this pic...

 

sup bitchcakes

 

And it was just as shocking and scary as the first time I read it.  So yeah, good day for comics and memories.



Fiction Friction

I admit to being lax in not only updating this blog, but in most of my former habits.  Seeking out new music, I just don't know how without a Tower Records listening station.  Writing for my self... I guess this is part of it, but it's not what's roaming about inside my head, which currently includes a mermaid family and a teen superhero story.

Comic books are waning once again, with really only Brian K. Vaughn's SAGA series, which has all sorts of interesting bits, such as interplanetary wars, giants with big nasty testicles, assassins, spider-women, drugs, gay sex, robot royalty with TVs for heads, two people in love, blowjobs, visions of gay sex, and a cat that can detect lies.  It's pretty awesome.

Other than comics, however, I've really slacked off on reading.  I'm trying to fix that, but I'm finding it harder than it used to be.  Used to be, I could just zone out for hours on a weekend afternoon, nothing else to do, lose yourself in a good book.  Like with music, it's getting harder to find good fiction, or even nonfiction for that matter.  Take for example this book:

I made a stop at B&N recently, the first in a long while, and this is the only thing that leapt out at me, begging to be bought.  Written by a fairly accomplished author, it is literally a handbook on how to invade planet Earth.  Hysterical idea, right?  Almost worthy of Douglas Adams praise.  If only it were actually... well, funny.

It's not.  The author certainly did his research... the first few chapters talked about how since the Moon is tidally-locked to Earth and has one side that always faces away, perfect for an invasion base, and explaining Lagrange points enough that I actually understand why the Moon and Earth share five of them, and only one is good to hide from Earth's prying eyes.... but it's so fucking boring.  I'll keep giving it a shot but I'm not holding out much hope, as this guy is not even as affable a writer as Michio Kaku.  Speaking of which...

This book straight up must have been fun to write.  It's just taking research on things like life and death, the missing universe, cold fusion and The Wow! Signal, and other things science really doesn't understand, and it speaks in a tone that I first found with Kaku's Visions.  It's fun to re-read it again, and pretty shocking to realize that after five years since its publication, we really don't understand these mysteries any better.

And this, one of my two favorite bathroom books.  The other is Stewart's Wicked Bugs, which tells the encyclopedic tales of these plants wicked counterparts in the insect world.  It's entirely fascinating reading, unlike her latest volume, The Drunken Botanist, which I bought sight unseen only to find it's basically a bartender's handbook for how to get lit off of, like, daisies and stuff.  I really don't need help in that area nowadays.  

But regardless, I am going to make a concerted effort to write for myself more, and read more, like I used to do in both camps.  I need new hobbies between DLC for Dead Rising 3 and XBox One releases.

KIMOTA! Here's my junk.

 

Seriously, Quesada?  Do we need to have the center focus of this on Miracleman's junk?

 

MM has a long, troubled path to re-publication, for good reason.  The Dark Knight and Heath Ledger's turn as The Joker is very much owing it's life to Miracleman.  Comic books simply didn't know they could be "dark and edgy" until Miracleman.

 

Of course, you wouldn't recognize it at first.  It's only after Young Miracleman comes back (sorry... spoilers) that you get the full picture.  The logical extension of a God among mortals and what would happen, as much as just Alan Moore's regular deconstruction of the Uberman stereotype, comes into play front and center.

 

But most know this already... we're all just wanting to enjoy these stories like we did back then.  I was lucky in that I was able to read the original run as it was reprinted.  And then as the new stories began.  I hope Gaiman doesn't screw this up like he did the Sandman prequel, which I'm also wanting to read, and now.

 

Time of the Doctor

The hills are alive... with the sound of Silence...

I should probably admit to recent troubles before delving into reviewing this show... which for me was an okay send off, not nearly as good as David Tennant's...

We didn't want you to go either...

...but anybody who still has any doubts about whether Peter Capaldi was going to make a great Doctor should check and make sure they have a pulse.  In just ten seconds, he pretty much wowed me and makes me wish the new season was here already.

The truth is, I fell off the wagon pretty hard recently because of a number of issues.  One is, I'm beginning to understand why my predecessor left for greener pastures.  Mainly because I have a very big pasture to mow and very little help doing it.  I am addressing this issue with my boss soon, because I have to stick to the caveat I came to the job with, which is:  commercials come first.  I produce commercials (not too fun, sometimes) and imaging (always fun), but imaging doesn't feed the bulldog.  But that means imaging gets the short end of the stick.  That makes me sad, imaging really is the fun part of my job.  Sometimes I want to go to work because of it.  ME.

I love it when I get to show off to my boss, and I bring him into my studio and he has no idea what I'm going to play, and it always gets thumbs up.  Usually with loud peals of laughter.

So, we'll deal with that when he's back from vacay.  I need help, an assistant, somebody full time.  Otherwise what happens if I need to take a sick day?  If there's no back-up... well, I guess, what, commercials just don't get produced and spots miss?  And I have to wait til the sun and moon and stars line up before I can take time off for even a day?

Also I'm still dealing with the break-up over a year ago.  Part of it is because it seems I was right... this guy who I thought the world of for years had his own, repeating agenda in life.   Basically, fleecing guys and then dumping them when he lost interest.  Shortly after the initial break up (actually I guess it was the second break up), I called him on his behavior, saying that I thought he had done this before and would do it again... Very BSG of me, I know.  

He didn't seem to like me pointing that out.  Recently I sent him an extremely nasty note, and I stand by that, because he'd already went and broken the heart of the guy he left me for.  It's not even been a year.  But now I climb back on the wagon before my acne returns.  And now...

TIME OF THE DOCTOR

hard to believe that's a wig...

Fitting ending, I guess, for Matt Smith's version of the Doctor.  As I said, there was no "I don't to go" moment to make us all bawl.  Matt's Doctor didn't feel like he needed it, I think.  His sudden abrupt change was well played, and another shock to viewers, I guess, but if you think about it, he'd lived many hundreds of years... Tennant's Doctor was even shorter than number Nine, so no, he didn't "want to go."  And then Capaldi's first words... "Do you know how to fly this thing?" Very much plus points on awesome.

The plot was convoluted and didn't make much sense.  I guess I could say they have more of a plan than LOST did... because we know now that they really just lied to ABC to get the show going.  I don't think Stephen Moffett had the whole thing planned out from the beginning as he's alluded to, but he'd better have Sherlock's return planned out.  If that goes off from the cuff I shall be put off in a very bad way.

But, I guess Matt Smith's run has always been hit or miss.  The best thing is, even when it's been a miss, it's still a hit, of sorts.  I admit I feel silly that my favorite 'sode was The Girl Who Waited, as at the time I identified with that story a lot.  I was wrong.  I did not wait.  Waiting implies that something was there for me at the end, and there was not.  I'll take the tears that come with Vincent and the Doctor from now on.

GODZILLA 2014 is the new MONSTERS

I've never hidden being a Godzilla fan.  It's embarrassing as hell, but many other nerds still find it cool for some reason, even if they're not into it.  I guess it's like being a fanatic about The Prisoner but still finding respect for Dr. Who fans, as silly as that show could get sometimes.  "You like this, I like that... let's just play nice and put the switchblades down.  I'm the Sharks, you're the Jets, let's share the turf and get laid by some chicks."  

Yet I can't help but be a little let down.  My whole obsession with Godzilla began, obviously, as a child.  Once in a while, our TV antenna (a big proper one with a fence to keep us kids from trying to climb it) would pick up channel 41 in Louisville (WDRB) or channel 19 in Cincy (WXIX [see what they did there], both at the time independents, and now both Fox affiliates).  All life stopped during these moments.  We had fuzzy-screened access to monster movies, japanimation, and other imported goodies that the local national affiliates wouldn't touch.  The world was literally our oyster... until whatever atmospheric conditions were causing us to pick up the TV signals moved on, which was usually right at the climax.

Eventually I discovered that Maloney's, the department store that had opened across from Dad's Western Auto and was helping put him out of business (They were appropriately bought by "Heck's" within a couple of years), had not only cable (not even a chance of us having that on Hatton Creek) but they also had WXIX.  Which regularly showcased Godzilla movies!  Although not regularly enough.  Although I do remember a Sunday afternoon watching all the monsters in Destroy All Monsters while sitting on a golden-sparkle motorcycle helmet in the TV/45s and albums aisle, and i remember buying the   45 for Purple Rain in that aisle and the theme song for The Greatest American Hero there, I do not remember seeing another Godzilla movie there. 

So it was a great while before I was finally able to buy a real Godzilla film to watch on VHS, because I was fucking seven years old in Maloney's/Heck's, and I barely remember watching that, except when they beat the fuck out of Ghidorah's three heads.  I loved that.

The point is, when I finally got to watch this icon in his proper medium, which was in my teens when such things started to become available, I was shocked that it was pretty fucking stupid.  The scripts were insipid... they were just trying to match the "lip flaps" of the original actors, which, given the deleterious differences between our languages, naturally makes any lip-flapping mash-up sound ridiculous.  

That's when I really liked Godzilla movies.  The dumber they sounded, they more I liked it... especially when I began culling soundbites from them for my job.  They were insane.

Anyway, this post is getting too long.  The movie looks pretty serious.  Like Gareth's previous movie, Monsters, which I didn't care much for.   Far more serious than Pacific Rim.  I'm unsure I want something so serious from a Godzilla movie.

Rather have:

NuWhoReVue... but first, rape

I forgot the actual reason for writing about Christmas until just now.

The reason was because I realize that a cherished holiday song from the past is actually kind-of a song about date rape.  Seriously.

Baby, It's Cold Outside has been a holiday classic forever, and everybody from Dean Martin to CeeLo Green have covered it.  Recently, we did what's called "flipping to Christmas" at my radio station, which basically means a fairly popular station in our cluster "flips" its format to all-Christmas, all the time.  The first song we played was BICO.  I got there early to listen to the "flip" live and fix any small glitches that might appear... luckily there was only one, easily fixed, which is surprising because I had to build the imaging for it from the ground up... usually it's been our Soft AC station to do it (think James Taylor and The Carpenters... basically Doctor's office background music.  However, earlier this year we flipped that station to New Country, so the only one in our cluster who we could viably flip was our Hot AC (Maroon 5, Pink, Lorde etc).  This is a huge risk, but I think we were right to do it, because all of our other stations either had week signals or were too grounded in their audience to do it.  (In my eyes, anyway... I have no actual insight into these decisions.)

So this was the first time I actually paid attention to the song, and it was just so unsettling.  I'd only heard it as I've heard most Christmas songs, kind of in the background.  Now that I paid attention it was fucking creepy.

First, I had thought the guy was the one wanting the girl to let him stay because of the weather.  It's the opposite--she's trying to leave, he's the one trying to talk her into staying because of the inclement weather.

It just gets creepier and creepier.  He talks her into staying for just half a drink more, but soon she's asking, "Say what's in this drink?"  HULLO ROOFIES.  And he's having none of her reasoning for why she doesn't want to stay... never mind that her family might get worried or she might be shamed by spending the night with somebody she's not married to, he's got a peen going and he's too lazy to just fap it himself at his laptop on Fleshbot.  He eventually guilts her into staying, with a dismissal of her reasons, "get over that holdout."  Then presumably he shame-screws her and high-fives all the guys in the office over his achievement, while the girls in the typing pool tut-tut the woman's lack of chastity.

Oh and... MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Anyway...

F*** you if you don't like Christmas

It's not that I don't like Christmas.  It's fine.  I remember plenty of great Christmases in my youth.  Like the one where I got the new re-vamped GI Joes, the SuperJoe line.  It was a sci-fi version of GI Joe, and since my older brother and cousin had moved on from GI Joe to titty mags, it was mine, all mine.  The Shield, the cyborg with a... well.  Shield.  Attached to one of his arms.  That he couldn't throw at Nazis like Captain America could.  But it had a tiny light in it to scare people!

Luminos, the see-through cyborgy looking thing that had light up eyes that, presumably, you could use your vast imagination to pretend were lasers cutting the enemy in twain, although I usually used him to pee at night.

Gor, King of the Terrons, who apparently were some kind of insect-lizards who fainted when you shone a light on them.

And of course there was SuperJoe with his1-2 Punch, his black friend because it was trendy in the 70s, and Darkon, the green-skinned version of SuperJoe who was also one of those almost naked villians.

That was a good Christmas for me.  As was the one where I got ROM.

What made me sour somewhat on Christmas was becoming one of The Poors.  Mom's mental breakdown when I was a kid happened at really a bad time for all of us, especially when Dad had to declare bankruptcy for the medical bills racking up.  (Badmouth Obamacare?  Of course I will.  It doesn't go far enough.)  After that, I got to see the real spirit of Christmas, which is, "What did you get?..."

Every year at school I'd be asked that, and when I gave an honest answer of "Nothing," I was treated to derision and ridicule, as if I was trying to engender sympathy for my situation.  What was I supposed to do, lie?  Say we got a Nintendo?  Everybody knew we were poor.  Why did they bother asking what we got, was it just to feel superior?  Whatever.

I don't hate Christmas, but I don't like what Christmas has become, some kind of tournament to see who got the best goodies.  Because we became poor for a while (strictly speaking we still are now), we stopped celebrating the holiday like that.  When possible we still gave gifts.

While both Kelly and I lived far from home, we would coordinate to visit all at once close to Thanksgiving to celebrate all the holidays and have (since Kelly's birthday was Dec. 8th and mine was Sept. 11th) what we called "BirthThankMas."

So now that Dad has passed, we will really appreciate the true meaning of this holiday.  It's about appreciating what you have and showing others you appreciate them, even when you don't know them.  It's not about what you get; it's about what you give.

I'd sure like that Absolute Top Ten collection though.

I am become Death, destroyer of worlds

I've noticed lately that I've been kind of obsessing over my death.

 

Notice that it's death, not suicide.  I don't remember ever having anything close to a suicidal thought.  I'm not that far gone, and I don't think I could be.

 

I've written before, somewhere, about the untimely death of a high school friend's younger brother.  It was the day after his birthday, they found him dead in bed.  The previous night he'd tried to do some fancy gymnastics into the swimming pool and cracked his head on the concrete side.  He went to bed that night complaining of a headache, and never woke up.

 

Later in life the memory of this would lead me to realize how close we almost accidentally kill ourselves all the time.  I had begun hanging out with Voldemort again, it was Christmastime, and we went shopping together at the Galleria, where he decided he wanted to go ice skating.  And wanted me to as well.

 

I should point out that I was probably sixty pounds heavier at the time and had never been ice skating.  My response should have been, "No, I don't want to snap both my ankles," but I'd been trying to be friends with V again because I didn't have any other friends in Dallas at the time.

 

V was not much better than me at skating.  Children routinely lapped him.  I myself clung with a white-knuckled fear-grip to the side, slowly inching my way around the rink.

 

When the fall happened, I immediately thought I was dead.  My head cracked on the ice and I actually felt what I assume was my brain bouncing around in my skull.  I was unable to speak and the only thing I could do is whisper "help" to the halo of faces looking down at me.

 

In the nurse's office I was told I should probably get some stitches, which I declined.  At the time I did not realize that my scalp actually ripped open a little, or that a small puddle of blood had pooled beneath my head.  All I could think of was how I was going to die like that kid did.  I did not sleep that night.  And ever since then, any headache, no matter how small, is met with the knowledge that I've probably blown a vein in my brain and if I go to sleep I will never wake up.

 

Since then I've been acutely aware of how close we all actually come to snuffing it all the time.  I think most people need that kind of experience before they also see it.  This past year has been a particularly busy one, as I've nearly died six times... or rather, came close to a life threatening injury, technically.

 

1.  Stroke-- It started with the stroke, of course.  In fact if Dale hadn't been there I probably would have died from it.  He convinced me to go to the hospital.  Nobody else in my life, aside from my little brother, could have done that.

 

The weirdest thing is, although something was obviously wrong, it didn't feel like it.  You expect something like a stroke to be painful:  it wasn't.  Aside from the fact that my arm and leg weren't obeying my commands, I didn't feel like there was anything wrong with me.  That's what I would tell potential stroke victims... yes, there are signs that can warn you you're having one, and it can also feel completely different or like nothing at all.  It's not a heart attack.  It seems most strokes are caused by lack of oxygen reaching the brain for some reason, which also happens to be why seizures often occur after a stroke as well... the brain knows something is wrong and is temporarily shutting down the system in hopes of getting more oxygen.

 

2.  Shower-- I've never been the most graceful person, but after the stroke I've had to remedy that and be more careful in my movements.  There are still the occasional hiccups.  One was, while still recovering, getting tangled up in the shower curtain and nearly plunging to the floor.  My bathroom, being tiny, affords me many ways to crack my skull open in such a scenario.  Luckily, my wet leg slipped free and I gained my balance.

 

3.  Shampoo-- I know they think it's clever marketing to give a shampoo bottle a distinctive shape, but if it's not shower caddy friendly it might as well be a land mine.  Luckily, the shower grip I grabbed onto after tripping on the bottle held. 

 

4.  Chuck Taylors-- My shoes slipped on a patch of ice after an ice storm.  Luckily I fell into a freshly plowed snowbank rather than the pavement, which otherwise would have split my skull open just as the ice rink tried to.

 

5.  720-- I really have no idea how I came out unscathed from this one.  I was making a sharp left off the on-ramp in Winchester when my little truck started hydroplaning.  I knew enough to let off the gas, but with my power steering out, my steering wheel couldn't right itself, and I continued hydroplaning in a doughnut WITH A LINE OF CARS BEHIND ME THAT DIDN'T REALIZE I WAS HYDROPLANING.  I have no idea how I  didn't plow into one.  I came to a stop after doing two full loops.  Jesus. 

 

The sixth one is frankly boring and another shower story.  Didn't have body wash, soap slips, I nearly slipped on the soap.  What a boring way to die that would have been.