Logbook. The blog of Christopher S. Jennings

Living in Kairos and Chronos Time

2012-01-20T12:55:00.003-06:00

This is from (what I interpret to be) an excellent editorial on parenting in the Huffington Post (link). While, yes, the subject is parenting, I think these concepts apply to our daily lives.

"There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It's regular time, it's one minute at a time, it's staring down the clock till bedtime time, it's ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, it's four screaming minutes in time out time, it's two hours till daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.

Then there's Kairos time. Kairos is God's time. It's time outside of time. It's metaphysical time. It's those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day. And I cherish them.

Like when I actually stop what I'm doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the perfect curves of her teeny elf mouth and her asianish brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving but I can't hear her because all I can think is -- This is the first time I've really seen Tish all day, and my God -- she is so beautiful. Kairos."

Birdsong

2012-01-19T23:20:00.002-06:00

Austin is a wintering ground for many species of birds. This week the woodpeckers are in my neighborhood. I pause and listen to their calls. Each tree and housetop hosts a different birdsong. The repetition of the cardinal. The metallic rasp of a grackle. The explosive cry of the bluejay. The annoying twitter of English sparrows. The thrumming of the mourning dove. The schizophrenic rantings of the mockingbird. The melodies of these feathered musicians coalesce in a disjointed orchestra.

Techno Low, Gee

2012-01-19T23:19:00.001-06:00

Observation: We spent actual time together and talked on the phone, but we also texted and IM'ed. When one stops dating someone now, as compared to before the era of the constant contact thing carried around in the pocket, her absence leaves a more noticeable hole.

I'm not sad, just thinking about how it was before the smartphones.

There are several ways texting has changed communication, and therefore, dating. I've been especially aware of how it has changed the beginning (a man does not ask a woman out over text, esp the first date), the middle (she can always say hello, wherever you are, thoughts sent), the end (one does not break up with someone over text), and now, the after.

Because of the technology, the other person is present in your life more often, and so when the other person is gone, she's more gone-gone.

Said in tarry.

2012-01-12T21:45:00.001-06:00

I sit.
I sit all day.
I come home. I sit all night.
I am sitting now.
(Oh. I lie down too, which is like sitting, with your whole body.)

There's too much sitting in my life, I know.

The end of 2011, too much of 2011, too much TV.
Too much not doing.
As someone who creates. I should not "not."
Inactive. Unplugged. Relaxed.

All people create somehow.
Something we do that pulls us in, the act itself inspiring. Brains engaged and breath quickened just some, enough. Time passing unnoticed.
Cook.
Write.
Paint.
Play.
Build.
Tear apart.

"I work so hard!"
And probably, you do.
I do.
We do.
Balance though, off kilter.
The pendulum swung to one side.

I wonder what is undone by my hands?
What do hours of inactivity take from my life?
What phantoms exist, in alternate timelines, of books I've written and drawn.
Of hikes taken on trails, of discovery there.
Of instruments mastered. Songs sung.
(And therefore, girls wooed.)
Things carved, grain on fingers and spice of wood in the nose.
Plants and trees and gardens
trimmed, planted, and cared for.
Conversations with friends,
but instead, wordless whispers fading into not had.
Life, details, slipping away.
I live on this side of the phantom world.
Created also by my hands, by their folded resignation.

What is entertainment?
What does it mean?
Pictures move. Sound.
A laugh. A sigh.
Seeing and wanting what is on the screen.
But not getting it.
Not moving.
Not having, and so sighing again.
Sighing again.
Sigh.

Instead, a slow care taking, and then, rhythm of life.
Hands doing and minds churning, whirring, active.
Potential explored, expressed, instead of melting away.
Vital days.
Life.
Thought filled moments.
Lived.

Why Don't You Just Text Me? :)

2012-01-05T22:43:00.000-06:00

There are many ways to communicate with me.

Phone, expected. (No. You cannot have my number.)

Email. Also expected ... six (?) addresses. Most are variations of my personal URL.

Facebook. We all know about Facebook now. It gets lost in the shuffle. (For the love of all that is holy do NOT group email me there. EVERYONE'S responses show up every time they add something and I get that little number one by my Facebook iPhone app that makes me think someone has actually said something to me, but no, it's some dumb thing from someone about how they haven't seen you in FOREVER, and you look great just shoot me.) Probably the worst way to contact me.

No, that would be Pinterest. Apparently there's some sort of email capability there. I received one from there, but I don't know how. (I can't figure it out.)

Comment. Comment on Facebook. On Google+. On Pinterest. On Twitter. On one of my two blogs. On my Tumblr. I will probably comment back. At the very least I will +1 your comment, or like your comment. We'll be lots closer.

Instant Messaging. (This is rarely on when I am home.) Pretend, for the most part, this doesn't exist.

Skype! (It just felt like it needed the exclamation point, I don't think that's part of the logo!) (Sorry. Was just feeling it again.) Once -- was a cr--one serv-- over the --net.* Now, it's a crappy free video service over the internet.** (Can you see me? I can see you. You can't see me? Which button? Wait. There you are. No.)

Oh, LinkedIn. I think. No one has ever sent me a real email from there, besides, "Hey, check out this business seminar thing I am doing like the one where you gave me your information and now I email you on LinkeIn so you can check out this business seminar I am doing so I can email you on LinkedIn (in perpetuity)."

Google+. Maybe? I posted some stuff there a while back. I am not sure what's happening over there now.

Twitter. Twitter has three levels of communication.

Twitter Communication, Level 1, Tweeting : One way communication. However, the more I Tweet, the more you feel like you know me*** and then want to talk to me in my Twitter feed moving you to ...

Twitter Communication, Level 2, Mentioning : You post a "mention" in a Tweet. You show up in my "feed." I "reply," in which I "mention" you, and so on and so forth. Until, uh-oh, let's say stuff to each other no one else can see, progressing to ...

Twitter Communication, Level 3, Direct Messaging : It's instant messaging on Twitter. However, because of the notifications I have set up on my iPhone--rephrase, Twitter set up on my iPhone and I can't turn them off or it's too hard or who cares--I receive a text that you have direct messaged me. A notification from that Twitter you have direct messaged me. And finally, an email that you have direct messaged me ... and a notification of the email notification. Then I can go to actual Twitter and read the direct message, the text of which was mostly included in all of those notifications. I am, therefore, informed five times you sent me a direct message.

There is this moment, though. When you've moved through the Twitter Communication Levels where suddenly, maybe, you should take the communication further. So, you recommend a text.

Sending a text, however, requires a phone number, and while all of this "communicating" has been going on, it has been behind the safety and anonymity, the wall, of the internet, of these programs. Now, it's a little dangerous. Asking for my number is sort of scary. Almost like the feeling you got in junior high when you asked that first person to "go" with you. But you ask anyway. And you wait. And it's hard to wait. What about rejection? What if I don't want to move past just being cyber?

But of course I want to text with you and we do and we're texters now. Texting buds.

Insert personal anecdote. I rarely use the rectangular thing sitting on the desk next to me as a "phone." It's called "iPhone," phone being part of its name, but I don't talk on it much. What I do ... do, is accessing of social media, checking email, seeing what that bright light in the sky is next to the moon (it's Jupiter), answering any question I can ever think of (Frank Stallone, though Sly Stallone's brother, is not the lead singer of Survivor, who sang Eye of the Tiger, as I have believed for years), and I text.

Boy howdy do I! So much, in fact, that after meeting a lady on Twitter, and moving through the Twitter Communication Levels she came to see me (all the way from another town!) (and state!) without our having even ever talked to each other. Later, when someone pointed out that this was odd, it only then struck me as odd. We both had the assurance of a mutual friend that the other was pretty great, so maybe that took the impetus off talking.****

This entry is the first time I've actually listed all of the ways to reach me. I know several of my reader will have even more ways to reach her. Not until now have I listed all of these avenues. Does it exhaust me? It seems like it should exhaust me. I have become so immersed in it I don't know any more, too close to the flame. Wings flapping. So beautiful, so ...

After reading this post, please feel free to comment below.

* Once this was a crappy free phone service over the internet.
** Sort of an assumption. I have only used Skype (I will not verbize that word as the public at large now does everything) with my parents in Mexico. The signal bounces of a satellite and is then carried, via burro, to their computer.
*** Don't reply to a celebrity. Maybe they will reply back (never), but you will feel like a dork right after you send it. (As you should.)
**** No. It's still probably odd.

Memory 1

2011-11-07T23:16:00.001-06:00

They move along the crumbling edge of a ravine. His father carries him. The trees throw a skeleton's lattice on figures below. The boy raises his head and squints. Singular rays catch his eye and for a moment he is blind.

This crisp in the air also, dirt stirred by footsteps tearing the earth as the father fights to keep them both from tumbling.

In his father's arms. This is what he remembers and no more. Was he afraid then? He does not know. Do you remember carrying me through the woods? The father certainly wouldn't.

This piece of the journey otherwise without note in their lives. Marked by a flicker in the boy's mind, there even when he is the man.

"sketch group"

2011-10-26T23:11:00.000-05:00

I am exhausted tired. But I am happy.
Sitting and sketching with friends new found.
The third time, maybe fourth, and what springs up as we scratch on paper is life experiences.
Some doubt, some questions. Parallel experiences.
Sharing and listening does good things for the soul.
And not trying to "be" deep, or impress, but conversations that meander until what you find is substance.
And nobody is "trying."
Oh how people "try" in this town.
We meet to draw. And we draw.
But in a short time we find ourselves ...
We find ourselves.

For the Sake of Rain

2011-09-26T22:23:00.003-05:00

The sky bursts. The lightning is remarkable. The cool wind carries the scent of rain. The storm is close by, but it will not come here. I stand on the edge of the storm, and sadly, not in it.

This is how it has been all summer. Rain to our north, to our south, but rarely here. Austin sits in a cursed bubble, melting storm lines that have stretched across the plains, across the country. We live in a hollow, where rain cannot fall, seemingly has no power to penetrate.

Grass crinkles underfoot. Bushes dry and dead. Limbs fall off trees. There is no buzzing around the ear. There is no bite. All needing moisture have been stopped in their tracks, their cycles snuffed by months of searing heat and absence of water.

We are dried too. Almost October and still the sky mocks us. The heat continues, temperatures in the hundreds, cooking and wrenching what life is left. Snuffing out the candle of life. We are oppressed. We cannot bear it. Release us.

We perch on the edge of a communal madness. We reach for the canteen and find it drained on the desert floor. Empty. We lick our lips and so tonight's storm is even more torture. The light show on the horizon, brilliant blue and white. The wind whips around me, carrying trash. Wind chimes crash and the dry leaves clatter as the promise of rain teases.

It is a cruel game. I tire of it. Were I in a Greek tale I would ride into the sky, born on a white wings. Mighty legs pumping as together we run on the wind. Into the clouds and through the electricity until we come before him. Eyes terrible. His hands throwing bolts.

"Zeus!" I call his name, "Come and catch me!"

Turning, we race. The horse and I run. Zeus follows, cursing my impudence, my ego. Throwing spear after spear, each rushing past us, close. Burned by the electricity the horse turns, trembles, spirals. Leaning forward I whisper into his ear. The creature rights its course. We tear across the sky and Zeus after us. Behind him, bearing him, his throne, rumbling and boiling. Rain.

It is too late for the grass to know it. Fat drops fall on trees covered in a thousand tiny skeletons. This is not life, not for most things. They have perished. For us, the survivors, spared by our modern ingenuity, strained to breaking, it is relief.

We will tell of it, this summer and its madness. We will try our best to forget. Rain is not merely physical, it is the essential embodiment. It is life. Within and without, we wither without its kiss.

Hello, Nico

2011-06-06T22:05:00.002-05:00

I can't find my car.

It was a maze, once I got inside, and now I am outside. On the wrong side of the building.

I don't know what that bug is, in the trees. It's one of the summer night bugs. They drone, tiny engines among leaves. I can't see them. They're not cicadas. I know that sound. I grew up with them. Easy to find when you're a kid. Follow the noise. Big and fat and lime green with prickly feet crawling on my hand.

It's warm still. Appropriate for an early June night. The wind blows and with the bugs the night is full of sound. The breeze cools me some. The sound of slapping, too. I hear that as I walk. Flip flops slap and squeak. This parking lot is a circle. I know I'll get to my car eventually.

"We're at the hospital if you want to come and see us."

It's nearby, so it is easy to go. I want to go, that makes it easy also. The hospital has good signs. I find the floor. The wing. The room. The door is shut. I lean in, but I can't hear through it. This is the number, so I go in.

He lies on a couch that's extended into a bed. The sort of marvel only found in a medical facility. He wears a black t-shirt, and his wife, she wears black too. Sitting in her bed. Upright. In a dress. At the foot of the bed is a fake wood cart and on top of that a clear plastic bassinet. Inside that, Nico.

I can't believe it, every time I meet a new born. I can't believe the face, the expressions, the fingers, the toes. So small, so impossibly tiny, but each one perfect.

"Have you washed your hands? You can pick her up."

No, I say at first. But I can't stand it. I want to hold her.

She is incredibly light. A little under seven pounds. Her hair is short. "Like a peach," her dad says, and so I touch her head. Like a peach, sure. She raises her eyebrows at the sensation of my fingers. 13 hours ago she was suspended. Upside down. Sideways. Now there's only one way up. Now she's wrapped in a blanket. Now she wears a hat on her head to keep her warm. Her hat has a robot sticker on it.

She sneezes. She coughs. She opens her eyes and closes them. Her left arm extends, free from the dinosaur blanket she's wrapped in. Free from her "baby burrito" her dad says. She clenches a fist.

We talk. The story of the night before. How the mother stayed up too late. A c-section was scheduled. The birth was not a surprise. No mad dash. No counting between contractions. A nurse comes in. A small cart supporting her laptop and a scan gun. She zaps the mother's bracelet. She asks her her birth date. The mother tells her. The nurse says, "Good." "Time for feeding," the mom says. I say goodbye. Hug them. "Congratulations. I love you both."

"We're at the hospital," has had a different meaning for me these last 14 months. "We're at the hospital and he's in ICU. You better get here." "We're at the hospital and she's in hospice." "He's in hospice." "We've moved him into palliative care." Not six weeks ago I stood in a hospital room as a man gasped. Old enough to go. A disease carried him on. I've stood too behind podiums and then holes dug in the ground.

I've said too many goodbyes. It is nice to say hello.

There was a rubber glove against the curb, so I am looking for a curb, not these concrete car stops. Also I saw "clergy parking only" signs. In front of me there is a path with edging, like a sidewalk. No cement though, just wood chips. Where a sidewalk should be, probably, decided by walking feet.

I see the sticker. The worn longhorn on the back window. I recognize the slope of the rear of the car. It's across a road and then through an impromptu hole in the hedge. The button on my key ring unlocks the door. Turns on the light inside. I shut the door and the air conditioning blasts, still cool. Still charged from when I came.

Reverse, then drive. Then home.

2011-06-01T15:00:00.002-05:00

This is the land you came from.
This pond, these trees.
That road there, was the edge of your great grandfather's land.
This forest, his too.

You stand where they stood.
The bark here, they leaned against
On summer's days as they swam,
As they gathered.
Boys in the water, where alligators swim.
Girls on the slopes of the banks, hands above their eyes, hats shading their faces.

Their laughter echoed in these woods, joining the chirps of the birds.
The birds descendants too, generations upon generations,
Eyes of their ancestors upon your's, upon you.

This is the path we walked when we were kids, this road.
The branches interlocked above, as they do here, for miles and miles.
The magnolia is gone, the one where your grandparents' house stood.

The land now sold, parceled off.
Your grandfather's name all that marks this place.
And you, feet upon this soil.
Eyes filled with the trees and sky they stood under, ran under, passed their days.
Their voices now ghost whispers with the hiss of leaves of the trees.
Their phantoms pass through you, running then where you stand now.

And standing for a moment more, turning to go.
Moment marked. Pictures taken. History recited.
The pinpoint on the map.
The mark in the soul.
"This is where I came from."
From here you go.

The Returning Champ

2011-04-11T21:27:00.002-05:00

Previously, I said there was a cat. A black cat. He fought everyone. He fought every thing.

He fought to protect my porch and its bounty—two white porcelain bowls, one most days with filled with kibble, the other water cast algae green—against all comers.

And so he did.

Always a phantom, I rarely saw him. Today, this months later, he emerges from the hedge lining my porch. Always silent before and sly, he instead stands in front of me and opens his mouth.

It is a screech of a meow. A rasping grate of sound.

He will not let me touch him, but he does not run. He is close to me. He is close because I have what he needs. So I go into my house and open the cabinet. I carry the yellow bag back through the door, and I open it, and I tip it, and I shake it. The contents ring in the bowl.

And so he eats.

Now his right back leg carries a limp. Now a bald patch permanently adorns his neck, nickel-sized and stark white against a midnight coat.

He's an old champ, I think, a warrior set to rest.

Fight, always fight, he says, mangled ear bent, and you will be broken.

* Through an accident on my iPhone, the original version of this piece was lost. I have done my best to put it back together, but it is not as good. Too stark now somehow. Nuances are missing. Here it is anyway.

Arriving

2011-04-09T11:06:00.000-05:00

The watch my granddad wore just arrived. In his last days it was his only connection to the world. Unconscious, yet he kept touching it.

Opening the package, here is the watch faded by years and use, it is in his hospital room I stand. The man before me gasping as he fades.

There is no object I have ever held so heavy. Laden with the potency of those moments and the impact this man made on me, my life an extension of his own.

I can only hope I live it well. The cold metal in my hand, I silently promise to do so.

My IM Says You're Typing Something to Me, But You Aren't

2011-03-31T22:58:00.006-05:00

Hey!

Hey there.

Yes. I'm waiting for you.

I see the little pencil graphic that says you are typing in your IM box, typing something for me to read.

What will it be today?

Is there a concert coming to town you're getting tix for?
Or is it someone's clever webpage whose illustration is better than mine?
It's probably a link to a video of puppies or kittens. Or, OR, it's a man getting hit in "the junk"—maybe with a puppy or kitten.

Still nothing? Wow. You must be typing A LOT.

Could it be gripes about your moron coworkers or insane clients?
I know!
It's something about your brother, or your mom, or your sister. (They can be so insensitive and/or intrusive. I agree.)
Or that guy you're dating, how he's perfect in every way, but you still can't decide if it's "for real."

… and. Well. And you are still typing.

Something bad has happened!
A carwreckkidfallingdownstairsnarrowlyescapedgreasefire!

Oh. You're working up to something big.
An apology for the $50 you forgot you owe me.
Or for last night, when you said the shirt that guy had on made him look like a tool, even though I had on the same shirt.

Perhaps you're writing a song or a poem about the day ...

No. That's what I would be typing.*

So. So, hey. It's been an hour now.

You must not be there. You left your cursor in the box like you do sometimes.

I can gauge our network connections.

"ducky99 has connected."

"ducky99 has disconnected."

"ducky99 has connected."

Well, I was ready.

I just want you to know.

I would have responded.

I was here, I was.

Even when you were not.

* Hey there, IM.
Whatcha doing on this beautiful day?
See ya typing, IM.
Can't wait to see what you're gonna say!

Science vs Wonder

2011-03-17T09:48:00.002-05:00

My morning drive, dramatically shortened by the exodus of Austinites either to or from SXSW, featured a report on NPR about Arcadia, a play by Tom Stoppard. The report said the play "... isn't easily described: He's somehow managed to take on themes as divergent as chaos theory, academic ambition, the second law of thermodynamics, sex, and gardening."

While those are certainly worthy themes, a passage from the play struck a note on a thing I've been thinking about.

"... [The] desire to know stands in aching contrast to the impossibility of knowing everything, much less understanding how it all fits together."

"To be at the beginning again, knowing almost nothing!" he marvels. "People were talking about the end of physics; relativity and quantum [physics] looked as if they were going to clean out the whole problem between them. A theory of everything!

But they only explain the very big and the very small; the universe, the elementary particles. The ordinary side stuff, which is our lives — the things people write poetry about — clouds, daffodils, waterfalls, and what happens in a cup of coffee when the cream goes in. These things are full of mystery."

In our culture wonder is too often dismissed by science, or even worse, the mundane. Whether you believe in a Creator, The Big Bang, or something in between, all of existence is a miracle. The wonder of our bodies, healing themselves. The tender veins of a leaf. Each atom a small galaxy unto itself. The studies and expressions of mankind—art, religion, and science—are the exploration of the astounding.

Stoppard's statement frames the conversation in a new way for me, and in a way I like.

Big ideas are the bookends of our lives, we fill the places in between.

Of Saws and Songs

2011-03-10T21:21:00.002-06:00

Gather around the fire boys and girls, let us regale one another with tales of wonder.

I am thinking about talking. More precisely, I am thinking about communication. I remember a party I attended a year ago now, in which two people whipped out a saw and a bow and played the uke to accompany their singing. (It was as precious as you would imagine. And charming and you would, like I did, want to wrap them in a bow and take them home and keep them.)

There's a magic inherent in people talking to each other. In people genuinely interested in the tales being told, not trying to overshadow the others, but instead listening and participating. A "magic" only because this is the old fashioned sort of communication when people were entertained by actual people and not light coming from a screen or an update on a social network, a vibration in the pocket or hand beckoning attention to be paid.

The attention to be paid, I think, is to the person you are with, not the clever quip that will pop up on the previously alluded to hand held device and be gone. (Though as a provider of clever quips, I hope you'll check mine, but only when, say, you are alone. You're welcome for the grin.)

As the saw people played, and I was taking mandolin lessons, I thought of picnics and trees and grass, gatherings on the edge of prairies, and gingham too, sure. Because that's the time I associate with communication like that. Real communication. It was a time in the last moments before media became a part of the human experience and bent the ear to someone not sitting with you, but to someone far away, someone never to be met. I thought, maybe, as they sang a song from the movie The Jerk*, that this was how it would be from now on. That we would gather with our assorted instruments and relish the company of each other, laughing at—again to use the word—the magic we gave to one another. The evening stands out in my mind precisely because it is the last time we had that sort of interaction and now we have reverted back to what we do. We stand about, beverages in hand, and hash over old topics—with updates. "How are you?" "I am good." "That's great."

My intention is certainly not to belittle my friends or our gatherings or what we talk about. I am thinking, though, about something we experienced for a moment. Something that remains rare among our generations now and, barring a complete and permanent collapse of the electrical grid, will not exist in our culture at large again.

*The song mentioned.

Ego

2011-02-02T23:39:00.001-06:00

There must be an ego in here somewhere. I just don't feel the need to impress. It's not "Here I am, accept me as I am." It's simply, "Here I am."

Sometimes I feel like a big, dumb dog. And not in a bad way. Scratch my head, I'll like it. Don't, I'll still like it. Clumsy too, with a big wagging tail, but not insecure. Just too big for this space and what did I just sweep off the coffee table?

So strange. Is this getting older? Have I become settled into a self image that I do not possess pride or the need to be liked? No. I must have those still, somewhere. They are not a driving force.

What is the driving force? Good question. To do what I do. Be who I am. And there seems to be nothing in between.

Dream of November 7, Related.

2010-11-08T22:30:00.003-06:00

I dreamt of clouds. Night clouds and I stood in a yard.

The moon bright. Too bright. In the clouds, above them, something else. A shape. It's close. Low.

I've seen this shape. I know it. It shakes in blurry video on the television over cities. Tucson. Fort Worth.

"We all saw it," they say, "Hundreds of us, and they say we didn't!"

"The government!" they say.

My mind whirrs to make sense of it, to make it a whole object. Framed by the clouds, disguised by them. Lights and glowing. Moving slow. A triangle. No, a rectangle. I pull out my phone. I will get a picture of it. Mine will not be blurry or on a television screen. This one will be real.

The photo is good. It's too good. I wonder what they'll think. I wonder if they will understand this was an actual thing and above my head.

I become concerned about the proof in my hand and what people will say. I forget the thing above me.

There is only my screen and the proof and my worry.

Two cats. One yard.

2010-11-08T21:47:00.003-06:00

He has now become a ghost. A phantom. Whether owing to the incident with the car door, or the larger cat who has claimed my corner of the neighborhood, formerly his corner of the neighborhood, I've not seen him in days.

I drove past him on Saturday. In my car. I didn't stop. He was covered in grass. He is perpetually covered in grass. When I pet him I brush him off. I lecture him about staying clean. As I inched by he looked up. Did he recognize my car? Do felines recognize cars? I looked at his tail trying to see if it appeared bent, broken, or swollen. It seemed normal. Then I was gone. He was gone.

Today the new cat hunches on the edge of my yard. Solid black also, virtually identical until he sits up, revealing his stockier frame. I walk to him. I make the chirping sounds cats respond to—the sound of a small animal. He does not move, as he has before. Instead he sits. He watches me. He does not crouch for the run, as he has before. Instead he looks at me. Is he challenging me? He slowly stands. Unconcerned, he skulks across the street. There is a woman in her car. She rolls through the culdesac. She seems lost. She doesn't pay attention to the street, to the cat in it. I point. She stops. He reaches the opposite curb. Again, he sits. He watches me. The woman makes a u-turn and leaves.

I lock the door to my house. In my work clothes I walk looking for the cat. I think about him. His greetings sometime annoy me. He is insistent, wrapping himself around my feet, running ahead when I stand from a stoop to scratch him. He always wants attention. Unaware of the time, at two am when I come home, he demands it. I feel bad about the car door. About shutting his tail in it. I want to be sure he's ok. I pass the place I saw him when I was driving. I peer in the yards, scanning for black shapes. I stop at the curb at the end of my block. Across the street an older man and a blond elementary-aged kid in a backpack talk in a driveway. The man gives the boy something. The boy puts it in the trash can. "Hey dad," he says as I turn. I can't find the cat. I can't be sure he's ok. I can't check him. Hopefully he comes back.

The new cat has taken over. Is this paranoia? Today he seemed less a cat and more a presence. Cool. Eyes shining. He regarded me with disdain. He made it clear I was not a threat, just an annoyance. He's rid my yard of the first cat. Now he seeks to rid my yard of me. This is crazy, I know. I hope this is crazy.

Note: For those who may be overly concerned. This entry is based on fact, but colored by a character's voice and prose.

(Second draft. 11-08-10.)

I Offer No Comfort Against the Thing the Night

2010-11-03T23:27:00.006-05:00

I came home and he was there to greet me.

I rubbed his neck. He pressed against my hand as I scratched through his black fur. He arched his back and then dipped, moving with my motions. He twisted his head, one eye barely open. The other closed. He bared a tooth and purred.

Next in the greeting ritual is the yellow bag of Meow Mix. I rarely feed him after dark. There are possums and raccoons in the neighborhood. These nocturnal creatures, active and hungry at night. I had not seen him in days. It was time to spoil him a little.

The kibble tinkled against porcelain as I shook the bag. I tossed the dirt filled dribble left in his water bowl into the bushes and filled it with fresh water from the tap. I scratched his head a couple of times until he turned his attention from me to his meal.

I stood inside behind the glass door watching him. Low to the ground, he hunched over the bowls. He looked up, pausing for a moment, and then returned to eating. He stopped and raised his head again. His ears twisted, listening.

"It's okay, buddy," I said, stepping onto the porch. I walked and stood on the edge. I looked into the night, searching. The streetlight in the culdesac revealed no threat. I listened for a bark or a shuffle. Nothing. I turned to look at the cat. He was gone.

I stepped outside as he ate to guard him. He took no comfort from my presence. Whatever he heard trumped what protection he thought I could give.

I know now he does not view me as a caretaker. He is not a dog. Not part of a pack. He is an individual, one, not many. Or perhaps, as a stray, his instinct to survive is too strong. Never at rest, never at night, he is ready to move, always ready to go, to silently escape.

I assumed my role in his world, but he knows it better than I do. He knows what I cannot see, hear, or smell. He knows the territory behind the bushes in my front garden. He slinks beneath the branches of the shrubs with no sound. He lives with the danger and survives because survival is what he has practiced. He practices, and therefore he lives.

(Edited 11-08-10)

Introduction : The Writing Blog, Its Deletion and Subsequent Return

2010-11-02T08:48:00.001-05:00

I’ve said it here before—I have probably even said it before by beginning, “I’ve said it here before”—it is time for the Janx Blog to go. On October 27 I announced on my social media sites I was deleting this blog. The announcement of the deletion of the blog was followed by the actual deletion of this blog. The blog was off-line for 16 hours or so.

Deleted.

GONE.

And it is back. Why?

The throngs! The up in arms protest by loyal readers!

(I caved pretty easy. Should have made them send me gift baskets or a mail-in campaign protest featuring circus peanuts.*)

*The vocal supporters numbering only 3, the mail-in protest campaign would have been rather sad. I do think, however, these individuals could put together some sweet gift baskets. (Still.) (Hint.)

-------

Hasta la vista, baby, again.

The important question, for me, is not why it is back, but why did I make the move to purge the internet of this journal in the first place.

As I said, this is not the first time the decision has been made. In the past I have declared, “I don’t have the time!” Or versions of, “Baby, you just don’t thrill me like you used to.”

(“Baby,” in this instance, being the blog, writing, posting my thoughts and feelings out here on the web.)

Of course, I have not deleted it. I have chosen to return. As I have now.

The “why” behind my decision this time is further reaching and more relevant. It is, I think, part of a larger discussion and the changing nature of the internet.

-------

The Reason, The Why, The Announcement

On October 27, I updated my status on Facebook thusly (a 140 character version posted on Twitter):

“For those who were readers of my blog (not the drawing one), I deleted it. (After saving it on my drive.) I hadn’t posted in a while, and as my professional life expands on the web, there is less room for my 'personal' one. It was a good 6 year run. (It did, though, go a long way in teaching me how to write. To be good at writing—write.)"

This statement and reasoning remains solid. To be completely forthcoming, the blog's existence, in the way it has existed, is still in question.

What I intend to do—before pulling the plug on it entirely, or not—is to examine the statement, the purposes of the blog, and my perception of the changing role of the internet in our lives. What will follow is a series of short thoughts on the matter. Action will then follow.

Stay tuned.

Story Telling and Its Demise in the Modern Big Budget Horror Movie

2010-11-01T22:37:00.006-05:00

IDK. Am I supposed to talk about horror movies here?

As a kid, I didn't need them. I saw one about this crawling disembodied hand at a babysitter's house sometime between six and eight years old. It terrified me for years.

"You see. It GETS YOU when you are sleeping."

It would! It would crawl up on your bed and choke you. And then you would try to shoot it or kill it but it was hard to hit because it was JUST A HAND with no body attached. I don't remember it being particularly fast. Slow. Deliberate. And I think Michael Cain was running around somewhere being British.

So I would lay in my bed wide-eyed, trembling from fear because The Hand was going to sloooowly crawl up my bed and choke me.

While I slept.

Further evidence of my not needing assistance to be scared is illustrated in my Rules to Be Sure a Vampire Doesn't Get You While You're Asleep—which I will not go into in depth. Be assured, they were extensive. (A key rule was "Only sleep on things up against the wall so the vampires can't sneak up on you." This overlooked, "Be sure you have all possible routes of escape from lurking vampires.")

---------

With all the fear of Being Attacked While I Was Asleep, one would think that the first Nightmare on Elm Street movie would be a perfect fit. It was, after all, based entirely on that sentiment and the other which was, "You won't actually really die if you die in your dreams."

I was thirteen, and yes, that movie scared me. A lot. (Also, I'd never seen that level of gore before.)

At that advanced age, Freddy didn't scare me much. I made sure I didn't think of him before I went to sleep. This was not an issue, really. You may note I mentioned I was 13, and so, there were other things to think about. Dreamy, soft, things. With braces.

---------

The original Nightmare (I will call it for shorts, and because, really, cut and paste is such a chore), was first, boiled down, a great ghost story. It also played upon the above mentioned conventions, introducing the idea that, yes, indeed, what everyone said—"You are fine in your dream if when you fall you wake up before you hit the ground"—was true. Hit the ground, or get stabbed by this guy, and it's over.

Freddy was like the shark in Jaws. You didn't see him much. He didn't say much. Nobody believed he was out there when you said he was real. By the time they did believe you, it was too late. (And places assumed safe, water and dreams, are not. OH SO NOT!)

---------

When the "reimagining" of Nightmare came out, I was intrigued.

"What are they going to do?"

What they did was remove all of the elements that made the first movie scary. There is also an attempt to tell the story through several characters who we don't care about or know, before really settling down with the characters we are supposed to care about and know, but do not ever care about and know.

The audience needs to empathize with the people in the story for their peril to affect us. Otherwise they are simply nothing but bodies for the count.

The first "this is for real" moment comes very early in the film. I am sure there was some discussion about the introduction of the character, of his rules. There seems to be this decision, "Everyone knows who this character is and what he does, so let's skip most of that, really." Then what follows is pretty mundane, compared to the original. The scariest moment was a guy on a video who smacks his head against the camera and it goes all fuzzy.

---------

Why am I, essentially, reviewing a horror movie?

Because stories intrigue me. The art and method of telling of stories intrigues me. Horror movies are modern ghost stories. We bask in the light of the television screen instead of a camp fire.

I didn't expect this to be a great movie, but as I watched it I thought about the things I would do, and how that wasn't what on the screen. I don't know what the original script was like. I am sure things get watered down by The System. Missing here for me, mostly, was smarts and practical methods of telling a story.

In the end, it serves me well. It gives me the impetus to get on with writing my own tales.

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This entry, on Twitter: "New 'A Nightmare on Elm Street' not scary. First was a great ghost story. This is a mish-mash with no character empathy. No stakes. No win."

The Story of a Dog Named X1 and His Attempts to Enter the Dimension I Carry On My Wrist

2010-08-15T23:02:00.001-05:00

There is a dog ramming his face into a buffet. The dog is a corgi. He is trying to enter a portal.

His nose marks the spot he is trying to enter. His nose leaves a wet mark on the black lacquered wood. A circle of light marks the entry to the portal.
The spot of light is created by my watch. I sit at the end of the dining room table. The light from the canisters above bounce off of the face of my watch.

I wear several watches, but this is the only one that creates the small spotlight the dog interprets as an entry point to another dimension. He is nervous, expectant when I sit down. He waits for the sign. When he sees it he smashes his face against the doors of the buffet.

His association with me and the portal is permanent. Even when I do not wear the watch, when I sit at the end of the table he gets excited. He looks at me. He looks at the black lacquered surface. He waits for the door to open. I remember this when I go to my friends' house. I try to always wear the watch if we're eating dinner. I bear a responsibility. I am the keeper of the portal.

To you, I am just a man. To a dog, there is a supernatural quality to my presence. I am the keeper of the portal.

Follow Up

2010-08-09T21:43:00.000-05:00

After talking about my grandparents in depth, I felt like I should follow up with this note.

I tried to figure out how it affected me, and I knew, to some extent.

What the past few weeks, has taught me, is to just let it in. To accept it as a part of me, as profound as their passing was to me.

And so I have. As all things accepted it and made peace with it.

Changed, yes. I am. I can't help but be, and so glad for it.

Cherish their gifts to me, their lives, but also what they gave me in the end.

To say, "a part of myself back" sounds grandiose, but that's what a part of me is, and so I am, and so I say it.

I will always be thankful for their roll in my life. Always thankful for who they were and ever will be to me.

ILOVEYOU--72 Points

2010-08-04T11:51:00.001-05:00

Words with Friends is the Scrabble-like game iPhone app sensation. Create a username, find your friends, and off you go! Gear up for hours and hours of good-old fashioned healthy competition, 'cause it's on the way!*

As in Scrabble, the computer doles out one letter tiles seven at a time. One uses these tiles to create words off of words on the board. Some spaces are worth points. Others are not. You would agree, I think, this is all rather straight forward.

There does seem to be, however, another level to the game. Something not so straight forward. Something sinister.

Sometimes—and I would like to stress that word to those I play—SOMETIMES the words are dictated by the thoughts and feelings held for my opponents.

This phenomenon was first noted when I played someone I've fancied for a while.

I kept getting tiles to spell words like,

"Attract"

"Date"

"Cuddle"

I laughed at first, but then the words kept spitting out, erupting onto the board, revealing my innermost thoughts.

"Hey, tiles!" I said, "Be cool, yo."

It was too late. The gates had broken open.

"Cute"

"Kiss"

"Massage"

I searched in vain for other words.

"Match"

"Hug"

"Please"

There were none to plug the flow.

All I wanted to say to her, all I thought and dreamed, poured forth.

"Awesome"

"Dreamy"

"Begging"

Mercifully, the tiles ran out and the rant was ended. The game was over.

In the settling dust—I don't remember who won—I scrutinized what had just happened.

My tiles had conspired against me. Like a ouija board guiding my hand.

Was it the game? Could it know? Did it tap into some unknown energy field projecting from my soul? My deepest darkest transmitted via the 3G network? No. Impossible.

Then a chair scraped. Somebody was sitting beside me.

"'Sup."

"Subconscious, oh hey. Didn't see you there."

"See what I did?"

"Oh. That was you?" I folded my arms, "Um. Yeah. I did."

"You like that? How the words you were thinking were the only ones you saw? Other words were totally there, dude."**

I looked at him for a moment. "How about being cool? How about taking it easy?"

"Yeah. Well. You do that. I don't."

"Right."

"Normally," he said, leaning back a bit and gesturing with his hands as he spoke, "I don't have the tools to express it. I get dreams and stuff. I try to nudge you one way or the other. This, though, this is brilliant. I can talk directly to the other person."

"I'm on to you now," I said.

"Right," he said, standing, clapping me on the shoulder, "Good luck with that."

"See you later," I said.

"No," he said, "You won't."

I'm not aware of him at most games. I'm not a volcano of not communicated pent up emotions needing to get out. Occasionally, however, a word will be played.

Say, for instance, I'm behind 142 points.

"Bludgeon"

Someone owes me money.

"Moocher"

She's a fox.

...well, we've covered that.

I think it can't just be me experiencing this, aware of it. Some messages are passed across. Sometimes things are said.

Tell me I'm wrong, ok, but also, tell me you've never experienced it.

* See previous post.

** This discussion is based upon a study covered in a recent book, and one I did an illustration for for a newspaper. The researchers told the people in the study to watch a group of people passing a white ball. "Count how many times the ball is passed," were the instructions. At the end of the test, the subjects would report the results. "Yes," said the researchers, "But did you see the gorilla?" You see, a person in a gorilla suit came out and did a little dance. Many subjects did not see the gorilla. My theory is, for me at least, Words With Friends can operate the same way, my thoughts and feelings determining the words I see in the tiles.

*** I've thought about suggesting not games for points, but games on a theme, or trains of thought. The one who breaks the train of thought loses.

Down Came a Spider Who Sat Down Beside Her and She Said, "Cooool."

2010-07-19T22:19:00.003-05:00

This weekend's visitors further proved something I've noticed.

Whether it's "they're gross" or "they're scary" beforehand, the people who have seen the tarantulas (who live safely in cages) couldn't stop looking at them once they saw them.

Even the visitor who folded up her arms and squealed "I haaaaate those!" (or something equally high pitched) when told they were in the room she was about to enter came back to see them. My two year-old niece could not get enough, wanting to check in on them almost constantly.

Say what you will, there is this: they are fascinating. The fascination seems to trump the preconceived notions attached to them. (Though I dated a girl who was non-plussed afterwards. She said simply, "They're gross.")

There are three. They were gifts from a coworker who raised them to sell to pet shops. I obtained them when she said she'd "Bring (me) some sometime" and I said, "Cool." One does not operate on the assumption of the follow up of the gifting of arachnids, in this case, however, she made good.

While no one wanted to get them out and have them on them—even I don't want to do that—it's nice to know that the folks walked away from the tarantulas less negative than they were before.

While it is not my mission in life for people to love tarantulas, I do like to see people transcend a general expression of "the natural world is icky." (I don't have much patience for that sort of nonsense, really.) In this case, as it is with most things, taking a moment to expose oneself to the object of prejudice challenges those notions and can (and often does) change them.

You Are My Friend. Now I Must Destroy You.

2010-07-16T23:04:00.001-05:00

It started quietly.

"Hey. There's this new app. It's Scrabble. Let's play each other."

Readers of this blog probably know this. I didn't play sports. Early on I discovered I was no good at them. Also, I found I was uncomfortable with what competition did to me. I did not want to win. I wanted to CRUSH.

This stood in stark contrast to how I am wired. Empathy is a problem I have. Early on in the Scrabble games I would pull back so as not to trounce the people I played. Not that I was the king of Scrabble, but I found my need for someone to feel good about themselves trumping my need to beat them. The problem, however, was when I did, I lost. I hated it. I discovered something else. I still hate to lose.

It's a curious situation. I engage in games with people I know, and who are my friends, several times a day. We jockey, looking for letters to form words. We hunt for double and triple letter scores. A bingo! Just give me a bingo! We lose and sometimes we win. There are those who win a lot and we struggle to beat them, together we cheer on IM when we confound them.

How long, I wonder, before this manifests in other ways? Could it spill into our lives outside our hand held devices? At the cookout there's a little potato salad left. Seeing who's in line behind us—the person who somehow figured out how to make the word "skate" worth 152 points—we take the whole dollop for ourselves. We don't hold a door as they're following us in. How long before we are slashing tires and pushing them into walls as we walk past? How long, I ask you, before we are hurling Molotov cocktails through windows as the fabric of our society is rent in twain by a blank tile played at an opportune moment?!!!

The answer, of course, is NEVER! We would NEVER do such a thing!

But, I suspect, we all want to win as much as I want to win.

So please remember, as I pull out the chair from behind you as you sit down, that we are friends.

Something I Feel Compelled to Share, or, the Passing of J.W. Jennings

2010-07-16T22:43:00.000-05:00

I've tried to write the post about my grandfather's death a half a dozen times at least. What's kept me from finishing is I have not fully processed what it means in it's entirety. That's fair, I think. It will take time.

While the ramifications are not simple, the effect it has had on me is, though, no less profound. Simply stated it was one of the four moments of my life where things radically changed and I stood equally transformed.

Surrounded by family, we stood near the casket, by the man we loved. While the service for my grandmother had been one of peace and joy at a life lived, the funeral for my grandfather, coming not two weeks later, was painful and raw. It was, we said standing outside the chapel, honest too. A shine that was on my grandmother's wiped clean. This like the wall of my grandparent's garage, dented and scraped, scrawled upon by children and grandchildren. We stood looking at the handwriting across decades. We remembered when the words were written, thinking upon who this man had been to us, each of us.

He was, said those who remembered him that day, a template for how to be a father, a man done right. Words like integrity, strength thru humility, faith and service to your fellow man filled the stories told. The family performed the service, as we had my grandmother's, and there was a palpable healing as each child or grandchild stood to do their part. Afterwards, however, the wound was not closed. How could it be? In the span of less than three weeks we'd lost what was precious to us.

Two trumpets blared on a hill. Below we gathered as the edges of the flag draped over buffed steel whipped in the breeze. The musicians lacked talent and tripped on the notes, prompting rolled eyes of the coronet players in the family. Words were said. Hands laid on the casket in prayer. We loaded into our cars. And so it was. Children had become grandparents. Grandchildren, parents. I stood, surrounded by siblings and cousins, by their wives, or husbands, and their children. I stood, as I have for long time now, alone.

I had settled into my part at our gatherings of the bachelor brother, uncle, and cousin a couple of years ago. Family get-togethers ceased to hold any thought for me of what was not in my life. I revel in the relationships I have, of those I love, and they were enough. At the church, however, and at the cemetery, the word "legacy" floated through the air, and unable to ignore it, I took it in. Not a legacy for pride. But the legacy of family. That what I have been given by the relationships I have had stops with me. It is not being sown into someone else, either a spouse or children.

There are many worthy ways to live life. Being a husband or a father (or wife and mother) are not necessary for everyone. Very early on, however, they were necessary to me. Opening my journals from my early 20's reveals words dripping with hope as I pined for the eventual arrival of my mate. (Missing from those words, however, was the acknowledgment of some spectacular women who were around me. Women, who, for whatever reason—and at the time my decisions made sense—I let go.)

Another place and another time and I found myself in a world falling apart, all that I cherished and held dear, all of my values and identifications, crumbling around me. I was destroyed. Only in the last few years do I feel knit together. And though I could not see it when my grandfather died, the smoke begins to clear and I sense it now. The passing of my grandfather is an absolute necessity to move on to the next part of my life.

I was listening to NPR one morning on the way into work. Mark Ruffalo was being interviewed. A talented actor, he'd been sidelined by a brain tumor that almost cost him his life, much less his career. In talking about his experience, and then that of some of the characters he'd played, he said this.

"People gotta be torn apart to be put back together in the right way sometimes."

I stopped my car. Put it in park and sat. I breathed his statement in.

It's not from the Bible, no, but it was gospel to me. And my God, did it free me.

So what has my grandfather's passing done for me, how has it changed me, how has it impacted my life? As I said, I am still figuring it out, but what I know is it has nurtured roots that were chopped and long buried deep. Pushing their way through the dark soil, they break the surface and find sunlight once more. Trust. Love. Openness. Turning an eye to my own manhood and what it means, the legacy of my grandfather inspires and challenges those values I already held in my own heart as true. Strength through kindness and humility. Faith. Service, which is, looking outside of myself.

Husband. Father. These are amazing and humbling words to me. Sure. I romanticize them. I am prone to do so. I know, also, what trials they hold and how integrity can rise to meet them. I've seen it. I saw it in my grandfather. As I've said, I don't know that they are my path, or if they are to be a part of my life. What I do feel is a turning of the chapter, or even the closing of a book, the hard leather binding thick in my hand as I put it on a shelf and pull another down. Placing it on a table I begin to open it, to read the story inside. Whatever is written there, I feel I can put the last decade behind me and become... What? I don't know. At this moment, just become.

Cup of French Onion Soup with a Side of Metaphysical Bombshell

2010-07-16T17:09:00.002-05:00

Friend says, over lunch, "You haven't been the same since your grandparents' deaths."

I knew this. I just didn't know other people knew this.

A Facebook Post the Author Thought had lots of Potential, but Essentially Crashed and Burned in the Comment Section

2010-07-14T19:46:00.005-05:00

I have been nerding out this week in my Facebook status updates.

"Nerding out," if you need that term defined, is where I take a break from my normal whatever's in my head status updates and share some of my more nerdy interests. It was spawned by a game of the Battlestar Galactica board game I played with some friends this weekend. I like to "game," but I don't really do it much. I like it because it gives me an opportunity to:

1) sit in one place and eat snacks and drink beverages

2) laugh and spend time with friends

Board games, also, add the level of being able to be defeated by, or, to triumph over people you like, and really. Who doesn't love to do that?

So. Here's a post from among this week's nerd out highlights.

"CSJ NERDIN OUT WEEK CONTINUES : Considering buying the Peter Venkman Ghostbusters 12-inch figure, then hiring a seamstress to make him clothes from Wes Anderson's films."

And someone said, "I would very much like to see the Steve Zissou incarnation."

(That's Chalker. I knew he would get it. I knew I could rely on him.)

So I said, "Dude. Duuuude."

(My response, though using the same word twice with a few extra "u"'s meant, "My brother. Not only do you get where I am coming from, the idea you offer is very appealing to me, and yes, I would totally dig having a Bill Murray, Steve Zissou Kill Ned Plimpton Plummeting Action Chopper.")

Then someone else piped in, "I thought my nerdspeak was solid but I have no clue what you guys are talking about."

(That's another buddy of mine, we'll call him "9," and he's right. His nerdspeak is solid. Here's the thing, though. Really, you can be nerdy about anything. Being a nerd about something is essentially digging that thing past the point of what other people think is rational. So, while nerdy, Chalker and I were nerding out about something we specifically are already nerdy about, ergo: 9 was left in the dark.)

So then Rebekah said, "NERDVENTION!"

(What you cannot tell from this post is that for the last 15 minutes on IM she had been ranting about my "nerdvention" I go to every year. Amusing herself, mostly. Not me, really, at all.)

After a while, the comments sat quiet for a while, so I chimed back in.

"Peter Venkman = Bill Murray. Bill Murray stars in many Wes Anderson films (ie: Rushmore, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, etc).

Bill Murray has starred in many films, so really, there are lots of possible accessories for a Bill Murray action figure (Cigarettes and Coffee cafe set! Zombieland Bill Murray zombie with exploding chest action!).

Think "Barbie," but instead of a perky blonde you get Bill Murray. Bill Murray is made of win.

Also, I am not going to do this, though it is fun to consider. What's MORE fun is dating women and not having to explain a room just for my Bill Murray action figure and all of his stuff."

When I made the initial post, I expected for the other Bill Murray nerds to chime in.

"Oh yeah, a Lost in Translation Billy Murray with a rumpled tux, a glass of Santori, and Scarlett Johansson in pink hair!"

(Which, incidentally, is pretty much what happened when I told another friend about my idea. She went on to wonder how you could put a fake beard on him and if you would be able to get the zombie makeup off once applied.)

Because, really, part of the status update is the Get in the Pool Effect. You have an idea. You're in the "pool" of that idea. Shirt's off. Water's nice. You just want everyone to get in with you.
That was me with the Bill Murray action figure idea.

(And, really, I do kinda dig it. If I am going to skip asking the girls out, I could pursue this full-throttle...

haha.

I wouldn't.

I totally would.)

An Opportunity is not a Curse, Stated in Another Way, It's No 911

2010-07-12T10:41:00.000-05:00

Here's the nice thing about my life. There are few emergencies.

Last night's entry, while completely relevant, presents known challenges. In other words, it's nothing new.

But that's part of the problem, isn't it? The same-old, same-old. Here I am at the entry ramp again. The highway remains as crowded as it ever was. Though I have gotten very good at navigating the traffic, I've done little to change my mode of transportation. I am, in essence, staring a situation in the eyes that, while, better, has been around for a while.

When faced by these sorts of things, there's a switch I need to throw. I am programmed for possibilities. While aware of the challenges, it's too easy to become mired in them. Instead, I look at this for what it is, another opportunity to put things right. In the midst of possibilities, however, there are some practical things to be done. And while I've got tangents and tendrils running willy-nilly—it is not too late to do those things.

As starry-eyed as this sounds, I think it's really true. Every day is a new shot at it, a new chance. There's very little that's beyond repair. It's worth mentioning that most real and lasting change, in my experience, comes through consistent small steps and choices. Remembering why I'm doing what I'm doing fires me up until it becomes habit and I don't have to think about it anymore.

Over load

2010-07-11T23:27:00.021-05:00

I did some roughs for a book project.

It's a nice one with a solid publisher, someone I have wanted to work for.

Working on the drawings though, and another couple of deadlines this week, I got a taste of what the last three years of my life have been like.

60 hour, sometimes 80 hour, work weeks. Work all day come home and draw.

The end of the last book was so fast and intense, I expended all I had to give.

With the end of that deadline, I had a couple of clients, but much less to do.

I returned to real life again. I started regularly going to the gym. Mandolin lessons were taken up. I cooked dinner. I slowly began to come back into myself again. No longer living wake, eat, work, eat, work, sleep, repeat. I had time to think again. Time to live. I'll admit. I like it. Being a person. A lot.

And now.

I don't know if I'll get the gig. Honestly, I didn't submit the level of work I am capable of. Where I should have days, were I self-employed, I have hours. Looking at a peer of mine, who's doing what I want to do, only more, I fight becoming bitter and angry.

There was this idea as I worked and worked and worked that there would be an end to it. That I would break through the wall, enough money in the bank or success to launch into it as a career. The wall, however, stood resolute. It stands there still.

Sitting at a table full of authors and an illustrator on a panel for a conference I noticed a difference. Everyone there was married. Every house was two income. So is my house. I make them both.

What I could do if this was the only thing I did. What I could produce. Where I could go. With eight hours of my day gone, my hands are tied. There's only so much I can take on. If I am working on someone else's stuff, I can't work on mine.

Then there is the thought that I deal with, that brought me to this keyboard in the first place. Life. I like living it. Working so much, all the time, costs me something. It costs me my life. Friends and family will remember the familiar refrain, "I can't. I am on deadline."

So I am torn. Easy to say, "No. I can't go back there." But what does that do to my drawing career or my hope of doing what's in my heart?

Right now. I don't know.

I do know, in my current situation, I am unable to do what I know I can do, to achieve that which I know I am capable of achieving.

Can I go back to that life, and if I do, how quickly can I break through wall that still stands?

A Short, and Somewhat Oblique, Response to a Moment Chock Full of Possibility, that, Sadly, Ended in Futility

2010-07-06T23:30:00.002-05:00

It's a delicious moment, standing in the midst of possibility.

Mind spins at what could be. What might be.

"Is it happening?!"

No.

It is not happening.

What has occurred, however, is a widening of expectation.

A new perspective and openness to what tomorrow may hold.

The hope that indeed it does.

It's potent. I tell you it is.

Good to know that feeling once again.

Great to know it's out there.

That it's in here.

A Record of my Attempt to Watch a Television Show While at the Same Time Not Believing It was Shot in my Old Stomping Grounds

2010-06-08T09:26:00.006-05:00

I like Colin Hanks. I like Bradley Whitford. When I saw an ad for their new show, "The Good Guys," I was intrigued. Summer having hit and most of the shows I watch having gone into hiatus I set the DVR to check it out.

It was the premier episode and clunky in the way premier episodes can be. There's humor, but it seems split on whether to be mad cap or not. Whitford's character is strangely anachronistic--a throw back to the seventies? He doesn't know how to use a computer? There are some good gags, both actors are affable, so I am rooting for them and will keep the DVR recording. (IMDB shows that there are 8 episodes and Hanks is only in 7. Not sure what that means for the series.)

The third star in the show, however, was the one I found most intriguing, and in the beginning, most distracting. The show, you see, is set in Dallas. Not filmed in Los Angeles with a few cows thrown into the background, but the REAL Dallas. Texas.

"No way, what?" I said, when the show, in the credits, points a big arrow to Dallas. They were mentioning streets. Landmarks. Then they were at the Museum of the American Railroad in Fair Park (they were supposed to be in a rail yard). The final clencher, however, was that Whitford's character lives in a mobile home also in Fair Park... right in front... of the Texas Star Ferris wheel--you know, the famous one from the State Fair. It was a TV thing to do. "What looks cool? Let's have the character live there." I couldn't tell you what happened in the scene. My suspension of disbelief had crashed to the ground. "No way would he live there. That's weird. There's grass growing up from between the concrete pads." I would imagine most locals watching the show would have the same reaction. At the same time, it could be just me. (Avatar was ruined for me because I couldn't make sense of how animals with four legs were living on the same planet as animals with six legs.)

It's not bizarre that a show would be shot in Dallas. There was, after all, "Dallas." We can't forget "Walker, Texas Ranger"--a show several of my friends were on, but I could not try out for because I was over the maximum six-foot height requirement (so as to not dwarf Mr. Norris). It makes sense to shoot in Dallas. There are production crews there and I am sure significant tax breaks. For me though, watching a show shot in what is basically my home town is distracting. It's like seeing someone I know in the background of every scene.

My Imagination Fueled by Guilt Takes a Cruel Turn, or, Old Yeller for Cats.

2010-06-07T16:52:00.001-05:00

"Orange cat survives Katrina. Makes his way all the way to Austin, just to be denied on the front porch of the house where his owners were supposed to be living."

While I remain pretty sure this is not reality, it's an idea that's taken hold in my mind and will not let go. Someone tell me it's balderdash.

There was, a week ago, a new cat that showed up on my front porch. He was emaciated, barely able to move, but insistent I interact with him. Not willing to touch him, I gave him food and water. He stuck his face in the water, but seemed unable to drink it. He looked at the food, but didn't eat. I shut the door to my house. Looking through my peephole, I could see that he lay on the porch for several hours. Then he was gone. I haven't seen him since. It was a Sunday, so I couldn't--or didn't--do much more. I resolved to talk to the lady next door. She's the neighborhood cat population expert. I haven't caught her outside yet to ask.

Yesterday afternoon I came home. The above idea for the opening story formed in my head. Cats have been known to (somehow) make long treks to find their owners who have moved. While I don't have an article to point to--too lazy to Google, how lazy is that--the story certainly has strong anecdotal precedence.

I decided I couldn't, however, write that story. It's too heartbreaking, especially considering how wasted away he was. "If I could only make it this last mile, they'll take care of me," thought the ever loyal feline. Uggh. That's a rough thought even now. (It would be "Old Yeller" for cats.)

It's most likely NOT the case. NO WAY it's true, but it's hooked into the guilt I had--I didn't know I had any--for leaving him there on the porch. To be completely honest, he was so wasted away he was creepy, almost scary. Really, I think he was either too old or too disease ridden to be anything but destroyed were I to take him anywhere... and still, that would have been the most humane thing to do. Finally, he was a cat I'd never seen before, so I also supposed he might belong to someone (though that someone should be shot* for letting him get to that condition). Either way, and regardless of the reason, I am the fail in the Good Samaritan story.

Sometimes having an imagination is an awful burden.

I will talk to the lady next door and see what she knows (even if it means knocking on her door). If she knows nothing, I'll take the next step my conscience requires. (Not that I know what that is.)

* Just in the leg... and with a pellet gun. Something that would bruise.

A Quote from a Renowned Local Cinema Touting an Upcoming Showing of the Most Awesome Movie Ever

2010-06-04T08:34:00.000-05:00

"Ever since that marketing countdown clock appeared at my local cinema announcing ARMAGEDDON's arrival, I knew my world was going to change, and man did it ever!

From that point on, I now rank all films on a one-to-five ARMAGEDDON scale: 1 being 1/10th as good as ARMAGEDDON, and 5 being half as good as ARMAGEDDON (which is as good as any movie could ever hope to be)."

Alamo Drafthouse

Funny. It's how I rate my movies too.

(In all seriousness, ARMAGGEDON is my most decadent of guilty pleasure movies. I saw it in the theater 6 times and stopped counting at my 24th viewing.)

Random Excerpt from an Online Description of Myself

2010-06-03T23:58:00.002-05:00

Sitting and sipping a cocktail at the East Side Showroom. Three people at a table that’s only fit for two. Dinner comes and we sample each other’s entrees. After the check is paid we walk up the street, stopping in at the Good Knight and then Rio Rita’s. Sitting outside on a late spring night and I think, “Hanging with some of my favorite people. Delicious food. Beautiful night. This is what I love.”

For me, it’s simple. I have close friends. Though they don’t live in Austin, I cherish my family. I honestly don’t need much more.

Random Excerpt from an Email in Response to a Suggestion that I should Turn my Guestroom into a Second Kitchen

2010-06-03T23:56:00.003-05:00

Danny Kaye, old school movie star type, had two kitchens. His second kitchen had those huge woks you see in Chinese take-out places. (This was back in the 50's when Chinese take-out was still a new idea.) Having something like that in your home was radical and something only Movie Stars did. Danny Kaye cooked in these woks for friends, in his SECOND KITCHEN.

So maybe I will turn the guest room into a second kitchen. But instead of normal American kitchen stuff, and even instead of huge woks, I will have those grills that the Mongolian bar-b-q places have. I will make people stand behind a counter and move down the line to make room for new people. I will, inexplicably, serve tortillas.

Thoughts About Getting Older Inspired by a Reality Television Program Accompanied by a Brief Rant on New Media

2010-06-03T23:41:00.002-05:00

Is it strange that I am comforted by the thought of getting older?

I'm chin deep in the middle of my grandparents' generation moving on, and I think getting older is cool? Not just a few years older--I stepped onto the threshold of 40 this year--but an entire decade? And I am Good With It?

I was watching a show on TV. Reality television, one of a myriad of cooking shows I watch, though I don't cook… fancy. (My cooking is more utilitarian. "How do I not die from hunger today?" Though there's been too many microwave dinners in the last two years, which is an entry for later… or maybe I just said enough about that topic.) In this show the contestants are older, all in their 50's, and they are having a Great Time. They were smiling and laughing, most not too focused on winning (they're all professionals with big time restaurants, it's all for charity). Here's what I thought, "These people. These people are happy. Comfortable in their skin." It rubbed off on me.

There's another entry coming. A friend told me she missed this, the writing here. I sat a couple of times in front of the keyboard, fingers moving but saying nothing, not able to say what I need to.
You see, there's this.

My grandfather passed away two weeks after my grandmother (my last entry, before the fat things). That I can tell you. The time since has been a wash of emotion. Losing him busted something loose on the inside of me. I can say, I think, why that was, but I am not ready to tell the story. I have fashioned it some in my head. Phrases knocking around in there, sentences, thoughts. But, not knowing, really, what's going on in my heart, I'll wait.

I'm tired right now. Never so tired, I think, when I think "I am tired," as a good friend of mine who is a single mom in an ever expanding world of responsibility. (Seriously, you'd look at her life and say, "That's enough right there." But by the time you'd finish saying it, something else would be added.) So, for me, a single guy who works all the time, I am tired. Weariness causes my thoughts to be not so sunshiny, but here's what I feel. I am pretty sure we can rely on this emotion because it's been with me for a couple of days...

Hard to put a bow on it. Lemmesee. Twitter. Small 140 word thoughts. Thinking, now, it's good for information. 670+ friends on Facebook, and though I have literally known ALL of them (not in a biblical sense, yo), I don't really know many of them, anymore. I am thinking about culling them. As I write this I am aware the of the content. "Content" never a hotter word than right now. This blog needs CONTENT! To draw the masses! To have higher numbers of hits! An angle, something to make Them laugh. Ok. I don't need to make anyone laugh. No masses needed. Let me drift in cyberspace. Visited as it is, or as it is not. (At least I know two-four people are reading.) Sites. I "subscribe" to a lot. Funny cats. Funny hipsters. Funny "photo bombs." Lots of little this's and that's. Always. Chatter. Lots of "connection" that's not really anything... or mostly not. (Shout out to my peeps.)

I am meandering, I know, a couple of entries, really, this is.

So. Older. That's what we're all getting. And it's good.

"Not too fast!"

Oh sure, I'm not in a rush. But happy. Content is what the people on the show were. That's in front of the cameras, sure. This show, though, is an off-shoot of one where new chefs compete, less successful, dare I say, younger ones. There's an inherent fever pitch missing from the show featuring the the older chefs.

I think of me in twenty years. I think of what I will have done by then. Who I will be. And though I have NO IDEA what is going to happen in that time span, and though I remain WELL AWARE, of how fast that time will go, I imagine that time.

And I smile.

(Caveats to be discussed later.)

Proportional Preference

2010-03-30T16:50:00.000-05:00

Texaco FatMan Bank (Repro)

Fat's Domino

The Sculpture of Fernando Botero

As an illustrator there is a proportion that appeals to me.

(The above sampling a representation.)

Though, I don't think there's much of it in my drawing. It's mostly in three-dimensional objects that I see.

Think I need to play with it.

Legacy : Part One : James William Says Goodbye

2010-03-29T00:56:00.006-05:00

He wants to touch her, but he cannot.

Seated in his wheelchair, he sticks his arm up over the side, reaching with his hand, grasping thin air only.

I watch my grandfather's attempts from the back of the room. My youngest cousin sits behind me, perched on a bench in front of an electric piano that's plugged into the PA. Her tentative fingers play the worn notes of an old hymn over and over.

The small parade has made its way by the casket and now voices echo in the lobby outside the door of the small chapel. There are laughs and the punctuation of rising tones of jokes. For the service, the family had climbed onto the stage each one with a task. My siblings, cousins, and I responsible for leading the singing, or reading from the bible, or offering a prayer. I read the obituary, taking a moment in its siting of her years as an educator to offer my own experience from the brief time I attended the junior high where she taught. I shared the tale of "Mrs. Jennings," feared by the preteens who quivered in the press board desks in her grammar class. In between presentations of the grandchildren, Jewell Elizabeth "Judy" Jennings' three sons and daughter shared their thoughts on what gifts their mother had given them in life.

Before the chapel service we gathered at the funeral home. My grandfather sat in his wheelchair, viewing my grandmother for the first time since her death. We made small niceties and remembrances of her. Her skin was too tight on her cheeks and missing her trademark "rouge." She would paint her lips and then put a dash on each cheek with the lipstick tube, smudging it to give them color. When I mentioned this oversight on the part of the mortician to him, my grandfather opened his mouth and emitted a sound. It is a gargled choke, a burst of breath and sound.

This is the one noise he makes.

"Is that sound him crying or laughing?" I ask.

"It's both," they tell me, "if there are tears in his eyes, he's crying. If not. He's laughing."

There were tears in his eyes.

"What a stud," my brother says as we watch my grandfather trying to reach into the casket to touch his wife. "All those years of commitment to one woman. You have to respect that."

"How many years?" I ask.

"66," my sister says.

"Wow."

At the funeral home they'd folded up the footrests on his chair and he'd wheeled himself over. After a while in front of the casket, they asked him if he wanted to stay there. He'd shaken his head. They rolled him away. Watching the commotion at the casket in the chapel, his nurses bending over him, messing with his chair, I think this is happening again. Instead, he is trying to stand. They are helping him up.

I stand in the back of the chapel for a simple reason. My grandmother's passing had not been a surprise, and while I missed her and mourned her, my heart broke for my grandfather for more than it broke for me. At the funeral home I'd sat with him, holding his hand, my effort to offer comfort to a man I could talk to but who was unable to speak to me. Watching him as he responded in tears to her presence before him, it put them in my eyes too. I am not reticent to weep, but the sadness I have for my grandfather is almost too much to bear. Let lose, I fear it would not be easily contained. For this reason I had stepped to the rear of the room when they had wheeled him up for his final goodbye.

His nurses are on both sides of him. They hold his shoulders, steadying him as he rises to his feet. He reaches out and puts his hand on her chest, then her face. He keeps it there, his eyes filling with crocodile tears. They run down and fall onto his bride. His tears will accompany her when they shut the lid. They will keep her company as they put her into the ground.

So the tribute stands. A man barely able to hold himself upright rises with purpose for a final moment of goodbye. We gather and watch, witnesses unable to comprehend what it means to spend decades with another person, but who even so marvel at the display before us.

What gift is this, man and wife? And what hardship also? Years of marriage and fatherhood and motherhood and finally setting into old age. Passing on into their own places of history, a legacy unknown by the generations who will echo their passion, or expressions, or temperament.

To what degree do I measure myself by the man who mowed the lawn in a business shirt with the sleeves ripped off at the shoulders, shorts, and his black socks and shoes? Am I even aware? I watch him at the casket of his wife, surrounded by his children and grandchildren. I cannot help but wonder what legacy I steal from myself. What cost do I pay having not found a wife or having had children? It is the echo of generations I hear as my grandparent's passes, aware of the aging of my own. In this song what tune will mine be in the end? I do not know. But this I know, it is a long time before it is over. Regardless of the notes, it is composed even now.

> 140 Characters

2010-03-26T09:10:00.001-05:00

There is value in thoughts with more than 140 characters or a clever snippet of thought on Facebook... value to me, anyway.

Over the years this journal has been a place that's helped me to work out my relationship with not only my thoughts, but with my words.

Blogging has become the butt of a lot of jokes in popular culture. With the advent of Twitter and Facebook status updates, it's been portrayed as the last-stand domain of cat-owning patheticos, Snuggie clad and whining about the latest heartbreak. To be fair, it's not a wholly unearned representation.

Also, there are a multitude of questions about motivations for such a public display of disclosure. In the final analysis—and you know how much I love the Final Analysis—it's made me a better writer and better thinker, so I'm going to get the ball rolling again.

Sketchbook : Chapala

2009-12-30T12:42:00.001-06:00

Click image to enlarge.

View from my parents' porch in Chapala, Mexico.

Trying to do more "sitting and drawing" what I see.

It's been a long time since I've done that sort of thing.

(Marker and pen.)

My drawing blog has moved. It now resides here.

meandering pentametering

2009-12-29T22:07:00.000-06:00

cat coal black requires a scratch. mew and twist. with tail insists. and so i hoist and rub. ears. temples. neck. a respite and delight. 'til i set him down and loose. to night.

Moving In

2009-10-20T11:38:00.001-05:00

Among the many recurring symbols of my slumber is a small town. It's a newer of the symbols, actually, having shown up in the last six months.

Once quaint, the buildings have long since been abandoned. Ceilings have fallen in. Crumbled walls and beams cover their floors. Grass grows through the cracks in the pavement.

I drive by these buildings, or walk through, wanting to do more with them. Restore them. Use them. Each time, however, I move on.

Until last night. Last night we put together a plan. We set up a restaurant. It wasn't what was on our blueprint, but it worked. A few minutes in we were already discussing what we could do with the building.

"Put the roof on."

"Add some more tables."

"Pour a new driveway."

"Buy another one."

There are a few things in my life these dreams could represent. I don't know specifically what these mean.

Whatever they are, things seem to be looking up (or at least different).

2009-10-18T23:03:00.003-05:00

Dead dog in my neighborhood.

Big blue heeler mix. On its side by the curb. A shape came into definition as I drove up and past.

I turned the corner to my house and thought, "What if that was my dog? I would want to know."

I circled my culdesac and went back.

Driving up I looked. No collar that I could see.

I parked across the street. I turned off the car and stepped out.

What if I did call?

"I found your dog. He's been hit. He's dead."

Awful news to get. Still, I decided, I would want that call.

Crossing the street, sure there's no collar, but maybe it fell off.  There was another response.

"Did you hit my dog? I have your number! I will find you! I will call you until you give in!"

"I did not kill your pet. I just found him. Thought you might like to know. I would want to."

There he is. Yep. No collar. No tag. He's mostly intact. Left leg rubbed free of skin. Black something in the gutter in front of him.

"He's bloated," I said, "Been here a while."

I was at a crime scene, I realized, as cars went past. Did they think I ran him over? It's my strongest impulse, this guilt, this suspicion. I found myself as the owner pulls up.

"You killed my dog! My DOG!"

But there was no owner. No car. No accusations.

I was not repulsed. I stood over a corpse. I had no horrified reaction. Just matter of fact, empathy having pulled me here, and with no further need of me, of action. I was free go.

"Goodbye, dog," I said.

Is that thunder?

2009-10-11T22:35:00.001-05:00

I hear rain.

But at night, right ear in my pillow, left ear to the ceiling, I often
hear rain.

It has been falling today. Off and on.

My ear might not be playing a trick. It could be raining.

The possibility of a real, sleep inducing rain storm being only a
phantom, a trick of my brain, takes away the pleasure of the thrumming
on my roof.

Stepping to the window, I would know. But having what is wonderful--
what's better than rain at night--turn out to be false, would be
disappointing.

So here I lie. Perched between two unsatisfying thoughts.

Sleep, I think, is a good idea.

Noise

2009-10-08T22:41:00.002-05:00

I've had enough of the media this week.

Or maybe I should say "media."

TV. Radio. News sites.

All with bay doors open and in full carpet bomb mode.

News networks noisily trumpeting and sensationalizing what is meaningless fluff.

TV doing what television does. A pacifier. Distracting. Trivial drivel. Hours wasted for, what? A laugh? Talk around the cooler tomorrow about that hilarious moment on some show?

Sites upon sites upon sites.

"This is how I feel today. This is how I feel. I thought it would be funny if I said this."*

Email on my phone.

"Amazon's newest deal in blu-ray!"

"Zero shipping on new shoes!"

Push.

Push.

Push.

Push.

Invasive, this media. And it's only going to get worse.

Invasive, this culture. Talk of legislating everything. What we eat. How we live. What we watch.

The airwaves and the web are open to whoever has the loudest voice. The stupidest dance. The most extreme ignorant idea.

So much out there, so much being said, but most of it is vanity. Means nothing. Produces nothing. Our culture has become one giant Chatty Cathy doll. Pull the string and listen to us prattle.

At this moment in history, I still have the ability to turn it off. I am taking a break.

Going to look for something with more substance.

Silence has more mass.

* Oh yeah. I'm guilty.

Week

2009-09-24T22:48:00.001-05:00

Not much makes a week weirder than having a bug.

I seemed to have mostly nipped it, resting and then hitting it with
the old one-two of flu combatting remedies... chicken soup and
vitamins and the Alka Seltzer flu stuff is really good. More than a
"one-two" I guess, unless you put them on action duo teams.

Chicken Soup Man and Alka Seltzer Boy!

The Vitaminator and Captain Layonthecouchandwatchlotsoftelevisionington!

What it does not do, though, is any favors for clear thinking. It's
been a mushy-headed time.

------

A Cautionary Tale

I have a new definition of evil, and this is it.

Dominos
Medium
Deep Dish
with mushrooms
and bacon

It was a whim, the deep dish and the, "What? They have bacon?" part,
was improvised.

Maybe you thought for a moment by "new definition of evil" I mean
"crazy good." No. When I said "new definition of evil" I meant actual
evil, in a way that has nothing to do with good or goodness or
anything positive or happy.

Also, and I recommend you pay attention to this part, when dealing
with evil one should not choose to consume it in two sittings on the
same day.

I didn't make it through the entire pizza. At the about the middle of
the next to last piece--which had been sitting in the fridge so it was
cold pizza good, or that was the idea, not fully comprehending the
wickedness in my presence--my body went, "Right. No. No more. Thanks."

I don't know the last time my body put up the stop, children in the
crosswalk sign, and with pizza I am relatively sure the record books
will show it is "never."

Bacon. Officially too much. To the point that, what? Are there
mushrooms on this pizza, because I can't find them.

And thick, buttery, greasy crust.

I am the thin crust guy. In the Pizza Conversation, I always say, "Oh
yeah. Me and thin crust." (Because it is crucial that one have a rock
solid position on pizza preference. Be prepared to share your ultimate
pizza pie example.) But somewhere inside me this was said, "Yo, let's
eat an obscene amount of pizza."

And so I did.

And I tried to eat it.

And I am pretty sure it signals me hitting some sort of bottom, this
pizza.

Rock? Maybe.

Definitely gravel.

Advice from an old man

2009-09-24T00:22:00.001-05:00

I let her go.

But this might make you think I had her.
I didn't.
I never even tried.

She was in love with an ideal, and finding a man who fit the bill,
married him.

I hated not having her close.
Hated my life moving forward without her.

There are some friends like that, not many.
And this I think.
These are not friends at all.
They are called "wives."

Smorgasbord

2009-09-22T10:29:00.003-05:00

I am a bald man. This is not news.

However, if you go into my shower you will find three different shampoos.

"INSANITY!"

I know. I know it is insanity.

Here's the thing.

I love smell.

Smelly. Stinky. Musky. Flowery. Chocolaty. Baked goods. Bark.

Cannae get enough.

Moving to Austin meant I couldn't have artificial smells in my house. Well, I could, it just wouldn't be nice to the person who came to my house occasionally for whom smelly stuff was red-eyed-sniffles inducing. It was a person I liked, so I made the change.

That person moved away a while back, and smell is coming back into my home.

This doesn't mean tons of scented candles, I don't dig those so much. Or baskets of potpourri. No incense burning in my casa. No dried eucalyptus tucked into a corner somewhere.

Really it boils down to the ever growing number of shampoos residing on the caddy hanging from the shower nozzle. (Which would not have been a problem for the aforementioned person.)

There's also a renewed interest in colognes. My comrades are a non-scented (or natural scented) bunch here in Austin, so I'll keep that on the DL.

Here's a tip: even if everything you read raves about a cologne, don't order it by mail, try it on first.

Case in point: Kiehls Original Musk.

On my skin it smells like a really fancy bathroom.

After a strange night, an entry.

2009-09-17T23:47:00.003-05:00

I reduced my caloric intake.

I told you about that.

I reduced my caloric intake and now my body is absorbing itself.

You can't see it. Not yet. I imagine I can, but I am sure I can't really.

It's like when I do this. I go to the gym one time and then admire how different I look in the mirror.

"I'm working out! Look at me! After only one time in the gym! I am a handsome fellow."

My clothes are have more space. Not much, but some. My ring fits not as tight as before.

After lessening the barrage of calories--my best math makes what I was eating around 4,000 a day, AT LEAST, and that's twice what I need--my body is absorbing itself.

It's nature. It's proper. It's what is supposed to happen. But I have to say, stopping to think about it, it's a little strange.

My body is eating my body.

Creepy.

Another entry.

2009-09-17T23:40:00.007-05:00

I burned my head.

It was the sun.

It was hiding behind clouds.

I was at the beach and I said this,

"Ho, ho! The sun is hiding behind clouds! Lucky for me, I do not have to wear sunscreen. It is stinky. Gets in my eyes and I'll have to ask someone to slather it on me."

(There was five couples and one dude. This is how I go on holiday, or to most events. In my circle I am The Single Guy. I know lots of great couples, but out of those couples, and those at the beach, I wasn't in one, and didn't have that Special Someone to help me put on sunscreen. I'm not sad or anything. Just pointing out the math.)

(The truth is I didn't think about any of that. My decision to not wear sunscreen was purely "Cool! No Clouds!" The rest was working subconsciously... if it was working at all. It makes it a more entertaining narrative if I throw in the self conversation part.)

Into the waves I went.

Let's be clear. My last tan was... 1992. And if that's not an exact date, then it's a really close one.

I don't get sun. I am--as They say--lily white. Jokes are made.

"Christopher is so white when he goes to the beach he lays down and people give him CPR! Because they think he is dead! Because he is so white! Like a corpse or something! White!"

The point: my skin is very susceptible to sun burning.

Also there's this:

Coworker: I went to the beach.
Me: Yeah?
Coworker: And it was late in the afternoon.
Me: Oh no.
Coworker: And I am all, "I don't need sunscreen!"
Me: You didn't!
Coworker: I did man. And now I am BURNED.
Me: You gotta always wear that stuff, bro!
Coworker: I know, I know.

I had the information. I knew better. And I fell for it.

(Really, it wasn't that bad of a burn.)

There's something about lotion and your sunburn. Or oil. Something about "moisturizing it" so you won't "peel."

Yeah. I didn't do any of that either.

Wednesday morning I woke up. Shaved. Showered. And then in the mirror discovered the entire top of my head was coming off... the skin anyway. Dead sluffing whiteness.

"DoIwearahatIhaveawigwhatisthesolutionforthissituation?!"

Mask. I smeared mask on my head.

I didn't go looking for a mask originally. I was looking for a facial cleanser and the one everyone LOVED was also a mask.

I assumed everyone knows what I am talking about, but just in case someone has me rubbing a black Lone Ranger thing on my head in their mind's eye, let me clarify.

A "mask" is a goo made by big time beauty peddling corporations that when applied, dries, and when rubbed with a warm/hot washcloth removes the outer layer of dead dermis. (Huh. I thought that might be a word, but it turns out it really is. Nice.)

The top of my head being covered with bonus dermal material, I was able to apply aforementioned product and then remove it. I went into work. Smooth scalp.

A day had passed since the morning head exfoliation and today I went into get a haircut.

As I have said before, my haircut is super easy, I cold do it myself, but I like having it cut, so I go to get it cut.

By a woman.

Who does not speak my language very well.

She gets very little points for comprehending it also.

She knows enough, I guess, to do her job properly.

When I go in my hair is barely .25 of a inch long.

"We do one or half?" she says picking up the clippers and spraying them with a can of what I assume is hair clipper disinfectant but could just as easily be bug spray, or Pam.

"Half," I say. And we're off.

I'd noticed errant bits of myself falling off the top of my head during the day. Communicating to her that this was from a

SUN

BURN

was a challenge.

"What kind of shampoo are you using?" she said. Thinking, I guess, that the massive (in comparison to dandruff) flakes on top of my head were the result of a bad choice in the

Shampoo
Shaving Needs
Deodorant

aisle.

We cleared it up. And then with little more talking she shaved my head.

Turning in for bed and washing my face I decided to once again put mask on not just the part of my noggin containing eyes, a nose, and a mouth, but also the top of my head too.

The first morning I applied it to my head it was only the TOP of my head. This time, however, I became aware of just how much real estate I had to cover. The goo went all the way to the back of my cranium.

And then I thought this, "I love being bald."

I said it out loud.

"I love being bald."

There's nothing that makes me want to not have hair. This includes Sunburn On My Skull. Which, in the Things That Hurt My Body When They Happen list, is right up at the top. Under Jamming Something Into My Fingernail Bed, but over Unwittingly Smacking My Face Into A Pole.

If someone walked up to me and said, "I'm the Genie of Folliclelandia and I have come to give you your hair back."

I would decline. I would say, "No." I might even throw in a "way, Jose" to show I really meant it.

The only reason I would want hair is dames. But if some skirt gotta have hair, then let the guys with hair have her. I don't need her.

Here's the skinny: I look dumb with hair. When I wear a wig--at Halloween, generally--people say, "You look better without hair."

They're right.

Brad Pitt has awesome hair. (Picture it.) Now put it on me. (You're laughing, aren't you?)

Also, I here's how long I think about my hair in the morning.
That long.

Stick my head out of a car window at sixty mph.
It rains on me.
A big dog licks the top of my head.

No biggie. No hair!

I was trying to imagine what my hair would look like if I had it right now. Again, "dumb" is the only result.

Here's another downside. And I only include it because it makes me feel bad for others.

I don't know what people who go to slap a bald guy's head are expecting.

Maybe they're imagining a baby's bottom.

Or the underside of a dog's body.

Smooth and silky and warm.

Here's what a human being's head without hair is like.

Unless the owner of the dome has just stepped out of the shower or just completed an application of Neutrogena Clear Pore Cleanser/Mask in the 4.2 OZ tube, it is going to be

A) Greasy
B) Sweaty
C) Clammy
D) Most of the time
E) All of the above

and hand washing will be required.

It's happened to me.

Girl says, "Hey! Bald guy!" and commences the rubbing of my head like it's Aladdin's lamp.

What could have been a fun time ends up being just gross for the one who's put her hands on my cranium.

"Sorry," I say, shrugging.

But other than that. No. Hair is not needed for myself.

Nor is it wanted.

Which is good, because I thought at some point the falling out would stop.

Apparently my skin is going to push all of my hair right out and won't be satisfied until it's all gone.

Good riddance, I say.

Calculumation

2009-09-02T10:15:00.001-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I was talking with a pal. His friend had started counting calories. It was working like gang busters.

On the very same day, I calculated what I'd eaten that day. It was an atypical day. I'd been eating up a storm, and I knew it.

4500 calories. (3500 of them being a lunch at Chili's.)

"That sounds like a lot," I thought. But I didn't know.

Uh. Yeah. It was a LOT.

2200 is what the recommended amount for a guy my size and lifestyle to ingest and not get fatter.

I want to not only not get fatter, but take off this fat suit I've had on.

Little bit of research turned up a couple of good resources.

First is the Calorie Counting Database. (http://caloriecount.about.com/) It gives you the nutrition breakdown of most everything you eat.

The second is a very handy ap on my iPhone from Livestrong. (It interfaces with Livestrong.com, so all of what I am about to tell you about happens there too.) You tell it what you want to lose. It gives you the number of calories you should eat to achieve it. Then as you go through your day, you choose what you had, how much, and it tells you how many calories you've had and how many you have to go. It counts things like carbs, sodium, sugars, and cholesterol too. There's a calendar for quick reference of the week and the month. Cool stuff.

It's working (the little needle on the scale is already going down). But it's not just my waistline getting the workover. My brain's getting one too. It's made me aware of my overall health and lifestyle.

Looking at WHAT I ate (you can eat within your calorie quota and still eat junk), I can see how much of what I eat is processed (salts and sugars galore--"empty" calories--as well as dubious food value), how much of it is fruits and vegetables and good stuff and how much of what I eat is not (fruits and vegetables and good stuff). For the record, I don't consider this a "diet," but education on how I should be eating and living. I am making life changes.

The page encourages you to exercise, so there's a daily (multi-daily, as I check in to put my food journal together) reminder to be active. It's born results too. (I did some push ups. They were pathetic, but I felt them the next two days.)

Mere exposure to ideas and concepts begins to change my mental landscape. Turns out I am very open to suggestions (especially if I think they're good ones). Knowing this, I use what could be a weakness--"Donuts!* I'd love one!"--to my advantage.

* Average donut, 280 calories. (That's FOUR hard boiled eggs, and a lot less good for you.)

Fork, as in, stick one, in me

2009-08-31T22:15:00.004-05:00

...or would it be in the deadline?

Because the second graphic novel is wrapped. Wrapped at 9:30 at night, not, like, 2AM, as per the normal sort of deadline.

Finished and kinda looking around to see who's about as the pages upload to the client.

Bopped over to Facebook. Checked Twitter.

Those are nice, those two, with their ability to check up on peeps.

What they are not, however, is a replacement for ACTUAL real-live peeps.

I don't use "peeps" so much, I think. Not for serious. And there it is twice.

Relationships are good things, I think.

I'd like to hang out here. Bask in this.

These moments, when a 3 month deadline is wrapped is like standing on top of a mountain and breathing in the crisp, fresh air.

This isn't something I thought sounded nice. I have stood on mountain tops and breathed in the air. Though this time I am sans my father who would now be ready to head back down the mountain at breakneck speed, the view be damned.

Quiet. Nothing hanging above. Good.

...and spool back up for childrens book proposals. I think they'll be a bit different sort of deadline. There's play in them. And they're all mine, whereas the graphic novels are someone else's ideas. Still fun. Just different.

Note: Amy's has changed their management at the Sixth Street store and have decided to leave their art up on the walls for an "indeterminate amount of time." No show this month or the Spooky Art Show (though they said they'd work with me when I wanted to do one... later). Not sad, much, because I felt done with it last year. The art show was nice because I got to do what I wanted. (A fun exercise.) Now I will put that energy into the books.

Got back from the con and feel like things have changed. I have. My thoughts on what's possible.

Get out of your world every once and while. Get out and go someplace to see what's possible. Get out of the bubble, or little circle you live in, the people and things you surround yourself with. You may be surprised by what you find is possible.

That wasn't written to me. I wrote it to you. That's my piece of wisdom for the day.

This Week in the Sketchbook : Character Design

2009-08-26T21:59:00.014-05:00

Wrapping up the finals on the second Rockh... wait. Did we announce there's gonna be...? Urgh. Um...

Wrapping up the finals on some project and moving into September. September is "get proposals knocked out for publishers month." I have... four... books I am putting together.

I don't normally post works in progresses, especially before someone's called dibs on them, but since this is just a a character and you know nothing about him or what he's doing, I thought I'd show him to you.

No guarantees he's going to end up like this at all, but here's his journey so far.

(My big money scanner is not calibrated and I am having probs getting the blue out.)

Thumbnail

Click image for larger

Why is it these first pencil thumbnail sketches are some of my favorites? My most favorite of Rock from Animal Band is just a quick collection of lines. Can't even see much about him. But there's an energy, and, somehow the soul of the character's there. If that makes any sense.

Tightening up

Click image for larger

He's looking a bit like Christopher Robin here. Maybe it's the short pants.

Meh.

Click image for larger

Just warming the pencil up here. Playing with some elements. Mostly his clothes. Very stiff drawing. (I often notate as I am drawing along.)

Pushing the abstract.

Click image for larger

Playing with more simplified shapes. He's too old here... needs to be softened to be a kid's book. (Hieroglyphic feet!)

More there-er

Click image for larger

Softer. More realistic. (TOO realistic?) Ok.

Looking for a balance. Looking for who this kid is. Not sure, yet. The story is brand new and developing. Missing some of the pieces. But it's coming together.

NOTE: NOT THE FINAL. GOING BACK TO THE BEGINNING SKETCH AND FOLLOWING IT DOWN ANOTHER PATH.

Sitting it out

2009-08-24T13:28:00.001-05:00

I am taking a break from Twitter and Facebook this week.

Staged

2009-08-24T13:27:00.001-05:00

I went with the gang to see the musical "Wicked" on Saturday night.

"Wicked" is the story of the Wicked Witch of the West of Oz fame.

The musical was--thankfully--not much like the book, of which I am not a big fan.

The story in the stage play focuses on the relationship between Glinda the Good Witch and the Wicked Witch. The women who portrayed these characters two were outstanding.

As the musical progressed, the performance of the actress portraying Glinda began to ring a bell.

"Wait a tic, she's doing this a lot like Kristin Chenoweth."

(Kristin Chenoweth was "Olive" in "Pushing Daisies," a show of which I am a huge fan, and which was canceled last season.)

Somewhere in my brain a Chenoweth/Wicked node fired up.

"I believe I have Chenoweth/Wicked data in here someplace."

A intermission Wiki search (thank you iPhone) provided this fact: Chenoweth originated the role on Broadway. (Further investigation revealed the part was written with her in mind and she helped develop the character through the reading stages of the musical's book.)

I went home, appetite whetted for some Chenoweth performance. Youtube provided me with a few videos.

In the performance we saw, the actress portraying Glinda was doing an over-the-top caricature of Chenoweth's performance.

She was good, don't get me wrong. Just not subtle. Hamming it up for the audience. Again, that's ok.

Comparing the performances though, and a few of the "insert laugh here" moments provided by our Glinda, it made me think back to my days on the stage.

I thought about the "laugh here moments" and how dangerous they can be.

Every audience is different. Some nights they laugh and clap and others they're quiet. Talking to people after our shows, I determined the response meant very little. Quiet nights had as many people gushing after the show as the raucous ones.

It's why pandering to the audience can be perilous. You build the rhythm of show with those laughs programmed, and when they don't happen, it trips you up, and can throw off the whole show. Plus it leaves you thinking, "Wow we are not doing great tonight." When you should be thinking about what's happening on stage.

This isn't a chiding of professional theater people. Just my observation as an (amateur) actor and director.

As an ex-theater person, I miss the interaction. Miss the excitement of the audience. There's a relationship with each one audience. It's an addicting experience.

Masses

2009-08-23T23:22:00.001-05:00

Sitting across the room from me is a beautiful woman.

Everyone says so.

"Wait until you meet her," they said, "She's gorgeous."

She surprised me, the first time we met. I didn't know she was there.
And suddenly she was.

I was prepared to not fall for the cliche of the pretty face and charm.

I had determined I would not be sucked down into the undertow of her
beauty.

All men would be and are. It's been done. I wouldn't be one of those.
I would stand alone, unfazed by her power. Worn casually, but with
knowing.

Not this guy.

And here I was. Trying to catch her eye.

"I will not fall for her," I said. But by the time I'd said it, it was
too late.

I already had.

Between sleeping and waking

2009-08-20T23:08:00.001-05:00

A bodiless floating head with a scorpion's tail touched a man thinking
his touch would give him more life. Instead, it killed him.

The floating-scorpion-bodiless-head was abundantly suprised and very
upset. So sure he was his touch was healing, he touched the now
lifeless man again and again, hoping for a different result. The
result was the same each time. The man stayed dead.

The best intentions he had, and the belief he could achieve them, but
far from life, he could impart only death, regardless of his heart's
deepest hope.

Bloggin Noggin

2009-08-19T13:25:00.001-05:00

Girl sits in front of computer.

Fingers at the ready over keyboard.

She says to herself, "Blog. Blog. Blog. What will I blog today?"

The scenario as it plays out in movies and television shows.

Over and over.

I wonder. Do Hollywood writer types have blogs?

Do they actually post to their blog?

Is this how they do it?

Or is this a director or producer's direction?

--------

"She's just sitting at her computer."

"Yeah, but she's typing."

"How do we know she's blogging?"

"Well, I mean we could cut to a close up of the screen."

"No. No. That's no good. We need to KNOW that she's blogging."

"The movie is called 'It's a Blog Girl World: The Postening.' It's pretty much the whole plot."

"Yeah. But we gotta know it MEANS something to her, you know. Like, she doesn't know what she's going to write. She's nervous about it or something."

"...and you want to show that how?"

--------

I'm gonna level with you Johnny Hollywood, that's not how this Joe gets it done.

I don't say in a little sing-songy voice, "Oh my, whatever will I write about today?"

No, man. When I got a 411 for the world wide web, I just sit down and type it out.

Sometimes I will read it out loud. That's a writer's trick. Just seeing how it sounds.

Also, I would be lying if I said I don't sometime chuckle at what I write.

"Janxy, you clever devil you."

Don't get me wrong, I am constantly talking to myself. My alone time is a never ending chatter of random responses to stimuli.

"Hey gang, you hungry?" or sometimes just, "Hey gang."

That's what I say to the fish in the aquarium.

But it doesn't have to be alive to find me talking to it.

"Hey, 'Forbidden Planet' poster. Where did you go? This is ridiculous. Where are you?"

That's a sample from a conversation I had with an AWOL poster this morning.

It didn't answer. I don't expect it to. It's a poster. (It can't talk.)

What I do not, do, however—and will never do—is cock my head to the side and wonder aloud what am I gonna "blog" about.

Hollywood. So fake.

Editor

2009-08-13T18:36:00.003-05:00

Common advice in writing literature is the key to great writing is good editing.

The internet has added the necessity to this adage. Several websites require the writer to count characters. Twitter, of course, stands out with its measly 140. Having listened to an interview on NPR's All Things Considered left me wanting to share. I went onto their site to comment.

I typed up my thoughts and then pasted in my text. I was then told I was only given 1250 characters. My number? 1763. Could I say what I wanted to, in my voice, and trim down my words?

You decide.

First Paragraph. Original Count: 280
I agree with Hilton on the numbers being disingenuous. The number that was missing for me was how many of the "5,000,000" cars are still on the road? That's a statistic we could have been given. It's not 5,000,000 choking out penguin killing gases evil automobiles. It's far less.

First Paragraph. Edited Count: 204
I agree. The numbers are disingenuous. Missing was how many of the 5,000,000 cars are still on the road--a verifiable statistic. It's not 5,000,000 penguin killing gas emitting automobiles. It's far less.

Second Paragraph. Original Count: 509
An '81 Datsun? "1981 Datsun 280ZX Turbo" Hello? And while I think lots of people who like cars would want one of those in their garage, this issue ultimately boils down to personal taste and even more so memory. A car I love the most? 1977 Buick LeSabre two door. My first car. Big and square and ridiculous. I couldn't unlock the passenger side door if I was buckled in. 18 miles to the gallon. Would I own one again? If I had the garage space. Absolutely. Someone out there has this same love for the K Car.

Second Paragraph. Edited Count: 371
An '81 Datsun? "1981 Datsun 280ZX Turbo" Hello? Lots of car people would want one in their garage, but this issue ultimately boils down to personal taste, and even more so, memory. My car? My first. 1977 Buick LeSabre two door. Big. Square. Ridiculous. The passenger side door inaccessible if I was buckled in. 18 mpg. Would I own one again? Sure. Does it make sense? No.

Third Paragraph. Original Count: 591
I am a consistent NPR listener, and have been for years, but Madeline's seeming inability to wrap her mind around what I am talking about--and what Ken tried to help her understand--left a bad taste in my mouth. I hope she was playing the part of the devil's advocate, representing the NPR listener who doesn't get that someone could love a 1984 Cutlass Supreme, or a 1990 Honda Prelude, or even a 1985 Lincoln Town Car. I would love to hear and Click and Clack commentary on this situation. Those are the NPR guys whose opinions I want on this matter. Not someone who doesn't get it at all.

Third Paragraph. Edited Count: 406
I have been a NPR listener for years, but Madeline's seeming inability to grasp this concept--even with Ken trying to help her get it--left a bad taste in my mouth. I hope she was playing devil's advocate, representing the NPR listener who doesn't get that someone could love a 1984 Cutlass, 1990 Prelude, or even a 1985 Town Car. The NPR guys whose thoughts I actually want on this topic? Click and Clack.

Fourth Paragraph. Original Count: 377
Finally, I submit that the potential "classics" being swallowed up by this program is much more than anyone has a bead on. All of the car companies had good runs in the '80's and 90's, and lots of those cars are going to be destroyed. While I am glad we're pulling some of the worst offenders off the road, but we're destroying lots of great design, and even more so, memories.

Fourth Paragraph. Edited Count: 260
Finally, many potential "classics" are being swallowed up by this program. All car companies had good runs in the '80's and 90's. We're pulling some of the worst offenders off the road, good, but we're trashing lots of great design, and even more so, memories.

The "All Things Considered" segment.

Call Me Jack Bauer

2009-08-13T09:15:00.001-05:00

Report from the Shut Eye Front.

Last night, no scary dreams.

Exchanged, instead, for dream of protecting the president's daughter who was on the run from rogue Secret Service Agents.

It starred me.

Jack Black as my fellow protector.

And Miley Cyrus (most of the time) as the president's daughter. (Obviously, not THIS president's daughter.)

And a group of African American superheros headed up by Bernie Mac, Issac Hayes, and Prince.*

Our primary form of transportation was a sweet, restored, vintage yellow Bronco with big, fat tires.

Programming note: Not the first time I've had this dream. (It went better last time. I was able to fly a helicopter.)

Who needs sleep

2009-08-12T23:29:00.001-05:00

Sleep. My Achilles heel.

Tonight, this night, after a horrendous storm of a white knuckled
nightmare, I labor to shut my eyes, to be unconcious. Shaken still by
vision of the dream before, burned into my brain, my memory. Things
never lived, moments not actual, but seeming as real and vivid as my
waking hours. The horror before me--also caused by my own hand--the
only line defining between waking and sleeping. Too bizarre to be
played out in my daytime hours. And somewhere else also this knowledge
whispered: You are asleep. None of this is real.

Rolling over, eyes closed, my mind is colored by the yellow of a
sunset. A soft almost corn skin hue. Humming at the edges as I hover,
ready to cross over, unconcerned about what turbulence awaits--two
nights this week spent in awful subconscious climes--body and mind
wanting what awaits. The promise of rest. The succulence of sleep.

New Post

2009-08-11T22:20:00.001-05:00

If you're not checking out the Draw Blog.

You should.

Go here.

No Need for Speed

2009-08-06T14:17:00.001-05:00

"Looking for friends. If more develops, then cool."

This off of a profile on Match.com.

Not mine.

I dropped her a line.

Among my normally charming repartee, I said, "I agree about friends first. The Match meetings I've been on seem to be imbued with 'gotta know NOW.' It's hard to get a sense of the person in that circumstance."

I'd been mulling it over already, what she said. The paradigm of dating, especially internet "Right now!" dating.

It was a quiet whisper in my head as I stood at a summer BBQ talking to a woman I'd taken out a few times a year or so ago.

"This girl is really cool. What was wrong with me?"

----

WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME:

Granted, I'd been out of the dating scene for so long— almost 10 years—it's kinda like I was wading back in for the first time since a divorce (which, technically, is true, though it wasn't my divorce).

I actually knew the answer to the "what was wrong with me" question, though it is a many layered artichoke sort of answer, one which—if you're not careful—you might end up eating the spikey stuff if you bite too far in.

But here's part of it.

"It's your second date and you haven't kissed yet?!" is what people said.

"No." Having always been a third date smooching sorta guy.

"The kiss doesn't mean anything," I was told.

"It doesn't?" my head lighting up with the potential for commitment free make-out sessions.*

I know. My dating play book comes from the 1900's. I am ok with that. I would be very, very, cool with the visits to the parlor. Asking permission to hold someone's hand. Taking strolls down a lane.

----

But here's the thing, and it's been echoed over and over in my experience.

We're—I am including me in this too—so fast to slap a "we're dating" sign on what's going on, so eager to seal the deal, that we don't get to know each other even enough to know if we even like one another. And isn't that the point? Liking one another?

There are girls I let go of early on. I have come to realize I like who these people are.

At the time, I was following intuition. I didn't feel what I thought I should.

What I DID know was what I didn't. I didn't know who they were.

Sometimes "knowing" doesn't matter. You meet someone and there's chemistry. It's clicking and working. That's the perfect storm.

Then there's the sight unseen blind date situation (ie: internet dating). They say you know in the first five seconds. And I have been and will continue to be an adherent to that.

Sometimes you don't though. Sometimes it takes a while. And what the culture out there does not allow is "the while."

"Let's take it slow." Doesn't mean I don't like you. It means "I don't know you" and "I think I should" and "isn't it better to be close with someone you actually, I don't know, like?

(Of course, I have also proven myself wrong. I see the irony at work. I am also saying if I'd just hung with so-and-so we'd be dating and happy. Can't win for losing.)

I've had this said to me, and I certainly feel it too. "I just want to meet someone who likes me and I like her/him. How hard is that?"

Well, my friends. It ain't no cake walk.

* Guy.

2009-08-04T22:27:00.002-05:00

Alternate Post

After the determination to post at my drawing blog more often, something has gone wrong with the posting system. (The Draw Blog posts to my website from a Blogspot redirect.)

Sigh. Par for the week. This one has sucked so far.

So here's another post that will be on the drawing blog when they get things sorted out over at Google.

I included the previous link showing some cars I thought were amazing.

When it came time to draw a car for the new (self published) Super Rufus book, I knew the one I wanted.

'61 Mitsubishi 500 || Click to Image Enlarge

And my translation of the car. It's a little off proportion.

Source for the cars.

2009-08-03T22:40:00.005-05:00

With Apologies to Enrico Casarosa

I've got this idea that I am going to post on my drawing blog a lot more often. (I updated the template, and as of the writing of this entry, two entries have not posted at the Drawing Blog.)

I dig visiting people's drawing blogs, and at San Diego I met several people whose blog I followed. I figured it was time to be more regular.

There's going to be more posting over there, or at least I intend to there to be.

Wrapping the second graphic novel for Stone Arch this month, drawing every night and every weekend day, but I've kept up the posting since returning from the San Diego.

Below is the final piece from Comic Con.

It's a travelogue in the style of Enrico Casarosa's book—hence the title—which is mentioned in the entry (with a link to Amazon below).

Click Image to Enlarge.

Buy The Venice Chronicles.

2009-08-03T09:11:00.004-05:00

Carry Water the Way Man was Meant to: In Metal!

Plastic bottles are killing the earth.

KILLING IT!

15 penguins die a day because of our drinking from plastic bottles.*

But now you can carry water like a soldier in WWII.

And with this handy unit, I can carry everything I need—my iPhone and life sustaining water.

(Personally, I think this is brilliant.)

* Completely unfounded research. We don't know that plastic bottle use doesn't kill 15 penguins a day.

2009-08-03T09:02:00.004-05:00

Still Kickin'

Tired of big strong men kicking sand in your face and taking your girlfriend?

No more, my friend! What you need is Dynamic-Tension!

That's the comic out of the back of comic books back in the day. Turns out, the program is still around, making mighty men out of weaklings.

What is it? "The program includes both physical exercises, nutritional information plus FIVE FREE gifts including techniques and skills in Boxing, Wrestling, Jujitsu and Karate, Hand Balancing and Feats of Strength." (From the website.)

From an article in the Smithsonian this month, I learned that this program is not based on weight training, but on muscle training using your own body to transform itself.

Charles Atlas was a self-made strong man, and credited with bringing fitness awareness to a higher level. According to Smithsonian, none other that Ghandi himself wrote in to learn more about Atlas's program.

2009-07-30T22:52:00.003-05:00

SDCC 2009 : Big Boy Jedi Knight

Click to Enlarge

What's more awesome than a Big Boy Jedi Knight?

Nothing, my friends.

Nothing.

* The guy with the hamburger is me.

Drop on by the Sketch Blog to see more art from the show. The link is over there on the right.

2009-07-30T14:53:00.005-05:00

Uh.

This freaks me out. As it should.

I was watching it, though, trying to figure out why the lion is behaving this way, looking for clues in his body language.

Rubbing his head on the bars, mimics the behavior of a house cat when you are petting it.

However, when petting a cat, you gotta watch out for the moment when they move from "oh yeah, I am loving it" to "biting or scratching you now."

That's ok when it's a 8 pound cat.

When it's hundreds of pounds of lion who's got you in his paws....

Not so much.

VIA : http://xo.typepad.com/blog/

2009-07-28T22:31:00.004-05:00

SDCC 2009 : For Scale

So some people may have seen my table when I posted it on Facebook.

Click Image for Larger

Here's a shot my buddy, Kennon found of me and my itsy bitsy table at Comic Con.

Don't be fooled. This is probably a 10th of the size of the con.

(I don't know where he got it yet. But I will post photo credits as soon as I do.)

2009-07-28T22:18:00.005-05:00

SDCC Sketchbook Spread

Click image for bigger size

Most of these folks are amalgamations of people who walked by my table.*

I didn't draw any straight up caricatures because I did not want someone to go, "Hey you're drawing me!" and then end up with a whole line of those people wanting me to draw them. I mean, I could do that, but I don't want to be "That Guy."

More Con Drawn' coming.

* 'Cept for the cat. He's a race car cat. I drew him in a race car... and I.... hey Jason. Can you send me a scan of that?

Reroute Fortuitous

2009-07-28T16:31:00.001-05:00

The smackdown was coming to DFW.

I'd checked NOAA a couple of days previous. With 70-80% chance of thunderstorms, and with so much having rolled through there recently, I had little doubt there was going to be some travel related challenges.

We had 'em, indeed. Boy howdy, in spades.

I arrived at 10AM to the San Diego airport for a plane that was to leave around noon.

Checked my bags.

As I put my clothes back on after going through security--I'm just going to start coming in a robe and slippers and dress afterward--I checked the radar on the iPhone.

Big old thunderstorm parked right over DFW.

Got to my gate.

Departure time had been pushed back an hour.

Grabbed something to eat. Loitered in the gift shop. Ran into a friend I hadn't seen at the con. We chatted for a while.

The wall monitor announced a new development. Departure time pushed back another hour.

On the iPhone, the reds and yellows on the radar curled into a snarl that laughed at me.

My mind spun, looking for answers. I've never been in this sort of situation before.

I could:

1) wait for my flight and maybe never get in.

2) reroute my flight (which I'd never done).

I decided I would go for a surer bet (the surest bet would have been to jump to another airline, DFW being American Airline's hub and therefore cratering their entire system).

I dialed AA's flight assistance number. In less than fifteen minutes, I had tickets on another plane and another route. (Props to American. The woman on the phone was It was going to add two more hours to the already delayed flight time. I am a "better safe than sorry" sort of guy. I could deal with the extra two hours if it was a sure thing.

(Here's what you do in this situation: DO NOT GO TO THE TERMINAL COUNTER. The line was 400 people thick. 400 mad and anxious people. Use the technology God gave us.)

I've flown into Austin at midnight before. The airport is empty, stragglers milling about. Stepping onto the escalator that led down to baggage claim the scene below filled my eyes with wonder.

Hundreds of people. Rows of orphaned bags lined the wall. Chaos spilled over and filled the air (I can only imagine what DFW must have been like). While some would find this situation horrifying—and I must confess I was not completely devoid of trepidation—the escalator lowered me into the fray in a sort of awe.

My bags were not on the carousel. They were not in the lines. The woman in the baggage issue room told me they were still in Dallas. (Not awesome.) She said I would have them delivered to me today. (Which they were.) (Awesome.)

The experience was littered here and there with bits of kismet.

My connecting flight was through San Jose. San Jose's newspaper gave "Animal Band" a recommendation last year for summer reading. That was fun, though I resisted the urge to purchase a magnet with "San Jose" on it. (My review of the airport: Not much to look at. Good sandwich. Nice break from greasy corporate food like products offered at other airports. $1.09 for a slice of cheese on an already $10 sandwich?)

As I stewed over new book projects, I found myself in conversations with people who offered some insight to what they thought--thematically--should be in the books. It was confimation of something I'd been thinking about. One of those people was on the flight to San Jose. Important conversations.

The other was on the flight to Austin. We passed a thunderstorm. In the darkness, the cloud lit up with lightning, a boiling, roiling light show. It was, simply put, one of the coolest things I have ever seen. The storm thrust a little turbulence our way, but my astonishment at the situation overrode the discomfort (and there wasn't much discomfort*). I tried to get video of the light show, but pulling out my camera, the cloud got shy.

During my week at the con people would come by my table and ask me how it was going.

"Great," I said, "But my expectations were zero."

(Which I would then go back to requalify, as I am about to now.)

It was another theme of the trip—set expectations low and everything is a nice surprise.

The trip was more than a nice surprise.

More on that later.

* After a horrible turbulent flight a few years ago I labored to work through the fear. One of the keys for me was when I noticed that when I ran my car over bumps in the road—even BIG bumps—it was no big deal. Same thing with turbulence. Just air bumps. No big deal. (At that point in time I couldn't even get in an elevator it had shaken me up so bad. ANY plane bounce was heart in my throat inducing.)

** As good as AA did, the people who shared my hotel room with me flew Southwest. Direct flight to San Diego. They got on their plane and three hours later were home. That's how I'll roll from now on.

Warning: This Joke Features Drug Use

2009-07-28T08:15:00.001-05:00

A koala was sitting in a gum tree, smoking a joint

When a little lizard walked past, looked up and said,"Hey Koala! What are you doing?"

The koala said, "Smoking a joint, come up and have some."

So the little lizard climbed up and sat next to the koala where they enjoyed a few joints.

After a while the little lizard said that his mouth was "dry" and that he was going to get a drink from the river.

The little lizard was so stoned that he leaned too far over and fell into the river.

A crocodile saw this and swam over to the little lizard and helped him to the side.

Then he asked the little lizard, "What's the matter with you?"

The little lizard explained to the crocodile that he was sitting smoking a joint with the koala in the tree, got too stoned and then fell into the river while taking a drink.

The crocodile said that he had to check this out and walked into the forest, found the tree where the koala was sitting finishing a joint. The crocodile looked up and said, " Hey you!"

So the koala looked down at him and said,

"Daaaaang dude......How much water did you drink?!!"

2009-07-09T09:01:00.006-05:00

A Brief Overview of Guy Girl Stuff

Through a variety of new meda—blog comments, IM—I've been discussing The Girlfriend from high school with a buddy of mine from the time.

I spent more of my time then pining about girls than actually asking them out. I've talked about this before, that I was a devotee to what I call the "Venus Complex." Girls were vaunted creatures high on their marble pedestals. I'd be lying if I said I was completely cured. I like to think it's a more "mature" point of view now. I love the "womanness" of a woman. I revel in the feminine. I remain, however, in essence, a romantic at heart.

To get quickly to the point, there was a comfort there that I've never experienced again. I think we "knew" each other. Defined: she had a better awareness of who I was than any girl I've ever dated (granted, we were 18, not that much of me to know). She was quick to call BS, but our conversations were fair. Openness and communication. All memories strain through a filter—this one surely idealized—but this is what I remember.

I talk about this here, in this post, because people who read the blog have talked to me about relationships.

Do you want to know what I want? To be "known." That's what.

There's safety there, I think, for me at least. And it certainly is not a one way street. I want to know her too. There will be a messiness to it, as there is in all human activity. I like the idea of two lives open and intertwined.

Which, I am sure, is an idealized notion too, or with some spit shine on it at least.

2009-07-07T16:32:00.005-05:00

Surprising Stock for Such a Teensy Town

When I was a kid I lived in Haskell, Texas. A dust covered cotton town in west Texas on your way to more dust covered towns. My father had chosen the mental health field out of college, and before discovering a man could not feed his family helping the mentally retarded, we moved around.* We ended up in places like Haskell, Texas.

We arrived sometime in my second grade year of elementary school and stayed a couple of years before moving on. I remember the town fondly. Even after being gone for several years it was a touchstone in my mind, someplace I would return to. An idealized utopia of a school grade boy. (Even now, it sneaks into my dreams.)

There are several moments that stand out in my mind when thinking of Haskell. First time to see a soccer ball (literal first contact being in my groin**). Walking to the downtown record store to buy my first LP, Dolly Parton's "Nine to Five." When my third grade teacher took away my pen, a candy cane shaped item that smelled of cinnamon. Hitting a teacher with a rock casually tossed over my shoulder. Being released to recess in dust storms that were a literal wall of dirt.... Actually, I have LOTS of memories. But there is one place I'd like to stop and talk about.

There was a five-and-dime downtown. Crammed with the various odds and ends those sorts of stores were before the Walmartization of retail.

They had a toy section I loved to hang out in. I had always thought it was probably a non-descript toy section. Ends up, they were stocking some serious stuff.

These guys, for one:

Shogun Warriors. OMG Those guys were awesome! Made of metal. Chock full of air passage blocking tiny parts. Spring loaded fists that launched with a touch of a button. In other words, they would never sell these to kids with today's toy safety laws. They were awesome. (Did I already say that? It's because they were.) As I take a stroll down memory lane, I would never consider trying to pick one up on Ebay. Them's are pricey.

I expected them to be expensive. I figured they were the cream of the crop of the toy section's stock. And while they were certainly up there, I was surprised when I found this:

ANOTHER robot from my robot centric childhood. This one rolled around in the fog of my memory. He didn't do much, just rolled. And I think his fist shot off too. I ran across him on Ebay.

"Holy cow! That's the robot! ...and he's expensive!"

Turns out he was made by Ideal. He was from a line called "Zeroids." His name is Zobor.

Of course, there is lots that make a toy expensive on Ebay. One being their scarcity. That aside, it proves the little five-and-dime in middle-of-nowhere Haskell, Texas did more than just sell toys. They REPRESENTED, yo.

So, here's to the toy store of my childhood. Thanks for populating my childhood with top-notch playthings. I raise my Dixie cup of Kool-Aid to you.

* After he became a pharmaceutical salesman, we still moved around. Just to nicer and nicer places.
** Really.

Aloha

2009-07-07T10:15:00.000-05:00

First of all, I have it on good authority that this is called a "post"
not a "blog." The blog, I have been told, is what this page is. A post
is an entry to a blog. I have a friend who is very persnickety about
this sort of thing. She just wants to be sure everyone knows. Of
course, it may not really matter with the Twitters of the world in
full effect. Who wants to actually write or write anything more than
140 characters?

------

At dinner with friends we were all talking about the horrible dreams
we'd had Sunday night. Weird, over the top kinda dreams. I have an
ongoing struggle with Sunday night sleep, so I wasn't completely
surprised to toss and turn, but even my dreams were weirder than normal.

It was pointed out there is a full moon. Then someone else pointed out
there's a lunar eclipse tonight. Perhaps the craziness can be
attributed to that.

-----

Posting activity has been low as of late. The deadline upon deadlines
keeps me just this side of Can Get it All Done. Of course, the blog
would not be very exciting. "Today I worked until one. Exhausted."
Over and over and over.

-----

Two weeks until Comic Con. Have to wrap up the final details and ship
everything off this week. Also have to knock out 28 pages of comic
book roughs by next Monday. This is my life.

2009-07-01T13:39:00.004-05:00

1 down, 15 to go

I finished my book for Comic Con last night and sent it to the printer.

Here's the cover:

Here's a sample page:

I got an ISBN for it so if it's a flop at the con it can be a flop on Amazon too.

Rest up on the weekend and then back on to con stuff and the second graphic novel for Stone Arch books.

No rest for the wicked, they say. I must be very evil.

2009-06-29T09:33:00.005-05:00

At What Cost?

This weekend was my 20th high school reunion. Ever since it had been announced a year ago, I had planned to go. After renewing communication with several people on Facebook, I was really looking forward to it.

Then I got the table at Comic Con.

Coming out of a deadline on a graphic novel, I didn't have much time to regroup.

Forms, and details, and more details piled up on each other as the requirements and smaller deadlines for the con came in.

Weeks shuffled by like days, hours, and I found myself pressed up against a no-options press deadline.

"Finish the book and go to Comic Con. Or go to the reunion."

One or the other.

Not both.

I chose the deadline.

I chose the deadline because I am working and building something here.

This is what I tell myself, at least.

At the end of this weekend, after texts from my friends that went, and pictures of people who are still some of my favorite people I have ever known, my mantra is wearing a bit thin.

"I can't. I have a deadline. I am building something." Has cost me time with my family, time with my friends, and maybe even my dating life.

"I'm building something," I have chanted for three years as my life slips by.

"I'm building something," and now my regret finally has a face, people I could have reconnected with, memories and laughter not shared or made.

At this moment, I am mad.

Comic Con.

It is my hope that big things could happen there. I have found the most direct way to get what you want is to put yourself in the path of people who can give it to you. Those kind of people will be there.

However, I have to be aware that this is just another convention. Just another place to sell t-shirts and my prints and my book. I also have to be happy if that is the only outcome.

Comic Con is also a place for memories, friends will be there. I might make some new ones. So that's good too.

But what did I sacrifice this weekend so I could go?

Was it worth it?

Will it be?

Man. I hope so.

...and now that that's out of my system.

I knocked out 14 pages this weekend!

The book will be wrapped by its deadline. (I think it's going to be good.)

I am totally stoked about the Con.

Not Going

2009-06-26T16:52:00.001-05:00

I am not attending my 20th high school reunion.

I actually wanted to go, but

1) My book for Comic Con is not ready.

and

2) It has to go to the printers beginning of next week and I need more time to get it done.

The book is not ready for a myriad of reasons.

1) All of them I have to raise my hand and take responsibility for.

or

2) None of them are my fault. I would be going if I had a secretary.

3) She's fired.

(What other time bombs is she not taking care of for me?)

But, here I am, not attending, and all of those reasons are moot.

There is, however, a nice upside. Going would have probably sent me into an existential tail spin.

Now

1) I won't.

2) With all that's going on, I don't have time for one anyway.

and

BONUS: You won't have to read about it.

After talking to m@, there is some question if reunions are even necessary in this Facebook age.

I am pals (again) with most of the people I would want to see. Knowing their details, and having had

1) Seen them.

2) Missed their coming to my town or my coming to their town, with promises made for "next time you're here!"

It makes the reunioning seem extraneous.

It would have been good, however, to have had them all in one place.

1) Pat a few backs.

2) Hug a few shoulders.

But

1) The potential for awkward "I was completely in love with you!" type confessions is greatly reduced.

2) Connections that should not be reconnected will not be connected.

My slogan for this weekend is,

"Not revisiting my past so I can build my future!"

I'm making t-shirts.

2009-06-23T10:20:00.002-05:00

For me, creating takes a lot of energy.

There's an actual effort I expend when I am drawing. I am never so aware of it as I have been in the past few weeks. I am somewhere new. I've never expended myself to this degree. Sitting at my table, putting down the table. Like maxing out on a weight bench, "I just don't have it."

I don't get to "not have it" though. Deadlines don't give you an option. You have to get it done.

I've slowed to a crawl, reserving my energy and my effort. Instead of knocking out a stack of pages a night, I finish a few. No room for stress. Little room for anything else but the book. A phone who's battery is low and there's no charger, using it only when you have to, hoping it doesn't die on you.

The Rufus book exists in a constant state of flux. I had ideas, not a manuscript, and so I draw the page, working it out as I go. It's not the ideal way to do it. I am happy with the results, but I am aware they are all first draft ideas. That is good enough for now. The pages are the best comic book pages I've ever done. Rufus is the best he's ever been.

The book for Comic Con will be wrapped in the next week. (It has to go to the printers.) It is the major piece of the puzzle, but there will still be plenty to do.

I am happy, in the midst of it all. Pleased to have the opportunities. Ready, though, to break on through to the other side.

2009-06-17T22:17:00.001-05:00

2009-06-15T21:51:00.009-05:00

Comic Conning

I've been given a Small Press table at Comic Con. To be honest, I didn't want one. I wanted Artist Alley. In Artist Alley I could round up some stuff I've already got and sell that. I've been to several cons. I got that. That's easy.

No. The folks at Comic Con wanted me in Small Press. Insistent, they were.

So what do you do? You say, "Ok."

"Ok" means a WHOLE lot more work. "Ok" means something new.

And sometimes something new is something old.

I drug out proposals and stacks of old drawings, some of them going back 16 years. And while I threw most of it away, there was a set of characters I really wanted to spend more time with.

Picking the drawings from back in the day I most felt captured who they were, I put those through the filter of today.

Dave, 2002

Dave, 2009
In time you will know who this is, if you don't. (Meaning, I am going to tell you, not that he's going to be super famous... though that would be okay with me.)

It is so much fun spending time with this group of characters again. Whenever I create a character, they become almost a real person. I know who they are, why they do what they do, how they do it. Have the characters defined, and the story writes itself.

It is good to be in their company again.

2009-06-11T23:28:00.003-05:00

Thursday night

Big storm tonight. Well, they said on the news it was big. Apparently in other parts of the area windows were blown out and "police officers" reported two tornados on the ground in Travis County. Baby tornados, they later told us. But not before I'd pulled out the mattress into the hall and wrapped the hard drives in plastic. It was "COMING RIGHT AT US!" they said on the news. The mattress was much harder to put back on the bed than it was to take off.

I was once tornado freak out guy. Even though I did put the mattress in the hall and sent texts to my peeps in my area of town, all of it was very level headed. (I had pals at Chuy's who headed home because of my text. Right before the hail hit they got their car in their garage. I am a hero.) I've been in four tornados. Yeah. I am a pro.

The storm postponed a deadline I was working on. I got it done anyway. I took a while with it because I want to push the way I color my art in another direction. Not sure what that is yet. Haven't found what I am looking for. Line remains foundational to my work, so whatever I do has to gel with that. I've played with some of the brushes in Photoshop that look like pastel. Not loving the results yet.

Lots of drawing coming up. The second graphic novel has begun. Cover final due on Monday. Comic Con is a little over a month away. There is a LOT to do for that. May be biting off more than I can chew. Have to knock something out. I have a small press table which means I need a book of some sort.

Geez, is it only a month? I thought I have more time. Holy cow.

Here comes the weekend. It won't be much of one. Have to draw. (See the above paragraph.)

Just saying hello.

Turning in.

2009-06-10T22:51:00.000-05:00

Just like I taught him

2009-06-10T07:05:00.001-05:00

Like cartoon cars but only real!*

As a kid I never drew cars. If I had seen these I would have.

* Coolest cars ever and I am too tall for every one.

2009-06-09T21:27:00.010-05:00

Two in one week.

Two in my face, "You should be in a relationship" discussions.

Well meaning people who love me.

People who very much want me to be happy.

Person 1: "Why, why aren't you with someone? You gotta be with someone. You are great."

Person 2: "You work too much. You're hiding in it. You're going to find yourself at the end and you will be alone."

It has been requested that I look at my life a little harder than I have recently. (Which is a big request, the Big 38 bringing not only lots of delicious cake but also some Looking at the Big Issues.)

Ok.

They want me to not be alone.

They want me to be with someone.

"Because YOU want it." (They said this to me.)

....

How do I feel?

I feel like I've worked myself into a place that stopped being emotionally productive about a year ago.

I am more tired than I have ever been in my life.

I was thinking this week, "Some day I will look back and I won't be able to believe how tired I was."

Then my inner court reporter stood up and read from her transcript. "You said that a year ago."

....

Simple. What? Meet someone and be happy.

....

Words on a phone. Replay: "I can't be with someone who works so much and doesn't have time for me."

....

What's important? In the end?

I'll tell you what the end is like.

(I've got lots of old people around me.)

Not being alone.

They are terrified of it.

The things they will sacrifice to not be alone.

But if you've been alone, what's the difference?

....

What do I want?

For all of my dreams to come true.

Dreams? I am so wound up I don't sleep.

Who has time for them?

....

Who does not want to love someone and live their lives with them?

....

Is this a crappy way to live life? A crappy place to come to?

Is there change? Should there be? Can there be?

....

This is not good. Boys and girls, this is not the way to do it.

....

I am not going to lie.

The last two weeks, everywhere I go, the people I hang out with, the parties I go to, I am aware I am going by myself.

Mooshed into movie seats, couples on every side, I am by myself.

Not depressed. Or sad. Or angry. Or lonely.

Just by myself.

"Need two spoons for your ice cream?"

Ha. Ha. No.

....

"Be with somebody!"

Be with somebody.

Be somebody.

With.
....

Peace.

Peace would be nice.

A clear path would be nice.

Simple would be nice.

Rest and time to get what's going on in my head sorted out would be nice.

Nice.

....

It's become clear to me I need to do something about the way I am living.

How to live some other way.

Just so you know, I might think you are dead.

2009-06-09T15:20:00.001-05:00

"Meatloaf is dead."

This statement is not a declaration of the demise of the ground meat product.

No, this is what I said when we were talking about the rock star, Meatloaf.

"Meatloaf isn't dead," said someone within earshot.

"Sure he is," I said, "He died when... Wait. What did he die of?"

"Nothing. He is not dead. He is the opposite of dead. He is alive."

And that's when the little guy on a bicycle in my brain finally rode up and handed me an envelope.

Meatloaf's character died in "Fight Club," a death so convincing, it seems, it wedged itself into my long term memory and established itself as Fact.

I lived a few years believing Meatloaf was dead. Even now I am not completely certain he's still with us.

I made fun of myself early today when I said an actress was dead who had died in a movie. The other person was not in on my Meatloaf confusion, so he did not get the joke.

As for the ground meat product, well, I don't ever go looking for it, but it sure does make a tasty sandwich.

While We're At It : My Morning Routine

2009-06-03T11:55:00.001-05:00

This is what I do in the morning and the order in which I do it. If it seems regimented, it is. This all happens before I eat or drink my morning tea, so I am pretty much asleep through all of the procedure. Chaos would ensue without prearranged steps.

6:38 - Alarms goes off (set to classical music station). Hit snooze.

6:44- Alarms goes off (set to classical music station). Hit snooze.

6:50- Turn off radio. Up and at 'em. (Pull chain on light on ceiling fan once to turn on light. Turn off light at switch on the wall.)

(Sometimes if I have worked on something the night before I will head into the studio to see what it looks like by morning light. Comment to myself on work.)

(Following times are approximate)

6:51- Go potty

7:00- Shave

7:05- Shower
    1) Shampoo
    2) Face gunk
    3) Torso - sensitive skin soap
    4) Rinse
    5) Legs and back
    6) Rinse
    7) Aveda shampoo as body wash
    8) Rinse
    9) Towel off

7:20- Put on underclothes, go to kitchen to prep breakfast/snack kit
    (breakfast/snack kit consists of: some sort of breakfast taco situation on corn tortilla, orange juice, Bulgarian yogurt with honey and cinnamon, sometimes fruit, sometimes Slim Fast if lunch errands are anticipated) Set lunch kit in entry way in front of door.

7:27- Turn on light in fish tank (cue for fish that food's a'coming) Quick inspection to see if all the fish are healthy.
    (Fish eat flake food, pellets, and algae wafers)

7:28- Put on deodorant and brush teeth

7:32- Dress, in following order:
    1) Socks
    2) Pants
    3) Belt
    4) Shirt
    5) Shoes

7:35- Put on watch and ring and fill pockets
    - Watch and ring on right hand (being left-handed, they get in the way on the left side)
    - Left pocket: money clip and lip balm
    - Right pocket: Knife (and eventually, keys)

7:36- Round up stuff removed from man bag (usual suspects: iPhone, glasses, iPhone charger, sketchbook)

7:37- Disarm alarm

7:37:02- Re-arm alarm

7:38- Out the door

Note: There is no TV or radio on during the procedure. There is also very little light. Though I sleep light, waking up happens gradually for me.

Would like to add time to get my head together for the day and also add exercise. This would mean not working until 11PM, a problem I currently have.

Tunin' In, or, More Junk Janx's Brain Does All on Its Own

2009-06-02T15:16:00.001-05:00

My noggin is a constantly spinning juke box waiting around for someone to hit the next button.

With little provocation--ker-plunk--it drops a record.

"How does one hit the button?" you ask.

It can be activated by words that sound like words in songs.

Take for instance the news commentator on NPR, Eleanor Beardsley.

Whenever she does a report I end up singing the Beatle's tune, "Eleanor RIGBY."

"Eleanor Beardsley picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been, lives in a dream....
Aaaaall the lonely people, where do they all come from"

A lot of times it is something sharing the rhythm of a song.

I have a client who's last name is "Samaripa" which results in my walking around singing thusly,

"When a problem comes along
Samaripa
Before the cream sits out too long
Samaripa
When somethings going wrong
Samaripa"

For those not recognizing the tune, that's Devo's classic "Whip It."

Most of the time it is the actual words from the songs that get things started off.

Today it's Tuesday. Afternoon.

Cue the Moody Blues.

"Tuuuuuuuesday afternoon."

I have a pal named Al. When I see him coming I am often humming.

"You can call me Betty, and Betty when you call me, you can call me Al."*

Someone can just say a word in a sentence as I walk by an office, or by an open door in a store, or on the phone and it springs into life.

"Storm came and went, like the time that we spent, hiding out under the carnival tent."

(Possible activating words: Storm. Spent. Carnival. Tent.)

Like a mental patient escaped from its cell, or a madhouse night of karaoke, the grey matter I cart around with me constantly churns away doing random junk that matters little.

I wonder what I could be achieving if it weren't so occupied?

The cures to cancer!

Solving all that ails modern society!

"Modern love - walks beside me
Modern love - walks on by
Modern love - gets me to the

church

on

tiiiiiiime."

* Really.

2009-05-26T22:03:00.003-05:00

Comfort

I've shared that I used to make kissy-lips when people kiss on the television.

I also shared that once I realized this, I endeavored to stop doing it.

I was successful, rarely puckering up when folks smooch on televisions programs.

Here's some fresh news.

It came to my attention--this evening--that I also smile or frown when people on the television do so.

It's strange, sure, but as a person who draws other people and their expressions, I often mimic what face the character I am drawing is making. I don't have a mirror that I look into or anything. I just scowl with the samurai. Make a dopey face with a dog, and so on and so forth.

I believe I have also shared that a few years ago I discovered I slept with my finger in my belly button.

I thought it a ridiculous thing to do, so I stopped.

A couple of weeks ago I began to sleep with my finger in my belly button again.

It is ridiculous, yes, but since I sleep alone, it offends no one.

Also, it is strangely comforting, I don't know why.

Thumb sucking, sure. Science has that all figured out.

But belly button resting.

That's a study to be done.

Just don't wake me while you're doing it.

2009-05-26T21:49:00.002-05:00

Give It Back

I was watching a show, a cooking competition show, on TV last week.

Four cooks are given a surprise basket of ingredients and then cooks are eliminated through the courses until it is a head-to-head chef-off.

One of the cooks could not find his mushrooms.

He immediately accused his competitors of stealing them.

The judges of the show were very harsh on this young man that he would so quickly jump to the conclusion that he had been bushwhacked.

I once worked with a man who was very smart.

When I say "smart," I mean he was one of the smartest people I have ever known.

Occasionally he would say things and very often these things were true.

He was of the opinion, for instance, that to have a successful acting career one must have a larger than normal, in proportion to your body, head

Watch the people in the television programs and the moving picture shows. I believe you will find him to be correct.

What he also pointed out was that gents--us men folk--when something belonging to us is missing, we will immediately jump to the conclusion that it has been stolen.

"A guy can live alone and when an item is missing he wants to know who stole it."

Reflecting upon my own life, I found his observation to have been born out in precedence.

I laughed.

(Of course, there are times, and I hope you will never experience them, that someone has actually pilfered your belongings.)

Living alone, and all alone, in a house people rarely visit, I know when something is missing, I'm the one responsible.

Still, I can't quite get over the feeling that I've been shanghaied.

2009-05-21T17:04:00.000-05:00

Highlighters are not for your mouth

I knew there was highlighter on my hands.

We were in our morning production meeting.

I listened to the job run down for the day, opening and shutting the top of my highlighter. Flipping the cap over. Snapping it back on. It's part of my body's "never stop moving" campaign it's been in engaged in since the moment I was born.

Tapping tables. Bouncing my knees. Swinging my foot. Snapping my fingers. Twisting napkins into paper dragons, people, octopi.

In short. I fidget.

My fingers were pink. I knew they would be. This wasn't my first go around with a highlighter (using a pack of four, I use them to organize information).

Wait a tick, most of my hand is pink.

I gasped. Slouched in my chair I felt safely out of the eyes of my coworkers who gazed at the production schedule projected on the wall.

No biggy. What's pink highlighter on my hands?

My reaction to the revelation of my hand situation was enough to startle a coworker out of his meeting induce stupor.

"Yeah. I got it all over my hands," me holding up my hands.

"How'd you do that?" coworker one.

"I..."

"You also got bright pink lips," said another.

Production meeting became "laugh at the Janx's lips" meeting.

Comments were made. That's fair. My mouth was day glow pink.

I didn't put the highlighter in my mouth with the cap off, I want to clear the record up on that right now.

Somewhere in the removing, flipping, twisting, recapping and transference of highlighter fluid to exterior of the marker there had been a putting the cap to my lips. A reflex, I am sure, as I thought about the important work I had to do today.

The highlighter will, from now on, sit on the table.

Also, today at lunch I put a salad together from a salad bar.

Lettuce.
Sprouts.
Onions.
One boiled egg.
Mushrooms.
Live wasp.

Live wasps are not a typical item on salad bars in my area, nor is it a regular part of my salads.

The wasp was chill--literally--and moving slowly as they do when they're cold. So, it wasn't an emergency.

I am not an "OMG AN INSECT!" kinda guy. I carried it over to an employee and asked for a new plate.

I made another salad, but my brain kept trying to put another wasp in it.

What's that weird taste?

There's no weird taste.

That's what a WASP tastes like!

Dude. You have no idea what a wasp tastes like.

And so forth.

All in all, my 38th year is kicking off with some excitement.

2009-05-05T22:07:00.002-05:00

From a widget on my Google home page.

I like leopards, but I think I will pass on hanging out with large carnivorous cats at their water holes.

2009-05-05T14:53:00.010-05:00

Is this your car?

The King Tut exhibit at the Dallas Museum of Art seemed like a good way for a couple of people to spend some time.

After lunch on the theme--Mediterranean at a joint called "Ali Baba's" no less--we pulled up to the museum. Cars were everywhere. Parking was a premium. Small flecks of water materialized on the window.

"Let's see what the valet runs," I said.

"A lot, more than is really reasonable" was the answer, but with the oncoming rain and parking in short demand, the cost was--we felt--justified enough.

The valet walked to the car.

I greeted him.

"Just leave your keys in your car."

"Do you have a ticket for me?"

"No," he said, "I don't have any tickets, but I will remember you."

"You'll remember me?"

"Yes."

"Is there a receipt or something? Something I could use to prove you have my car?"

He printed out a receipt and handed it to me.

No number on it. No corresponding receipt attached to the key ring or placed on the dash. Nada.

He would remember me--why I found this acceptable, I'm not sure. Having never been told such a thing by a valet, I was operating in brand new territory. I was befuddled and at the moment it made as much sense as anything I guess.

Here's what you should know if you plan on attending the King Tut exhibit before it leaves the Dallas Museum of Art in the next two weeks--they let groups into the exhibit every 30 minutes. We arrived at the ticket window at 3:00 to discover they were sold out and the next available opening was not until 5:00.

My first instinct was, "Let's go find coffee." But being at a building chock full of art, we decided to wander the halls of the museum.

While this ended up being a good idea because of the tent collapsing storms that rolled in--two, or three of them, while we were in the building--looking at art for two hours and THEN standing in line for forty-fives minutes BEFORE even getting into see MORE art... it pushes one's tolerance for gandering. We were both exhausted by the time we got through Mr. Tut's belongings. It was storming--again--so we sat and talked, waiting for it to blow over.

The skies cleared a bit. Cats and dogs were no longer pounding the windows. After discussing dinner options--it was now almost 7:00--we went to get the car.

The valet was not there.

His little valet stand was gone.

Furthermore, my car was not where he'd parked it.

Time slowed down. It was one of those minuscule moments of panic that last seem to last for hours.

Looking to my left, however, revealed my automobile had been moved and parked under a protective overhang, which, with the weather we'd just had, was nice.

I walked back into the building to the black blazer clad security guard with her walkie-talkie.

"Where did your valet go?"

"He's gone," she said, "I'm the valet now."

I know you see it coming. The overzealous security guard bent on doing her job. A woman of power unwilling to give me my car keys with no proof of which car is mine.

"Which car is it?" she said.

"...the Toyota."

I held my breath.

She lifted her hand.

"Are these your keys?"

"...uh. Yes?"

She handed me my keys.

"Have a good night."

There is nothing on my keychain that says "Toyota." Nothing proves my ownership.

My companion and I looked at each other.

"I should have asked for the Mercedes."

2009-05-04T22:17:00.003-05:00

Little People*

This is a fascinating blog where the artist takes pictures of wee plastic people.

* No. Bek. Not those kind.

2009-05-04T20:44:00.009-05:00

thoughts dating thing

You sit across the table from someone you never met.

Having seen a few pictures, you tried to guess which one is the best likeness.

Now you have your answer.

If you're lucky, it's the picture you liked.

You have ideas of who this person is, but faced with the in-the-flesh reality, you discover all you thought was assumptions based on someone you knew she looks like.

Or something in her profile reminds you of a girl who was pretty cool.

Knitting and cooking. Cathy did that. Cathy was cool. This girl must be cool too.

Always expectations based on previous experiences. Previous someones. Precedents. Paradigms. All before. Boiled down into "Hey, you wanna grab a coffee sometime?"

Essentially it remains what you asked your friends to never set you up on because they never work--blind dates.

It's ok. You made this one for yourself. You put yourself at the table.

At the table.

Facial expressions. Gestures. Cadence and pitch of voice. How much weight how little. Ego. Insecurities. All unknowns, all data processing as you talk. Somewhere in your head, checking boxes.

"For."

"Against."

Finding veins of communication, forging pathways through shyness--theirs, yours. Making the most of the moment you have, trying to impress or going over the flight plan.

Is she attracted? Are you? Are you attractive enough? Self concept, self image, self confidence. Mirror images shuffle through.

Oh man. WHY did I wear THIS outfit?

Picking a partner. A mate. Someone to catch a flick with next weekend.

Even outside of this newer paradigm--the internet fueled circus and circle, dance--these things ever a constant undertone.

Magazine articles pile up. New scientific date. Advice. Insight. Noise.

"It's pheromones."

"It's clothes."

"It's swagger and sway."

"Great abs in thirty days."

(ie: "great abs until next month when we'll tell you a better way to get great abs so you'll have to buy THAT issue.")

Push and pull.

"Be this. Be that."

Next week, something different. Something new. Whatever headline gets the click or the dollar.

Shake it all down.

Shake it until...

Dating is not just internet.

No, some brave souls actually ask flesh and blood people out, not just pictures on a glowing screen.

Sitting across the table and again the check boxes and the questions.

"I never knew that about you."

I didn't want to know it.

Seeking chemistry.

Looking for connection.

Something in the spark of that first moment and then.

What?

Flash or fizzle.

You are you.

She is she.

Simply and that--you think--we'll find someway to

*Click*

Mysterious thousand factors mashed and pressed together until this side lines up with that side.

Until then.

Do it again.

2009-04-23T23:31:00.000-05:00

it was a hand. it was covered in cake.

2009-04-23T23:24:00.002-05:00

not an otter, otto. a dog.*

(If you're wondering where the rest of these are. They ain't been posted yet. there's a heap of 'em.)

*though the point of focus is dubious.