Thoughts Unbidden

Olympus at Twilight

2012-01-21T11:43:00.001-08:00

I know I've been posting a lot of creative writing lately.Just looking for some feedback, and I've been unable to find a forum thatreally gives me the interaction I'm striving for. Throwing what I can at the wallto see what sticks. Plan to return to Blogging in earnest soon.

This was part of a pitch for something I was working on.Turned into the opening of a pen and paper RPG campaign I ran but never had the chance to really conclude. Inspired in part byFrank Stratford's ToSettle Mars

The great Prior Empire had peaked.

From grand cities to opulent cathedrals, monuments of theirsuccess rose from blackened earth into searing blue, brimming with thefaithful.

The House of Drumar had tamed the world.

Less than a decade later, nine centuries of brittleprosperity began to show its age, turning first from decadence, then to boredomthen finally to cruelty. Cult faiths from long purged religions were on therise. Tolerated at first by the nobles as a fad of the lower classes andacademics, they were a sign of times expected to pass that simply didn’t. Themore the Priors tried to push them out, the more these fanatic sects grew innumber. The more they grew in number, the more they threatened the interests ofthe houses royal. And with the battle lines of a second great purge beingdrawn, the dissenters were forced to band together across philosophical and political lines.

Calling themselves the Golden Dawn, the best among the newlyunified independents campaigned for an audience with the quorum throughprotest. And when that failed their more fanatical elements in turn lashed outwith insurgency.

Filled with the bodies of martyrs and children, the streetsemptied as guerilla war brought the old home to its knees.

Police action ruled the day. While armies garrisoned inmajor cities against a civilian terror they could neither identify nor defeat;food stores began to dry up. With hunger on the rise and resources on thedecline, troops moved into the cities under the jackbooted decree of martiallaw.

In response, the Golden Dawn retaliated with an army ofmartyrs. Willing and able men and women strapped explosives to their chests andrushed at every crowded street corner in droves.

Blood and rust mucked the gutters, until there was only warfilling the streets - devouring the innocent like a machine. From every cornerof the empire, the Golden Dawn inched ever closer to the capitol. Theywould either bring their message to the quorum floor – or die in heaps makingthe attempt.

With all of the Dawn’s attention focused on those inside thecapitol ground, civilian life almost returned to normal. Not that the samecould be said for the nobles. Behind the battlements of his stronghold, theprophet: Samuel Marius Drummar (Rex Deus) and the rest of his inner circle wereslowly forced into a kind of house arrest. Stir crazy from eleven months undersiege, Samuel would routinely spend unguarded hours walking the hanging gardensat the fortress’ center to escape the constant bickering of the noble council.And while a guard detail was always on post around the garden perimeter, theykept their distance from the prophet.

Outside young men and women detonated themselves into theafterlife. But inside, behind untold layers of stone, mortar, and steeltheir sacrifice came as little more than distant pops. Here in the innersanctum of the stronghold, tended to almost exclusively by servants, theprophet felt protected.

Safe.

During these long hours of introspection he became acomplacent and predictable target. Calculating and terrible minds spent everymoment of the last decade bent on a single murderous purpose, but infiltratingone of their own into Drumar’s ranks was not easy. Even among the lowest of theservant staff the task proved daunting.

And on the mid–summer morning of June 29th in the year oftheir lord 2086 an insurgent armed with time and opportunity managed theimpossible. Samuel Marius Drummar (Rex Deus), the voice of God to over 7billion souls, had finally been silenced.

Eager and ambitious for a seat on his father’s throne,Thomias, Samuel’s first born could not wait for what fate seemed eager to givehim. He had been trading intel to the enemies of the state for some timewaiting patiently for his moment to claim the crown… but fate, being fateremained a fickle bitch!

Samuel was still alive.

Trapped in a prison of flesh Samuel’s mind called out tothose who had served him. They who could heed the call were few to start,barely a handful. But as time passed his mind grew louder and louder, callingevery day into his wife Careanna’s mind until a door opened behind her eyes andhe flooded in.

With his father continuing to rule the empire through aproxy, Thomias would not take the throne. And though his mother would directthe empire in his father’s name – she would never be the prophet.

The notion that she could hear the voice of a burnedcatatonic seemed more like madness than miracle to Thomias and his supporters.Even when those select among the Quorum claimed to hear his voice as well -Thomias called them crazed.

But the quorum was sympathetic to Careanna, crazy as it mayhave been, when she spoke she sounded so hauntingly like him that it was hardto believe the truth could be anything else. If Thomias was going to seizepower, he would have to do it without trying to discredit his mother.

Again he turned to his silent partners among the Dawn. Hismother would never be silenced and bound by law, and she couldn’t simply die inher sleep, it had to be public and brutal.

Within a week Careanna was dead, and with her gone, Thomiashoped to take the holy seat from beneath the shadow of his nearly martyredfather.

Infuriated by his wife’s death and his recent imprisonment ina body that would not obey him, he called out with his mind. Those blessed withlatent psionic ability not only heard the call, but replied.

They would wait.

Shuffled off to a well point facility Samuel marshaled hisforces in quiet corners. His plans needed time to fruit.

In secret, supplies were diverted, and preparations made. The ships he intended to take had been crewed by way of subtle shiftrotation, and in a span of mere weeks 50,000 men women and children were ready.They just needed their moment and Samuel had something special in mind. Heremembered the treaty of his ancestors and its impending conclusion.

In a few months, a 500 year old non-aggression pact with theNahuatl Empire would come to a close. The beasts of the Americas would soonreturn their attention to the old world, and with all the unpleasantness oftheir original meeting, he did not expect this reunion to be a happy one.

For centuries the Nahuatl had been permitted to thrive;maybe not permitted, so much as ignored - and in that time, their empire offlesh and pain and sacrifice had undoubtedly made them mighty.

Samuel knew all of these red truths.

He knew the once and mighty Priors would taste nearlyinstantaneous warfare on a scale not known since the ancient times of the greatpurge. A precognition of tens of thousands crossing the Atlantic with morein reserve, and a hundred years of bloody madness reigning in the world boredits way into his mind. And when their ships landed, when the attention of thosefatted generals was focused elsewhere, that’s when he and his supporters wouldmake their move.

Terrified of what was to come, the Quorum of Elders brokeinto factions along political lines, as if politics could shield them from whatwas coming. To the left: peaceful negotiation with whispers of capitulationtook to the tongue. To the right: the madness of war without end held sway,especially in the mouths of the eastern most baronies.

But in the center Thomias; son of the prophet remainedsilent.

Samuel only had one move to make. And so, as the Nahuatlinvaders landed their forces, Samuel and his followers fled the old home, theirnumber too great to deny; their weapons too dangerous to oppose. Aboard 5 greatships: The Solon, Critias, Sais, Socrates, and the Timaus; they disappearedinto the night sky.

For the three year journey his body remained a prison; hismind shook at the bars.

While most others slept dreamless in the cryo holds – Samuelwas awake. Aware of his surroundings. In comatose silence, madness was born,creeping in through unwelcome cracks in his resolve.

Maddening, Samuel traveled inward. Struggling to repair thedamage, his consciousness split. Dividing and subdividing, until every cell wasat his command. He would have to rebuild his mortal vessel one piece at a time.

While he took to the task, this story unfolded in theSolon’s cryo holds:

Thefirst time through your teens passed much more clearly than the second. Youwere only eleven when you left the old home for the star filled darkness. Youremember the three long years in the tanks; trapped and awake.

Youcouldn’t age, the stasis assured that much, but that doesn’t mean time didn’tpass. Even when the first drop ships set their gear on red rock you, like therest of the children, remained in your embryonic cells.

Itwas here that the group mind first took shape. Young minds, overwhelmed bysadness and isolation called out to one another, until finally; there came ananswer in the darkness… another mind struggling in silence, screaming to beheard. But this mind had been at it for much longer, edging on madness in abody that would not abide its own will. But he like you refused to stop callingout. You had reached the mind of the prophet and he reached back. Through theyears of terra forming, he was there, and when he finally emerged from hispalsied prison he came for you…Just as he promised he would - his little curia.A kindness that can never repay the debt of loyalty that overwhelms you: Theunbreakable bond.

Theabove may not be true of every soul born yet or since… but it is true of you.

7 months and they landed on the surface of the red planet.27 months and the final gilding found purchase on the filigree of the greatcitadel. 77 months after that, in a hospital ward within the wellborn complex,reborn Samuel sat up suddenly, pulled the needles from his veins and plantedboth feet firmly on the cold tile.

Dexterity was slow to return as he fought for equilibrium.Muscles bulged and contracted, ringing the weakness from once dead meat. Hisskin tightened and renewed before an already terrified nursing staff. Muscles,toned from atrophy; as if it had never set in at all. The clock that had stolenage from him had been rebuked.

In the years after, Samuel would become the voice of thealmighty to his people. Within a generation speech was obsolete. Eugenics hadnearly weeded the non-gifted from the genetic swim. Those born with themalady of normal were shipped off to the commons of Ashfield; to grow in theshade of the world whose only use for them was in backbreaking labor.

Prosperity dawned on the red planet while and age of bloodtook hold on Terra; strangling the heart of the system with war.

Sproket for your thoughts?

2012-01-12T00:19:00.000-08:00

This is the larval state of an idea that has been floating around in my head. No idea where it's going...

Call came in sometime after dawn; took us about an hour toarrive on the scene. The Cogswain was an easy on the outskirts of the easternfoundries, a place where cogsman couldcome in from the rain after a long day’s work to trade their honest wages for apint of spirits. Its graveled lot wasempty in the purple hours of morning, making the building’s outer structure ofengraved wood seem immense in the surrounding emptiness. We didn’t get calledout here much; places on the outskirts like this tended to police themselves,and given how inherent the cogsman were to our shared survival, the wider thebirth their merriment received the better.

We spent a good twenty minutes popping flashbulbs in the lottrying to capture the scene in greater detail than it’s stark almost barrenstate seemed to allow our eyes. No avail. The place was swept clean– with not so much as a shoe print pressed into the loose rock.

Through the saloon doors, the barkeep, drunken and drifting pressedhis forearms into the bar from a stool near the entrance. You could see it onhis face, the room was clearly spinning; his last sip of cognac swirled warm down his throat some time ago, andhe had spent most of the minutes since trying to will his brain meats into makingsense of it all. From the look on his face, he had been at it for some timewith little positive effect.

Frozen and staring, entranced at the human debris, the tipsof his shoes literally swimming in blood. Just beyond his grip, a half fullglass slowly tipped its contents onto the floor.

Drip. Drip. Drip

I took little away from his attention, standing in thedoorway eyeballing the scene. My partner however wasn’t so lucky. The second hecrossed the arch of the doorjamb the barman’s expression hardened. Turningtoward us with renewed liveliness on his previously vacant expression. My partnerpretended not to notice as alcohol contaminated our crime scene, zeroing in on theman’s intense watery eyes.

“Ow’ can you stand it,” he asked.

“What’s that?” Swand replied never breaking the veneer of innocenceon his face.

“Working wif’ unadem!” he sputtered.

Annoyed at the banter about to happen as if I wasn’t in theroom, I twisted my head to face the barman.

“By all means continue ,” I said in as menacing a monotoneas I could muster.

Something about the way my posture faced the crime scenewhile my head turned nearly all the way round must have unnerved the poor fellowa skosh. Gibbering, he pulled words from the desert in his throat, ignoring myquestion as he frantically tried to explain the scene.

The story he had to tell wasn’t of much use but went a littlesomething like this:

Hoursago, just after set when the bodies were packed shoulder to shoulder the oldman had excused himself to the back to pull stock from the fridge, leaving ssmall crew of barmaids and busmen tokeep everything running. He couldn’t have been back there for more than fifteen/twentyminutes when everything went down. So he finishes his inventory for the nightlyrestock and when he returned the place was still as a grave.

Afterhe had sent the wire he had taken to perching in this very spot until we arrived.

Surveying the scene, the first thing I noticed was the stateof the place. Every glass and bottle, every table and chair seated in its homeas if the place was patroned by ghosts. The bar must’ve been packed to thegills given the number of body parts heaped in piles around the room. If itweren’t for the blood and bodies, the whole scene would have seemed altogetheruntouched…

That is with one exception.

Behind the bar, twoautomata not unlike myself stood slumped, their arcane keys had been ripped outwith a roughness that rent the metal from its housings. The cogs in my headbegan to hum as the apertures around my eyes narrowed. What on earth coulddisembody so many without causing a panic. Whatever it was it had to be fastVery fast. But why damage those that can be repaired? It’s not like thesesimple automata could’ve been a threat. Too many things weren’t adding up. I turned to look at Detective InspectorSwand, only to find he had been staring at me since my braincase started tohum.

“What?” I asked.

“I know that sound, you have a theory,” he said.

“What gave it away.”

“Your brain always hums and you do that thing with youreyes, when you have a theory,” he said, “so spit it out.”

“Swand, sometimes you have a dizzying intellect,” I replied. Hesmiled, as was his nature. Humoring the way my flat vocals passed for dry wit.“I’m not sure yet, but I don’t think our assailant was human.”

“Wow slow down, I should probably write this down,” his reply, thick with unnoticed sarcasm.

I waited patiently for him to pull a pad and pen from hissatchel, and after a time when he failed to produce them, I asked him to pullthe horseless around. The Chief inspector would not be pleased.

Hours later the horseless approached the depot withunbearable sloth. The batteries had been run pretty dry on our trip out to theskirts, causing Swand to measure his speed on the return very carefully; a behavior welloutside the nature of his character. Swand was whistling for much of the drive,a sound I found soothing as I let the reaction engine in my skull pour over all of the new data it had collected.

Trifecta

2012-01-12T00:15:00.000-08:00

This is the first thing I ever wrote that got printed etc. It’s 15 years old, and while I think it shows its age, it’s still good-ish. Regardless of some of the more cringe worthy moments for me reading it (even its original title: Entropy is a bit emo for my taste), I thought you might enjoy.

I often look back on this as what I call the trifecta as it was the first time I got recognized for something I liked to do, without feeling like I had to qualify the success. It got me the attention of the woman I am enagaed to, and it made a modest appearance in the outlaw which was a newspaper published by one of the JCs I was atending before I went to UCLA.

So here you are.

Darkness falls on yet another passing day. The once illuminating sun disappears, giving form to the vastness of star filled night.

Below the city pulses in the dark calm, a fresh breath of life filling its steel lungs while the monotone hum of man and machine, once again active, consumes the night air.

Oblivious in his nature, man leads his little life, unaware of the war that consumes the world around him. Behind every corner lies a shadowy other world. Battles play out like the plays of old both tragic and comedic. Characters take the stage with little time to mourn the passing of their predecessors. Driven in service to an age old struggle they wage war in the name of gods so afraid of their own mortality that they use humanity's remnants as pawns in their games of chance.

From these games a lone piece emerges. Stalwart, tragic, and yet driven by a love and faith, which rivals the power of the very gods, he fights for. As he comes into focus, we see his skimmer as it streaks fluidly through the back streets of the 'skirts. The sweet thunder of his engine roars as he darts between traffic.

Oblivious to the beauty of the world around him, his awareness is devoured by thoughts of recent events. His surroundings take a back seat to the events, which replay in his minds eye. He’s swept away by visions of the woman he loved just out of reach, her soft eyes begging for the salvation he could not provide. For the sake of those eyes he will wage a war that threatens to engulf the entire world of Aschera in conflict.

Revenge smolders in his belly.

The loss pours over him in waves in subtle, tactile ways at first. He would never know her touch again, and this failure eats away slowly at the core of him. Over and over again he sees her eyes, her sweet innocent eyes as the life drains slowly from her neck. And that image will be emblazoned in his memory forever.

Briefly, the memories fade as his attention returns to the pavement. He has reached his destination; the Temple of the Tiger's mouth. The silent solidarity of this sacred local washes over his melancholy, and for an instant he is contented in the sight of his god, reassured by his lingering faith that he is the chosen, and with such great honor comes great power.

And power is something he can use.

Assuredly he sets his skimmer down and slowly making his way to the temple. The raw power of the acolytes chanting is euphoric, their litanies filling him with unspoken hope that all may not be lost. His memories; relegated to the times of happiness she gave him. Contently resigned to the only physical memory he had; the tenderness of her touch.

Before that he was a cold hybrid of flesh and metal, unaware of the subtle joys of a woman's skin. The memory of her soft caress lingers in his mind for long moments on the way to the altar. Even as he slowly lowers himself to his knees in reverence to this place, she is with him. His long cloak billows as he bends himself; with bowed head and closed eyes silently begging the gods of the Coil to bestow upon him one more gift.

Over and over in his mind he says the words, but the longer they go unanswered the more he realizes that even the gods are limited in their ability to give in to the desires of their subjects, and this young man asks for something outside the scope of the very beings he prays to: forgiveness.

A tear runs silently down his cheek and pauses before gravity takes hold. His single tear is all he can bear. He remains kneeling for some time, lost in his lamentations. Duty tells him he is part of something larger than himself now, a sentiment he quickly ignores.

Duty be damned!

Darkness slowly forgoes its hold on light as the temple is back lit by the sun's rising. Long shadows give way to the golden sun as its warm embrace squeezes tightly against the metal monoliths of the naive world below.

Even as the rustle of nightlife dims and the pawns of this game return to the board, he remains in stillness.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day it all changes. Maybe tomorrow their losing streak against fate will be broken, maybe with this new day comes an untapped realm of possibility. Maybe tomorrow will bring forgiveness.

His attention is diverted upward; tomorrow is full of maybes… But today, today there is only war!

Mobhanded Part IV: GB-12

2011-10-22T08:45:00.000-07:00

I have this memory from once in my way-back, vivid as any yesterday I’ve ever known.

It happened the day before my 13th birthday; such a simple an funny thing. I was sitting at the dining room table waiting for my parents to stop arguing long enough for me to say grace, and for once in my life, I didn’t give a rat's about the pasta. Earlier in the day I rolled a grammar school kid for his stash of Captain America comics.

He had been parading them around for weeks, all rolled up in his back pocket like a savage. Even for the time these were some pretty rarified works, at least in my circles; and this little brat had them stuffed in the back of his jeans like so much trash! Sitting around the lunch benches, waiting to be excused by the battleaxe on duty, Mrs. Heins, we were a captive audience to his stories of privilege and opportunity and boy did he love to talk. He kept goin’ on and on about how much his daddy made, and how he had two of everything so he could show off one copy while the old man preserved the other in their temperature controlled wine cellar; drove me nuts.

Looking back I realize, I was perhaps a little jealous, but it’s not my fault, it’s his. The way he used to rub everyone else’s nose in it – I hated the little punk! Hated his cool gear, hated his arrogance, most of all, I hated the family he claimed to have that was nothing like my own.

Life can be strange that way sometimes…

Day before my thirteenth, all that jealousy and rage welling up inside me I popped. Soon as old lady Heins turned her back I was on the kid like stink. Knowing he had duplicates, I didn’t feel much in the way of remorse when I took those comics from him. To the kid’s credit, he didn’t rat. He took his licks and I took those comics... home.

And was I wowed by 'em!

These four color funnies, weren’t the cheesy faucet stuff I had been reading, they had a grit I really liked, and the art was fantastic! When I came back the next day it wasn’t to give silver spoon another shiner, it was to chat. Turned out we had more in common than I thought – much more!

From then on we were inseparable.

Something his parents never understood or cared for. They knew I was rotten, and so they were terrified that I might rub off a bit of Southside’s charm and corrupt their little angel. Truth was Tommy may have been the apple of his mother’s eye, but once I got to know him, I realized he was a lot more like the worm than the fruit. The years took him and I down different paths, he went into genetics, I went into – well if you’re reading this, you know what I went into!

Seems something about Steve Rogers and that Super Soldier serum stuck with the little punk and kept him going all those years. His drive was almost maniacal. Maybe it was because he wanted to be remade a hero – ‘course it coulda been for the glory – whatever the reason he cheated hard as he could until he had that blasted sheet of paper to line his office wall. As the years marched on, it turned out my career path was the worthier choice, and he wanted in. The Syndicate had just the spot. The GB project was one of many in an international effort to create a better criminal. Splicing started in early ’01 with crustacean DNA as the additional component, and Tommy was our man with the beaker.

The goal was to create muscle that was potentially impervious to bullets; we figured why dodge what can’t hurt you?

Unfortunately out of the fifty test subjects, only one showed any resiliency to the gene therapy; subject 12. The resulting mutation was not the chitinous full body armor we had intended, but rather the overgrowth on the left arm that replaced whatever was human with a giant Lobster’s claw. After months of intensive testing GB-12 was ready to enter the life. Kid’s name was Bradley. He became the most secure courier we ever had. Once that claw of his grabbed onto something you couldn’t pry it free with anything shy of a tank – and even then it was iffy.

Sure the kid had a lobster fist, but so what? He was getting the job done and that’s all that mattered.

He’s gotta’ still be in the game, working secure carry for Joey and his intermediaries I’m sure.

In black-ish night?

2011-09-14T15:39:00.000-07:00

Watched the much maligned Green Lantern flick the other night. Now I had already seen Mr. Reynolds flaunt his CG abs on the big screen; but with Lantern and Thor both out on DVD, I wanted to really take the opportunity to examine what went right and what went wrong for Hal seeing as he and Goldilocks are equally perfunctory members of the big two's catalogs in the eyes of the movie going public.

For you purests out there; I know, I know, How dare I take the artistic stylings of Kirby and Kane in vain?

It's done, get over yourselves.

Just because we know the oath by heart, and like to debate the merits of Donald Blake over Beta Ray Bill, doesn't mean the populace at large sees these characters as any more than a money grab from the back-stock of the big two. By and large these characters are only important to the undulating geek mass.

Put in simpler terms, " dude, my mom knows the secret identities of Superman, Batman, and Spider-man; these are not they, you do the math!"

With that out of the way, and all DC die-harding aside, I liked the Lantern movie better than Thor - though it seems I'm clearly in the minority on that front!

Now that's not to say the movie didn't have its faults, cause' clearly it did... but to blame it on Reynolds as many seem wont to do is, quite frankly unfair in my eyes. I think his performance was solid, and had more depth than his standard smart ass fare.

I think the failure for this flick is part Batman Returns (i.e. too many villains), and part rush job. The latter seemed an incredible studio push to get to the fanboy service of Parralax and Sinestro in too short an order. If a solid third of this movie were spent on OA (where things were truly interesting without the rush to get back to earth to fight one villain too many) I think we would have had a more Nolan-esque box office.

Parralax could have been the looming bad, but Hector Hammond was an amazing and creepy villain in his own right, whose David Lynchian villainy (patent pending) would have been really cool to see play out at greater length!

And after barely besting him in a far more visceral fight would have made the impending Parralax shit demon, all the more terrifying..

Spreading things out and giving them time to breathe would have given audiences time to feel for Hal and Sinestro as their characters grew into begrudging respect for one another. Too much, too fast muddied the message, just as readily as it diminished the audience investment in the multitude of story threads being forced passed their eyes at breakneck speeds.

To be really honest, I would have loved the movie to have focused on Sinestro (clearly the more interesting character), and his relationship to Abin Sur. That way we could have had the emotional resonance of Abin's Death, seeing Hal emerge as successor, and Sinestro's fall by the third movie; only meeting Hal in the last act of this one.

A bit of armchair quaterbacking I know, but what else is the intertron for - this is movie-poopshoot.com after all - right?

A Tale of Two Towers

2011-09-06T09:23:00.000-07:00

Do you feel it? The way it looms on the calendar, like a scar; this Friday marks the ten year anniversary of our generations Pearl Harbor.

I’ve been strangely reflective about this event as a touchstone for change in my life, and I wanted to write something up about what I remember of the time.

Let me set the scene:

It’s ten years ago, I’m sleeping away the hours beside my now ex-girlfriend. I would have been on the road somewhere between OC and the eastern seaboard on the 11th, but the gig was cancelled, so I got lucky. Seizing the opportunity to laze in bed, I’m snoring the hours away when my cell phone rings. The ring is shrill as hell in the early morning, and it snaps me upright as I fumble for the phone. On the line, a frantic Darwin tells me to turn on the TV, “we’re under attack,” he exclaims. “I have to report in, stay safe,” the line clicks off as I catch the second plane hitting the towers live on CNN.

The day that follows is a surreal one. The world around me gets very still. People walk around in visible shock. Terrified and pissed in equal measure. Within a week we are mobilizing to war. Within two, every car I see has a US flag in the window. Every chest, emblazoned with the words I <3 New York. War had touched us in our homes. Hit us where we lived in a way that only our grandparents had ever known. My feelings were mixed. I felt rage. Felt a hunger for vengeance burn in my belly like every other person I knew… but I also saw the way our collective war mind was sending my friends off to foreign shores to fight, and die; and I was afraid.

I would sit up at night collecting my thoughts in my little black book. And when they had coalesced into something I thought was important enough to say, I crept out of the house with a paint marker, and set off to find a slab of concrete to write them on. I was barely a word deep when a cop pulled up, and though I didn’t get a ticket (he was apparently moved by the subject matter), I never got to write down what I had to say either.

The words would remain snuggled in the pages of this book for almost a decade. So here goes:

While Buildings fall, we stand.
While others divide, we unify.
While forces oppress, we persevere.
While enemies scheme, we fight.
While friends deploy, we stay.
While faces stern, we fear.
What are we becoming?

Now it’s certainly not Hemmingway or Frost, but it was everything I could feel swirling in my guts at the time.

So it’s a decade later. And in looking back on that time in my life, I’ve done what I normally do, and turned to comics to give it all context. If you’ve read any of my other entries, you’ll know that comics are a great part of how I catalog moments in my own timeline. And I am a firm believer that the stories we tell each other to escape the grimness of reality can be more compelling, and more honest than many of the things we cling to as fact.

Beyond that, I have a soft spot for four color funnies that ennoble us. The way they have given young people like myself strength in times of hardship. So I’ve been reading a lot of Golden and Silver age stuff. Comics either from or about times in our history when we have experienced great strife, paying special attention to how our fabled greatest generation crafted their myths. How they made the realities hiding under the bed less scary for the young people living in their shadow.

As a people the greatest generation mined for hope in an ideal.

Their answer to a great degree, is the one it always seems to be; from the minor inconveniences to the major horrors of world catastrophe; by imagining our best selves we get everyone to aspire to be more. At the time (and to be honest at many times since), the answer was what you would have expected it to be: the down-home clean-cut boy in the blue tights and red cape. The all too human alien who could reach for slippery concepts like Truth, Justice, and the American way; with an attainable grasp that we mere mortals could not.

Though he was not alone in his quest for peace (see what I did thar?), not for long anyway.

Other heroes emerged and banded together in a society. Their villains crumbled under a destiny so manifest its inertia carried us to the stars. And if I can be totally honest, I think they reacted with a great deal more levity and class than the vengeful wrath which colored our response here in the future. Let’s not forget, within twenty years of the dropping of the bomb, we were stretching ourselves to the stars. Reaching for the distantly attainable, with less technology than your current cellphone. Stretching for a tomorrow that years before would have been limited to the imaginations of two boys from Cleveland, Ohio as they dreamt of faraway Krypton.

I look at us now, with Osama dead, the middle east in either ruin or revolution, and I wonder why we didn’t reaffirm our desire for greatness as a result of our shared experience on 9/11.

-P-

Pleased to meet you…

2011-04-29T14:05:00.001-07:00

So I’ve been losing weight pretty steadily since my previous entry – just shy of forty pounds… but please hold the applause til’ the end. Getting thinner has gotten me noticed quite a bit, especially since I got back from CA.

But things haven’t been all unicorns and rainbows as Farrah would say… but it was eye opening.

In a lot of ways California has become more museum, than state of the union. Under every corner, behind every tree, or shadow; hides a memory. A still small fragment of experience long past still haunting the present from the corner of my eye. I miss people, and opportunities for continued experiences in those places. What I don’t exactly miss is Cali. I know I’ve said this before, but Austin is the town that I found. It’s not where I was born, it doesn’t have the luxury of containing all of the memories I have from lack of any other choice.

It’s a place of my choosing.

A place where I have little to no support structure.

A place where I survive with little more than a small cadre of loved ones and will.

These are not complaints mind you, but compliments. A place where providence meant for me to find my destiny ; perhaps something a little less hyperbolic, but close. Before I returned from Cali, I got some bad news about my eyes. The disease should have begun to slow as I stagger into my thirties kicking and screaming… but it hasn’t. Upon my return, I took this as free license to eat a bit of food that would otherwise be considered off the reservation. And in spite of the gloriousness of my indulgence I put on 2.5 pounds.

Nothing major sure; but definitely a move in the opposite direction from my recent successes.

While I lost those pounds in a few days, I found I was having some real trouble getting back on track with my eating. The allure of gluttony had me firmly in its grasp. And true to form I gulped and lapped at its gifts wantonly. I would go to the fridge thinking, thinking I don't want this, I shouldn't eat this... and yet I would stuff my face with misery and swallow. But gluttony seeks only my death, premature or sooner, if it can muster.

So I turned an eye inward to figure out why.

Coming into this morning, after long hours of mining my insides for answers they were reluctant to give, I had a major epiphany! It began with all of these people complimenting me on my weight, making a scene about my getting thin. They brought me to the realization that I was ruining my progress cause’ getting thin meant I had to admit I was a fat kid. No tongue pressed firmly in cheek, no self effacing, just honest truth: I am fat! Now I bet you’re thinking, “ but Asher, you make cracks about your being fat all the time, this is old news!”

Well I’m here to tell you it is and it isn’t. My entire self image has been based on being the fat kid who not only never saw himself as a fat , but was never treated as fat either.

Let me explain: My whole life I’ve broken molds. And all that cracked plaster became my definition. From the girls I dated, to the sports I played, to my roles in leadership and education. I was never sloven. Never oafish. And I validated myself based on the way I surprised others. Built a fucken monument to it in my head, until I defined me by being the fat kid who could do things fat kids couldn’t. I mean sure, first time a stranger saw me, of course they put me in that box – but then, once they saw me perform a function, or a task, or a skill; I become the exception to their fat kid rule...

For much of my life people learned to treat me as something other than fat. Fat kids had all of those negative qualities… I was just a really REALLY large skinny kid! And I was identified by, and in turn identified with that as who I am. A friend of mine put it succinctly: you’re handsome, composed, smart, sexy… and distantly fat

Somehow I managed to get everyone to omit that last bit.

And let’s be honest. How could any of those good qualities have the same significance without that bad one?

If I’m ever going to have a real chance at being thin and staying that way, I have to be willing to admit to all of those facts, not just the ones I like. And I have to do it aloud. I’ve been sabotaging myself because, in my mind, a skinny kid who is all of those things is no big deal. Nobody will be impressed anymore by my accomplishments if I’m thin; least of all me! There’s no surprise or gain to how I am perceived if I’m thin and living well.

But fat is not a definition unless I want it to be… and since I don’t, I need to recognize that this is a temporary state well under my control and press the fuck on!

-P-

On the Verge of Becoming

2011-01-19T06:22:00.001-08:00

Starting again

I’ve struggled with my weight since I was old enough to recognize how much I love steak. Food tends to be the center of so many of my experiences, from social gatherings, to reward, food is how I enjoy life. In 2007 I did something that up to that point I had never been able to accomplish – I got thin. 200lbs thin. Fighting weight thin!

The kinda’ build that made all the ladies say: haay thin!

For months I methodically planned out every meal, I went in for shots daily, and I walked. Oh how I walked. Goddamned miles I walked! Before too long it became routine. An unconscious method surrounded by my support system in a familiar place.

The war with my body had been won.

So, fit and lean, I uproot and move to ATX, the land of BBQ and Honey. But in a new place with my routine broken and no nurses to support and nurture my process, I began packing on the pounds; slow and sure. Like every well intentioned fat kid I looked only to food when I struggled, turning a blind eye to every added inch as I buried them in excuses and unspent calories. Mirrors replaced in favor of gluttony’s wild ride of culinary pleasures, my own personal dance of the seven veils… only with fois gras and toro instead of hot chicks.

Three plus years later, I am the heaviest I’ve ever been (311 pounds). Let me tell you something about being north of three hundred: nothing fits, not your clothes, or your simple creature comforts, not even your skin. Everything in your world strains to accommodate you! When you’re fat everything brings you misery, even pleasure. Food is never as joyful, sex is never as often, and exercise is just never. And at that weight, every thought about self is negative; your brain just spins that same old record over and over, and there’s nothing you can do about it… but get thin!

So yesterday was my time to put up or shut up! I’ve been talking about finding another medically assisted program for nearly as long as I have been packing on pounds.

But talkin’ ain’t doin’!

Out of the ashes of my empty promises, I took my doctors advice, found a program, dropped almost 3k to sign up and jumped right in. Rome wasn’t built in a day, so I don’t expect to be chiseled out of marble by this afternoon, but at least I’m doing something about it!

I’m on a program – again – and while I regret having to walk in my own footsteps, I can tell you this: NEVER AGAIN! Nurse ran some tests, I have to do some labs, but I have a goal, a timeline and a means to reach it!

October 27th, 2011 I will be 200lbs or less!

Take a picture, write it down, doesn't matter, but trust me when I tell you, a better me is comin’!

-P-

Cannibals! You’re all cannibal... Oooh, frosting!

2010-11-03T07:25:00.001-07:00

When I woke up this morning everything was right with the world. The sun hung low in her sky pushing off the blanket of night ever so slightly to make way for the dawn. The air was crisp and cool in my bedroom as Daphne and the cat dreamt their dreams away in the relenting minutes of the five o’clock hour. Republicans had overtaken the house, Democrats maintained their hold in the Senate, School Boards and Fundamentalist Christians would continue their non-debate over quote: intelligent design… Ka’ like a wheel would continue to turn.

Or so I thought…

Apparently over a year ago on September 25, 2009 I was asleep at the wheel while something fundamental changed without my oversight or approval. Snuck ever so quietly under my rug so as not to catch my attention, Science decided that Triceratops didn’t actually exist… no matter how many times I beheld the countenance of their bones at a museum. And while I realize that I may be late to this party, let me come right out and say dear friends, the status is most definitely not quo!

Scientists are apparently debating the exact placement of the Triceratops genus within the ceratopsid group (that’s sciency talk for the rape of everything you held dear as a child in case you were wondering). Recent research alleges that my little buddy with the three horned face, beloved by children around the world as the little armored engine that could, may have actually been the juvenile form of the Torosaurus; a dino long regarded as something else entirely.

Wait what – really, this whole time?

Okay so let me get this straight. Science and its co-conspirators National Geographic, the Smithsonian Institute, and Don Bluth’s Land Before Time; spent all those years building exhibits and filling museums with lies? Fuck me sideways - really!? You couldn’t have simply renamed the lesser known Torosaurus to Triceratops and let me keep this one, could you science?

No of course not.

First Pluto, then Brontosaurus, now this… I feel like I have a better understanding of the religious community’s gripe. All the Churchies were just sitting around with their bias and their abject hate, minding everyone else’s business, when low and behold who comes walking down the hall?

Science, that’s who.

Decked out in their new shoes and new thinking, and a barely contained urge to piss all over the Christ brigade’s parade. I used to think the Fundamentalists were all a bunch of whiners, but that was before Science with their scientific method and their cool shoes turned my world upside down. I mean how am I supposed to pick a side when even the immutable cannon of science is subject to evolution… it’s as if nothing is sacred.

Define irony.

Why if they’re not careful I may start to believe that it’s arrogant of man to think he knows anything… and then where would we be? Before long I could be so turned around as to believe that certain features of the universe and of living things are best explained by an intelligent cause, instead of the anarchy that is so clearly running reckless and wild within the process of natural selection.

And where would we be then?

Up is down, left is right, cats and dogs living together. Chaos and dismay would reign supreme. Hell I might not even have the strength to protest what’s taught in our schools! And in this world gone mad, intelligent design might actually pass as a scientific theory, and in doing so, fundamentally redefine science to include supernatural explanations.

We can’t have that now can we?

I swear to their god, science needs to stick to the script. I mean I’m all for enlightenment, but would it have killed them to rename Torosaurus? The way it stands now it’s like I just finished a shitty mystery novel, and it was Torosaurus the whole time, in the library, with the crowbar.

Ya' got me science, ya got me.

Thankfully the world is only two thousand years old and God put the fossil record on earth just to throw us off his scent…

-P-

The Process of Belief

2010-09-29T09:03:00.000-07:00

As a comic reader, I follow the industry surprisingly little. I make up for this by listening to a wonderfully engaging and informed podcast called 11 O'Clock Comics. And as recently as a handful of months ago, I started to get involved on their forums. Not sure I’ve gotten much traction in the community as far as getting to know people or having a valuable presence… but meh, I still enjoy the hell out of it.

I’m telling you all of this because recently there was a post about an article on LA Times.com that really got some airplay around the house, and I wanted to share my thoughts on more than the 11 o’clock boards.

Atheists, agnostics most knowledgeable about religion, survey says - latimes.com

The wife-to-be and I talked about this quite a lot last night over dinner, and there’s a point made in this article that pleases me so very much.

It’s not that blind faith can also be ignorant, to me that point is kind of obvious. If you are not an active participant in any belief; constant to challenge and consider rather than just swallow, your brain meats will rot on the vine. Devout worship without thought has always lead to regrettable action: crusades/ jihad anyone? The world has already seen quite enough of that kind of extremist group think for my tastes; thank you very much!

A wise man once said, “going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than going to the garage makes you a car.”

What moves me, is the subtle notion that to be an Atheist/Agnostic, is not to deny faith based on laziness or prejudice, but often the result of study and reflection. As an agnostic, I often see those who doubt or question dogma vilified. As an agnostic I also come from a family enmeshed in religions that never spoke to me with any meaning deeper than any other story…

And lo, Jesus said unto the bat man, let there be a Kryptonian, and let him be good. And verily, the Morrison wrote the All Star Superman, and it was good.

And for the record, I love religion! a squeeze of lemon, a pinch of salt - delicious. There have been times in my young life where it was my everything, my center… I do surround myself with droves of faithful however, as we have similar interests in the doctrine from a discussion standpoint; I simply sleep late on Sundays.

I never really considered it in the terms presented by the article, but I think it’s right to assume that most who turn their back on the religions of their forbears never do so lightly.

I know that’s true of my lot in this story. My mother comes from staunch Catholic stock, and she has personally interpreted on behalf of the Papal Seat (not the current fascist, but the writer from Poland), and while she did little to pressure me into the religion of St. Peter, it was quietly all around me thanks to one of her sisters.

In my teens I turned to Mormonism – think of those years as my rebellious youth. With a single mother doing the lion’s share, I did a healthy dose of self parenting. And while it was nothing so contrived at the time; looking back I see Mormonism was if nothing else a means to give me the strength to avoid situations I didn’t want to be in… before I had the balls to say no in my own voice.

I know I’ve suggested this before in other posts, bit I’ll say it again. I think it’s in man’s nature to want to believe in something, I believe it’s natural for us as a race to look for purchase in a sometimes antagonistic world filled with hopelessness and thunder. I believe that this need starts a journey that ends differently for each of us, and I applaud this article for articulating the fact that Atheists and Agnostics do not exchange the blind comforts of faith for the potential ridicule and disappointment of their family and peers lightly. We search and read and contemplate doctrine until we find our own path – this is a point often overlooked, and I am happy to see it find some unbiased ground in the LA Times of all places.

But that's my thirty pieces of silver... Also the comments at the bottom of the article are hilarious.

Nothing Changes but the Slightest Hues

2010-07-05T14:03:00.001-07:00

Went to the Movies a week or so ago with Daph to see Toy Story 3, and true to form Pixar left me all choked up. Granted nothing gets me all sappy like Pixar does with the Toy Story movies; I mean seriously, without fail! Remember Jessie's song from the second one?

Fucking heart breaking – and Toy Story 3 is no different!

The third installment is just as good as those that preceded it! Imagine that, a trilogy that succeeds on every level, bet that stings a bit for Mr. Lucas as Pixar started under Lucasfilm... I digress.

Somehow Lasseter and his crew have managed to distill the hopes and fears that come with the passage of youth into three films - while wrapping them up in a sense of impossible hope and wonder. Pretty heady stuff considering the fact that they managed to broach these topics through the unseen lives of toys...

And to do it with such flinty and un-ironic grace. Simply amazing!

For me each of the movies carries an unspoken theme. The first one is the realization of fear. Kids as a rule don't know fear, it's something they need to be taught... everything in that movie is about the war between the wonder of youth and the fear of growing up. Fear of being lost, fear of moving away from all you know, fear of being replaced, or not fitting in, even fear of being small when the world around you is big. Think about how we learn growing up. I mean sure fire burns and all that, but the true lessons of childhood come on in a far more gradual way with self-awareness.

I can’t help but feel a real sense of attachment to the scene at the top of the stairs where Buzz realizes he's a toy and the camera pulls back? He goes from being a figure in full frame to being swallowed by the world around him; a world designed for giants. When I was little there used to be this megaplex of commerce called Gem-Co round the corner from my house. Place was huge with a capitol H. We went there for everything under the sun. Need clothes? Gem-Co’s got em. Need toys, or jewelry or I know family photos? You guessed it: Gem-Co. So I’m like four, five tops (I remember it like it was yesterday), and all my attention is placed on the G.I. Joe Stalker figure I’m going to get. Far as I am concerned in that moment there is nothing else in the world, so I sit down on one of the clothes racks while my mom is looking at something. Completely lost in the moment beneath a blanket of my own imagination long minutes pass. Eventually, I look up; mom nowhere to be found. And in what feels like an eternity this safe and fun place that has toys I love suddenly gets so scary and big I can’t imagine I’ll ever be found.

Clearly I was kidnapped… Point is when I watch the first movie I get visions of that moment creeping in from the corners. Sure there is a great kids story on the surface, and it's easier to get lost in than some of the girls I've dated in my time, but when I read into it, that’s the moment I relive. And not in a bad way. I relive more of the joy of being found and knowing regardless of how scary things could be, someone cared enough, never to stop looking.

The second is about change (to my mind specifically death, but who knows if that was intended or not). As kids, one of the things we learn to posses, but also have to learn to suspend, is our fear of change. At some point everything we know and love will go away. The things we cherish will fade, but we have to operate as if that isn't the case and live in the moment. To do otherwise would rob us of our love and our purpose... so we ignore it and press on (I think we as geeks are unique here as part of our charm lies in the ability to hold on to the things that bred wonder in us even as our peers "grew up" and moved on - but that's another talk show). The movie does an amazing job of really putting you in touch with these darker moments, but it does it in such a beautiful and moving way there’s nothing scary about it.

And the third is about the family we create, which if you know me. is important like nothing else. Blood relations may never be as loyal as the family we define because there is a sense of obligation to blood ties (even though more often than not, blood is the first to let you down when you need it the most...), granted if we choose to include someone we are related to in the family we create, it speaks all the more to the bond we share. In the third film Woody has to choose between a life of dark and dusty obligation as a remnant of a fading past (either away at college or in the attic), and the family he has created in the shadows of Andy's room. It takes a whole movie, but he comes to realize that while he will always love Andy, it's the toys he loves who will always define his existence.

This really moved me, the notion that we create bonds thicker than blood; there's soo much hope in all these stories! Hope for who we can be and at the same time hope that we can recapture every lost ounce of our youth if we hold on to our sense of wonder... tugs on me every time (and not in the way your thinking: dirty mind)!

Now tack all of that onto a sense of renewal, in finding a home for his most precious memories with the little girl at the end, and you speak to the immortality of our youth. Even as Andy had to put down childish things he had that one last perfect moment of childhood playing in that yard; and college and adulthood seemed for just a moment so distant. Left me feeling like this could be the first of many returns to wonder no matter how close adulthood parks its car.

Okay enough rambling thanks for reading,

-P-

I Bite My Lip and Close My Eyes

2010-01-26T12:01:00.000-08:00

As everyone who knows me will certainly tell you: I am not a relaxed flyer. Some years ago while flying to my favorite uncles funeral, the value jet death machine that was conveying me through the wild blue yonder had some engine trouble in a storm and plummeted backward toward the rocky mountains -- and in my mind certain death.

An oxygen mask, a tumbling serving cart, and a whole lot of screaming later, I had faced my own mortality head on and came up wanting.

Now it might have been because I was just some 17 year old tweener, or it might have been the fact that I was already on board this murderous flying contraption to say goodbye to someone I thought was immortal, or perhaps it was because value jet was a shit airline that failed to maintain its aircraft... Most likely it was a combination there of.

Whatever the case may have been, my reaction was neither brave nor flinty and to this day continues to contradict an otherwise stellar bit of self imagery. The experience broke my back with a terror, and that terror has sustained itself on nothing but memory for over a decade.

Now mind you, I’ve flown since.

My first foray back into the sky brought me to my the city I now live in (Austin, TX), to propose to fairest Daphne some years ago. To survive that three hour jaunt I downed a handful of NyQuil, and had to be shaken awake by a stewardess when it was time to deplane.

Not my finest moment. If in everything else I do in life I am a lion, on that flight I was the one from OZ!

Cut to two years ago. I 'm on this China trip with Carden Academy of Huntington Beach (I used to teach there -- see here for details). The first leg was 16 or so hours and while I was far from delighted by either the international legs or the five in-country hops during that gig -- I survived.

Pretty great right? You'd think that would have cured my fear of flying right?

Wrong. I am still the sweaty-palmed-mess I was at 17 every time I think of flying. That's right you read it correctly I said think of. Apparently I get scared at the thought of things. I (we sorry Goose) have literally charged at an armed robber with nothing but a trench coat and a batman t-shirt to protect me from his bullets. Not a fear or care in the world as I ran to protect a total stranger... but drive by an airport and I melt.

Worse still airplanes are my first love. Before comics or cartoons or even movies there was airplanes. If it had wings and could get itself aloft we were basically dating. I spent 5 maybe 6 years of my young life IN LOVE with flying.

Now it's this awkward ex girlfriend and I'm embarrassed.

In most cases like these when faced with debilitating fear other people stay home. At times I really REALLY wish I was other people.

See, China really opened my eyes to travel. I love it. All the terror aside when we touched firma in the other side of the world it was magic. Sure I downright loathed the ride, but what sights there are in the world for me to see.

And I hate being afraid!

In my youth travel was a mild annoyance. I was forever a captive, dragged along for the ride. Much of the time I was absent of wonder! All that mattered to me was the liberal application of toys, comic books, and a steady supply of fresh batteries for my gameboy.

So here I am in the present, and Carden is once again globetrotting for its annual 7th/8th grade trip. This year we’ll find ourselves on everybody’s favorite penal colony: Australia, and it’s close cousin New Zealand.

I'm going. No question there, fear or not this is happening. Not that this is going to be a vacation cruise by any means. The School’s owner/director backed out of the trip at the last minute due to an unforeseen complication with her husband’s health.

Fate it seems has decided to up the ante a bit. To accommodate for the last minute change I have been asked to step in -- not as an additional chaperon for the trip, but as the lead in her place.

Gone are the handfuls of NyQuil that let me duck out of the experience to a large degree. I'm going to be leading this expedition with a heap of expectation riding on my shoulders (thankfully these students know me somewhat, but the last time they saw me in a classroom they were either in Kindergarten or Pre-school so memories are thin at best) and I can’t afford to be weak at the front of the line.

I will be expected to know everything there is to know about every location we visit. To speak with conviction as I supplement the tour guide's info, and at the end of the day blogging about our exploits for parents not on walkabout with us. Not blogging here of course, if I did that I’d have to remove all the naughty language that pops up from time to time in my other posts – and I won’t have that(fuck – like I said random naughty language).

I have sixty days give or take to read digest and recite all the teaching documentation I will be responsible for. In spite of what maybe a pretty intense shouldering of last minute responsibility, I’m oddly excited about the experience.

Does lead me to wonder though. More and more I’m noticing that every time I take stock of my life I fall into certain… shall we say familiar roles? I’m like the accidental tourist of teaching. While it really seems to be in my blood in a lot of ways I’ve never really looked for those opportunities in my life… just sort of fallen into those roles organically.

I wonder if it’s a sign?

Mobhanded Part III: The Swiss Burglar

2009-11-12T09:57:00.000-08:00

NPC Bio #2

The City was a sprawling mass of industry and culture before the crime spree of ‘87. Fat cats from both coasts would line our streets hungry for good food, good laughs, and the many sights and sounds of a broad stage way.

One year in particular a movie crew had set up shop to cover a diamond exhibition on the penthouse of the Excelsior hotel, specifically this enormous pink bit of pretty named after some feline that had been touring the globe since ‘75.

The family saw an opportunity for a big payday and wanted in. Old man Giamoni had this fence overseas biting his nails for the work, he just needed an operator who could do the job… Only problem was, with all that media coverage we had to pull the heist third shift, and at 128 stories in the air discretion was a near impossibility with the knuckle draggers we had on the pay roll.

For something this big, we had to outsource. The syndicate we work for is part of a much larger global dominion of crime; its reach stretches from the Atlantic to the Aegean and from Plymouth to Gibraltar. So in times of need, there’s a whole world available to us, I need only ask.

Word went out over the wire for a second story man with solid credentials, who could keep his mouth shut… Normally when old man Giamoni sent out a query for an independent contractor, he'd get a list of bids as long as my arm and twice as wide.

The list of resumes that came back from every guy who knows a guy on this spinning rock was only one name deep. Apparently if you needed precision high wire work done “The German” was the only name in the game worth knowing. A funds transfer to Switzerland and a transatlantic flight later and the kraut was at our door step.

to hear ma' Drummonini tell it, his introduction was so brief it bordered on curt; the boys were put off right away; they were just itching to grab for their iron every time he opened his mouth or moved too quick. Lucky for everybody Giamoni called the shots, and he’s not much of a talker, cause I’m pretty sure this Heinrich coulda' dropped most of them Guidos before their safeties popped.

Not too shabby considering this boy was not the spryest looking chicken in the coup. But you don’t get to be in the old man's position by arguing with credentials like his, so Leoluca ignored the fact that he was old, and got down to it. The job was set for the 13th, the final day of the show. He was to make his way in by whatever means required, and get out with the goods before anyone was the wiser.

The window to complete the task was 4 hours… he was back at the homestead with the pretty in less than two.

For days after the heist, the whole house went nuts trying to figure out how he did it… Luckily I have a flatfoot on the take in crime scene so I got to see the report that would never make it to the DA: Camera’s from across the way caught the silhouette of a figure free climbing the northerly face of the building by shimmying up a cleaning crew’s maintenance rope; once he made it to the glass roof of the 129th cut his way into the viewing room through a sky light.

That’s all they could suss out.

He made it down a flight to the main hall by some as yet undefined miraculous means, sidestepped a security system that could give fort knocks a run for its money, and base jumped to from what must’ve been a pre-disclosed location where he had freelance transport waiting.

I know this now, but at the time, all anyone saw was him pulling up to the drive like he had been out for a leisurely spin; like there was nothing to it…He walked in fresh as a daisy, not a bead of sweat anywhere on his brow.

I’m a rare man to impress, but even now, long years after the fact, I'm still taken by the whole thing.
Our fair City changed that next morning, and in the weeks that passed all the blue blood and finery ran out of her veins and made for the burbs, though I can’t say anyone was sad to see all that noise go.

Far as I'm concerned good riddance; the rich are just a blue collar crime away from the pen anyway! The only difference between them and us is better lawyers. They're simply one more headache we don’t need.

Dirty money gripped by dirty hands rushed in to take its place like a plague of locusts, which was fine by me; I like my den of thieves full of scum and villainy. Besides I firmly believe some towns were just born bad, and the town in question was mine.

As to “The German” what else could the old man Giamoni do but keep him on the payroll? And that's where he remains to this day; still on the take living quietly in some stately manner up on 73rd and Broad just waiting for the phone to ring... and trust me when I say: that waiting ain't cheap. If it were anyone else at that age, I'd have already seen them to retirement, especially given the cost, but not this geezer.

How could I?

You never know when the only thing between you and 128 stories worth of goods you wanna steal is a Swiss burglar…

Mobhanded Part II: The Driver

2009-11-05T15:50:00.000-08:00

NPC BIO #1

Once, when I was in the gray bar motel I celled with an old timer who rarely left his rack; he would just sit there reading books the boys from the neighborhood would drop off… Name was Carlo Darnotta.

Carlo was an old school gangster from back in the day, we had met once or twice in passing on the outside, but he mostly kept himself to himself unless otherwise instructed by the bosses from the old country.

That said, make no mistake, every single one of the capo’s knew who he was. Twenty years or so before he was put away, the man was hell on wheels. He managed to drop bank job after bank job all along the coast. And not a soul could touch him, he was clean, methodical, but most of all he was fast; boy was he fast, like the wind this guy. He out drove every black and white in 12 cities and two helicopters ta boot!

And for the time that’s saying something…

His last job heisted an armored car between pick ups. The M.O. was the same, no fuss, no casualties; the guy was a class act: no women, no kids all the way. His mind was to the job at all times. Now new bloods in the family will tell you he got sloppy at the end; he went soft, and it cost ‘em.

But for those of us who were there, we know better.

See, Carlo had a soft spot for his kid. Sure he was some infamous gangster on the lamb, but what good was all that cash if his only son went hungry? So this guy loses five-o like a set of keys; I mean every trace. What he doesn’t do is dump the car… He had a stop to make, and that stop required a few discreet gifts. It’s not like the guy went to FAO Schwartz, he keeps it local, but that doesn’t save ‘em… no sir, he gets himself ID’d picking up Transformers at the local five and dime. Aint that the luck?

By the time he got home there were badges everywhere... waiting.

Like a pro, he didn’t put up any fight. When he realized his card was punched, he just kicked open the door, got out of his car with raised hands above his head and dropped slowly to his knees. Classy to the last! But the boys in blue, they didn’t see it that way; no professional courtesy was returned to the old man. They just took him down - hard. Last memory his boy Danny has of his pops as a free man, is watching him get dropped by ol’ Johnny Law.

Years later, something about that memory must’ve stuck, cause when he was pulled over for a speeding ticket he cracked. The weight of Carlo rotting away in prison broke the kid, and he did something stupid.

With nowhere to go he turned to the only family he ever knew. Covered in blood and tears, he fell to his knees before the Don and begged for help. His only reply was, “I need a driver, no questions.” The rest is history. Speed must be in the blood, cause the second he took up the family business, it fit like Gucci. Now he’s the wheel man behind every hit, heist, or hassle on the Southside. And like his old man, there’s nothing that can catch ‘em. If you ask me, that’s probably a kindness. He still carries that memory of the old man bagged and tagged all those years ago really close to the vest.

It reminds him with a healthy dose of hate not to get caught… good thing too, cause I pity the badge that tries.

Mobhanded Part I: The Hook

2009-11-05T09:24:00.001-08:00

Hello again blog, been a while. if the dates are to be believed, it's been a year since I posted last…

To remedy my silence I wanted to post with some fare that was lighter than my last handful of entries; don't want anyone to think I'm too much of a brooder.

I know I go on about my personal writing in other entries, and for the most part I keep those things separate from this blog until I have something completed to shop around. But that said there are some other side projects, usually related to role playing games I intended to run with my friends, or just plain random shit that falls onto the page, which turn into great test beds for ideas that have no place in the core of my personal or professional work.

These are they.

It started a while back at my current job. I was writing a team page on our internal database for the guys that work for me and I did it in this crazy mob theme that came out of a marathon weekend of Godfather flicks, Soprano episodes, and Comic Books.

What started as this kitchy thing my team and other teams really liked morphed into some wacky mob themed d-20 modern campaign.

We never really got the chance to play it, but I always liked the concept. This particular strand was a kinda’ pulpy and fun twist on the urban arcane I kept seeing in bookstores at the time… and with organized crime as a central NPC force it would provide some great moral dilemmas as PC (player characters) would eventually come to a choice that was the central theme of the narrative:

Will they join the mysterious writer in usurping Joey’s power and begin a dark greasy slide towards oblivion, or would the answers they crossed the globe for give birth to their greatest villain?

The adventure started with the unearthing of a journal in the rubble of a torn down bar in a nameless borough. From its withering pages now on display at a local museum, our intrepid heroes would seek adventure and answers in southern Spain.

Written below is an excerpt from the journal's first pages.

I’m not rightly sure how this journal finds you, but if it’s in your hands and not mine it means I failed. I might be dead; I might be in a hole somewhere; who knows. Whatever you do, whoever you are: find my crew and get this to them, they’ll know what to do!

Crossing the street can be tricky business in this town…

Years ago (how many ain't no never mind) when I was young, before I got into the life, I used to take old man Giamoni for walks around the block. Now I know you’re asking what this has to do with the trickiness of crossing the street… but that’s why they call it a story ya mook.

So like I said, when I was young I would take the codger from down the way on walks in the early evening. It wasn’t that I was trying to scare up a little extra scratch or anything. it was just something I was asked to do that kept my mother happy... think of it more like character development than a second job.

I was a bad kid being kept out of trouble and he was family that needed taking care of. I’m sure this’ll come as a big surprise, but at first I wasn’t into it. Sure Leoluca Giamoni was a sotto capo in his youth; some big fish living out his twilight years in the bowl. As a young buck with a chip on his shoulder, I didn’t much want anything to do with anyone time had spent forty years chasin’ and never caught. My heroes in the life burnt out bright and early.

Ma' used to tell uncle Tony ‘bout how the old man was gettin’ a little soft in the head, which was less than inspiring for the deed I was set to do -- but as I got to know the guy, I never saw it. When I was around Pappi Leo was always sharp as a tack; treated me right ta’ boot. Unlike most of the old timers in Nostra Famiglia he was pretty good company. I was never treated like some punk: unwanted and underfoot the way I was at home; instead I got a front row seat to hours and hours of gory tales about the old days before during and after the war. Kinda' stuff that made my old EC comics look like the peanuts gang.

It was great.

I liked it so much I would cut an’ run from my part time digs at Galasso’s soon as lunch rush ended and swing by his place just to hear em'.

Rounding the corner at a run, the scene was always the same, his wife, waiting for me at the door with a glass of iced tea and a stammer of pleasantries.

Their place was biggish, but I rarely noticed how fine it was. The only thing ever caught my eye was some punk soldato’s kid on the other side of a glass slider, workin’ outback in the garden, hopin’ for his big break.

I had neither the time nor the interest in parlaying this into some entry level juice – I was here to listen.

When I first started coming around Leo was still walking… but as the months passed that hickory walking stick grew too heavy to muster and they put him on wheels. Not that, that stopped him.

At first, he still eyeballed dames who coulda’ been his granddaughter… kept going on about their stems; whatever that meant. In spite of his over obvious libido, he was going soft, some days, even if only for a minute or two he had no idea where he was.

A few months after the wheelchair those short bursts of confusion grew more and more frequent. I started to do a bit more of the heavy lifting; from pickin' him up outa’ bed, to puttin' him in his chair and wheelin' him around, I made sure he always got outside.

The cold air always seemed to sharpen him a bit, and when he was sharp, he was a knife. He would regale me with stories, literally emptying cast stores of his mind. From P-51’s in the European theater during the war, to his first hit comin' up; our walks had become part confessional, part memoir.

It was great stuff!

Hell; even if some of it was a lie, even if not a word of it was true, even if it was the fevered ramblings of a doddering old fool, it didn't matter. Old man could spin a yarn.

As we both aged he started doing grandfatherly stuff, covering for me with ma when I was out doing things I wasn’t supposed to, and he was no slouch with the green either; passing me a grip on Friday nights when he thought I was going out.

I know this may sound hard to believe considering his rep, but the old man was genuinely good people... Provided you weren’t his enemy.

Sure he may have been a tyrant! I can attest to it. It was well documented: he had seen many men dead for crossing him, but to me in my hour of need, he was too large for life.

Even now nearing the end of his rope, he continued forward on nothing but sheer force of will. You could almost see death lurking, but if old man Giamoni noticed, he never let on.

Hoods and crooks rarely make it to ripe old age. Those lives tend to come to their ends early and tragic. This guy earned the right to live out his last years without bother… to go out quick and final on some spring day, no fuss no muss, no hail of gunfire.

It was a typical day like any other. We were crossing from his house on Marilyn over onto North when a squad car chasing some punks sideswiped the chair. He almost smiled as the bumper of that Plymouth flipped him into traffic. I don’t think his frail spine survived the initial impact, but the staccato of thumps that followed ensured his end.

Even as the cars giving chase pulled off the block I stood there frozen before the stain where his head had finally come to rest.

Hours later with crime scene on site taping off the area, I remained. By the time the crowd formed, his youngest, a bookworm named Joey, came to identify the body; night had fallen.

You could see it in his eyes, he could care less for the man I’d lost. This was just a chore and he pulled the short straw.

I knew little of the man outside of his thing for numbers... but as soon as it dawned on him what he was set to inherit, you could see the figures turning in that head of his.

Joey stared for long minutes at the old man's body until all he saw was dollar signs and smiled.

He was rich. While his older siblings would no doubt blow their fortunes on the standard trappings of street level Mafiosi, this kid would work every penny into real power. He would never be some nameless soldato; Joey was brains not brawn. Long after the closed casket burial he was still amassing power – crime went global, and the money trail it left behind took far more care to launder. La stessa cosa needed brains to keep everything tidy; Joey G was a commodity.

I hated him!

I dropped out of the life. With money in my pocket I traveled to the four corners. I was looking for something… didn’t know what at first. What I did know was, that when I found it, I would return home and make him pay for that wry little smile.

As I traveled I walked into crime circles all over the world, trading on the Giamoni name. I made contacts in crime the world over, and still I searched. Broken down from my years on the grift, I found a place in southern Spain to lay my head. Working in one of the local butchery’s I learned what it really meant to kill. Cut after cut it became easier to imagine the bodies I would have to march over before I'd get my chance to squeeze the life from Joey’s eyes.

One night, I quit. No reason really, I had all I needed from my months of quiet and cutting. I clocked out midday and crossed the cobbles aproned in animal blood and gore and simply disappeared.

The game plan was simple: PCs would chase this unnamed missing trouble maker to Spain where they would find a man who had been seduced by a local band of gypsies.

In his time as their slave and enforcer he had learned much about the arcane. By the time the player characters find him, he is this older, broken down, heavy set badass killing machine with a baseball bat and a Tommy gun toting familiar of old man Giamoni. In the course of the first encounter he will turn on his captors and join the PCs. Intern they would return home to their unnamed snowy city and reclaim the throne from Joey.

Returning home, surrounded by towering scrapers, snowy streets Dominic “Drumstick” Drummonini's (our missing writer) return, was something bloody that men would continue to fear for decades; even in their retelling.

Under Joey crime in the City had become reckless and indiscriminate. Bad things happened unreasonably to good people. The city had evolved over the ensuing years into something cold and corrupt from top to bottom feeder. The ensuing encounters would require Drummonini to amass his power, moving with a catch of his most loyal from the southside of back in the day, to professionals on loan from his contacts in crime abroad. Bolstered by all the spell and science money can buy he takes back his city one neighborhood at a time on his way to the city center.

Combat would have some sort of faction component, so the more encounters the PCs win, the more skilled NPCs join the group. The more they lose, the less they have access to. This mechanic would twist every encounter so player could have things alternatively simply or difficult depending on how well they play each tier of their advance.

The final encounter would be with Joey - either to kill him or keep him alive was the purview of the PCs. Time would fast forward 2 years with Drummonini’s Dabuano family now running a crime ring that is equal parts intergang and the godfather, with just a hint of Bulldog Drummond to taste.

I’ll post the NPCs w/o stats just for fun.

Of all the storylines for games that never got off the ground, this was one of three I really regret never seeing come to true fruition.

Hope you like.

Manifesto of Cages

2008-10-21T20:24:00.002-07:00

Originally Posted 8-28-08

OK, now I realize there's a deluge of stuff here, this was in reply to something a friend sent me, but I liked the points I made so I decided to collect it. It may not make much sense… or maybe it will who knows… take it for what it’s worth, with only a few hints of salt for good measure.

Men; as a natural state of being, dislike the mandate of boundaries that life by nature foists upon us. This starts at an early age in school where we are encouraged to like certain aspects of what we learn. Over the years this evolves (especially in high school and college) as we are given more and more power to determine our educational paths. Before long we are choosing the classes that are attractive to us and away we go…

But it isn't that way is it? Somewhere in the back ground, distant to our minds, proclivities and affections; there is a mandate. You need core classes, then you need transferable credits. This is the cage.

When you speak of relationships it's the same way. At first when things are fresh and young you do what you want. And to impress your partner - you bend to their desires, provided they're as mutual as can be. Time passes. People get comfortable, and then in turn selfish. The luster and sheen has come off and selfishness sets in. Days fill with I don't wannas', or have fun hunnies'. It's our obligation to a relationship that saves us from ourselves. The realization that there is a give and take is the cure for apathy. Apathy is the cage.

Family sucks. We didn't choose them, genetics did. More often than not the people who we are genetically tied to will let us down. They take our bond for granted because they expect that it will outlast any let down or betrayal. It won't. Want to teach people you're related to, to be accountable for their actions? Hold them accountable, and if they come up short time and time again cut them out like the cancer they are. The families we choose will be the ties that define us, not the ones we didn't.

Parenting will come naturally. Not without work or due course of growth, but you know what bad is and you're too self-aware to repeat it; put those fears from your mind they solve nothing. And for those in the cheap seats who are asking themselves what knowing what bad is, has anything fuck all to do with parenting, I'll put it another way. When you're hungry, you want dinner… but sometimes you get so hungry you don't care where you go. You can't muster the wherewithal to decide (in the event this happens buy an I Phone; the urban spoon app solves this problem completely)… But that’s not entirely true is it? You do care, and I can prove it. Other people will offer suggestions for dinner when you get listless and you can easily identify and dismiss certain suggestions as things you don't want; right? Right! That's because it's easier to recognize what you don't wanna be (or eat for example’s sake) and go from there. Parenting is the same way.

Religion… I'll spare you some time. Religion is the cage. Call it agency, call it whatever you want, but religion by design creates rules and parameters that keep people in line. Not out of want, or even obligation necessarily, but fear. Wanna escape that, use your agency to realize that the personal experience of faith needs no middle man. When you say no to boozing or fuckin, or whatever, it can't be genuine if it comes from the cage. Don't wanna drink? That's cool honor your god through refrain, not cause he asks or even wills it, but because you do. Define your supplication through conscious choice not written declarative and give meaning to the sacrifice. The word of wisdom is a guide. But in general it's a guide for the weak, an excuse for those who lack the constitution to say no of their own accord.

A choice to honor made out of fear is no choice at all.

Jobs require us to pay our dues. This means that we take entry level positions so we may get where we wanna go. I'm not saying don't be discerning, I'm just sayin’ don't shoot yourself in the foot today so you can lose the job you want tomorrow. Sometimes we must dedicate ourselves to being awesome now so we may be mighty later.

At the end of the day all you have is your desire to be a better man. So respect that. Respect it for the man you wanna become. A wife needs to be all the things you're not. Opposites attract, that's the point. You are supposed to complete one another…

Lemme' sum up. Change is good. Embrace it. Embrace the learning experience that all of our failings in character force upon us. Accept that there needs to be structure sometimes for the machine to work. Adapt to the idea that your ultimate goals will require a bit of renaissance from you; from us all. Love the woman that forces you to be a better man. She will be the first to stand by you when you fall and the hand that pulls you to your feet when you cannot. Embrace the friends who've made you family, they are the only ones who will bridge the gap in geography and lifestyle to have your back when it's too inconvenient for blood relations to do you the solid. Honor your faith in whatever way feels right to you, don't presume those strictures apply to anyone else, god is personal. Operate with the assumption that the first time is free. People get one, if they blow it again they're out no exceptions. Life is too short for dead weight in your corner. If someone, anyone hurts you beyond your capacity to forgive them… don’t!

FUCK ‘EM!

-P-

Big Empty

2008-10-21T20:24:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 7-3-08

Being found by my old man seems to be the bizarre and uncontrollable clockwork of my life... every few years he tries to find me and absolve his sins. In general this means I get mad and run. I turn and hide and rage. The clock ticks and I get back to normal. As normal as anyone can be while they play the part of the ostrich until the specter has passed.

This is honestly like a 7 year storm; it doesn’t always take as long to swing back on through, but it’s definitely comin’. Except this time instead of reacting with my usual vitriol I got some things off my chest and gave him the opportunity to dig deep and man up... As ever, he was found wanting. It occurs to me that this meager attempt at absolution was never expected to end in a result other than the examples provided by history. He never had any answers on deck to even the most obvious questions of why. And without a band or even so much as a whimper it's passed.

This is how I know I’ll never be him. I prepare for every eventuality. When left alone with an eternity of moments I ask myself the hard questions that I may never answer aloud. It’s who I am in spite of him… more over it’s who he isn’t.

For me this wasn’t about reliving the good memories he has. It was about trying to find a man who could come to terms with the bad memories he created and come out the other side.
So why do I feel so emotionally empty?

I’ve been spinning my wheels on this one. I’ve come to all manner of insight… but none of it is really about me. This whole mess was all about redefining who I am… and now that I got some of that weight I was carrying off of my chest,I seem to be the same. Lighter but the same. Who I am never changed. Sure, you could say that’s my answer… and I would agree with your critical assessment. I guess it’s like thirty I just had this expectation of grand mal change that never really dawned.

Insight came from this. Insight about who I am. Who I will always be… but not who he was or why he was. You gotta’ understand he’s been the villain of my life for so long that it was just easier to call him a black hat and devour myself in hate when I was younger. I saw things in these super heroic terms. He had to be the bad guy so I could be the cape. He had to be evil so I could be good. In many ways I’ve been defined by the experience of hate for him. It forged who I am from who I would never be. And evil being easy, I just let the hate continue, like betting on black and letting it ride into perpetuity…

With this whole mess though I came up bust. He’s not a black hat. He’s not evil made manifest in human form… he’s just a pathetic aging old man who never found the strength to look in the mirror. Content in moving forward without ever needing to look back. Coldly and cooly detached from consequence, with only hinting pangs of regret. I never thought I would say this but I pity the sad old fool. He’ll never have the guts to face the man he was no matter how many decades pass. This was the best he had. Faceless regret and a desperate hope to move forward and pretend it never happened.

My driving hatred was just empty calories burning into the night. That’s so weird to feel! Like the monster under the bed or in the closet turned out to be nothing. Sure immensely shitty stuff happened at his hand. Sure there are hatreds for that that will never cease. But the terrible villain I had nightmares about. The beast of genetics trying to claw its way out of my gut. The one I always kept in check, for fear that I would hurt the ones I love the way he hurt me… Just shadows playing on the walls.

I am not the man he was. I’ll never be. I am who I am in spite and because of the old ghost and I don’t need him to validate those things any more. I hate the things he did, hell I even hate him, but it’s so distant from what it was a month ago.

I read comics right? And there’s this great series called Hundred Bullets. It’s an amazing morality play about people burning with murderous intent who’ve been wronged. Out of the blue some shadowy figure comes to them with an attaché case filled with, you guessed it a hundred bullets.

Untraceable vehicles of retribution. The story has all sorts of twists and turns, but at the heart beats this adage: You are what you are when nobody's looking. Some kill and don’t look back. A few are torn apart by their choices and fewer still are put back together. One doesn’t use them at all. Thirty days ago he would’ve gotten every last round. Sure I hate other people, but it’s so distant by comparison that they would’ve never seen a single shell casing. Now I don’t need the case at all.

But it’s the things I feel so passionately about that defines me, that propels me forward down the lanes of progress and time. Hate was my fuel and what's left probably isn't hate so much as Ok who am I now? All that passion and anger is there... it's just not so close to the surface any longer… so now that I let some of that momentum for my achievement go.... what’s left?

At the moment I have no answer, I just don't want to lose any forward progress because I get to some even keeled place.

-P-

The Memory of Mercy

2008-10-21T20:21:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 7-3-08

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: ..GERRY..
Jun 19, 2008 10:23 AM

Asher, I sent you an apologetic response but, again it is not showing up on my Myspace page. I will try again, below.

Asher,

[Please read it to the end.]

You are correct. You were a child and not responsible. I'm sorry about the "absolution" comment. It was inappropriate.

I just want to hear what you have to say. I will answer any questions you have. I will look as deeply and honestly into myself as I can.

I know that I have made mistakes. I was angry but, not at you. There was yelling and anger in the house, so long ago that I don't even remember any specifics. That's stuff we can both try to remember and talk about.

I also have some wonderful memories of the time we lived together.

I loved you more than you could ever know. It has broken my heart to have lost you because I divorced your mother.

I love you and I miss you. I am sad to the core. I think about you almost every day.

I am sorry that my response hit the wrong note. I am here. I want to hear what you have to say.

Let's try again.

Dad.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: ..ASHER..
Jun 18, 2008 12:32 AM

Here’s why I have no interest in continuing this conversation with you. I was very clear that your being unrepentant did not elicit much from me in the way of understanding. You missed the point then and you’re missing it now. You didn’t lose me because you divorced mom. You lost me because you mistreated a child and when you left you took your tyranny with you. You lost me. There was no outside influence. Not then and not now. I opened doors that I’m more than happy to keep closed to write that first reply. There’s no kindness there internally or otherwise.

How am I supposed to believe you are willing to look inward and answer my questions honestly when you’ve yet to come at me with a genuine sense of remorse? As to all this love you keep feelin’ the need to speak on… scale that back would ya? I don’t believe it, never have and I don’t plan to start anytime soon. Sending me into insulin shock isn’t doing you any favors, neither is signing the matter dad. The notion that you somehow earned a parental title by proxy of sperm doesn’t fly in my world.

And while we’re on the subject I don’t need your help to remember what life was like living in the same home with you… I’ve had a lifetime to forget and it’s still as vivid as it ever was. And as luck would have it I’m not the only one. You remember Hawker don’t you. We were talking today and he remembers you as vividly as I do. Ironic huh? All that anger that wasn’t directed at me still managed to get delivered in my direction and those who were there remember it unsolicited. Magic Mountain is an especially vivid little gem for H. I’m not going to bring other people into this because I really REALLY do not need them to sponsor my vitriol. I was there. And when it comes to those good memories, anything good or nice you ever did was always to make up for something shitty; ALWAYS. Every toy to make up for yelling or hitting or something. Buying silence is not the same as being a parent.

I haven’t forgotten how you lie and manipulate the evidence of this either. That father and son mug you had them make at the mall after you had the hot looking girl at the counter spend thirty minutes to convince me to take a photo… just so you could have it put on a world’s best dad mug and show it to the court as evidence of an affection that wasn’t there. I’ve spent 17 years praying for your passing, that’s hate you can’t buy. You did the things that earned that bile. It wasn’t leaving mom. Barring losing my home (nice by the way, one of the many things I have to thank you for) leaving was the best thing you ever did for me.

How many chances do you think I legitimately have to offer you on this little planned obsolescence experiment of ours? You had one chance… ONE CHANCE to begin with and you’ve managed to blow it. Falling on the sword of technology rings a little too convenient to me. Fool me once ya know? In 72 hrs you’ve managed to lose or misconstrue a reply more than once… c’mon, I can smell bullshit remember? I’ve already readjusted the privacy settings for virtual points of contact like myspace.

For my sanity we go no further. You aren’t a man not then and not now. The mere fact that you could make that absolution crack shows me you’re the same creature you always were. It answered my questions!

Remind me again what use there is for you in my life now that I have them. I mean we’re not friends, and genetics does not a family make so what else ya' got?

You want to convince me to move forward with any willingness to speak with you for any reason you give me one. You put some accountability on paper and send it to me. Bleed and tear into the ink like I did on my first reply and maybe I’ll consider asking redundant questions.

If I’m not sold, don’t expect a response, I’ll just put you on ignore and that’ll be it. From there my last message’s line will come into play.

WE’LL BE DONE!

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: ..GERRY..
Date: 17 Jun 2008, 20:50

I remember Magic Mountain. I went on the first roller coaster ride of my life with you. It got stuck 3/4 of the way up and I was scared to death. After that, I had no fear and we went on all the roller coasters together.

I remember making junkbots together. I remember our taking bike rides down to the nature reserve on PCH. I remember our going for rides and your sitting near to me and holding my hand while I drove.

I remember working late every night during the week and not being home for you.

I remember that we went together to buy your mother’s car and our putting a big red ribbon around it.

I remember being angry and sad. I am sure that I was an asshole at times.

I remember when you were hit by a car while riding your bike and I was scared to death. I remember that we all went to bike school together as a result.

I remember volunteering at your school in the computer room. I remember going to your karate lessons with you and the day you received your black belt.

I remember your being in soccer and baseball and not enjoying either.

I remember your not wanting me to leave the day your mother and I separated. I remember that I did not know how to answer your questions about why we separated.

Its been a long time. I'm sure that certain things stick in your mind that were important to you and that time I was just unaware of them. You can't expect me to have the same memories on the tip of my mind. If you talk to me, it will jar my memory and maybe we can answer some questions.

I know that I screwed up a lot of things in my life and to the extent that I hurt you, I am profoundly sorry.

If exploring all that will help you heal all that terrible rage and anger that you have been expressing to me in your emails, then we should do that.

I realize that our father-son relationship will never be like that of a normal family. I didn't expect to pick up where we left off when you were age 7 or 8.

I thought we could communicate and try to get to understand each other better.

Choice Between Dangers

2008-10-21T20:20:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 6-18-08

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: GERRY
Date: 17 Jun 2008, 20:50

Asher, I am glad that you responded.

Obviously, we both have a lot pent up.

This was the opportune time to contact you for many reasons, chief among them was the fact that I could, finally. You did stay "under the radar."

My cards and checks went unacknowledged. I finally stopped sending them to your mother's house, probably five years ago or more. I was unable to locate you using search engines. I finally located you on Myspace. Actually, Laura found you for me as she was familiar with Myspace.

I did not write you now to receive absolution, nor was I offering any.

I meant everything that I said in my email. I'm sure that you would say the same about your reply.

I want us to have contact and see what happens next.

"I'm in!" I guess we are both "in."

Dad.

----------------- My reply -----------------
From: ASHER
Date: 18 Jun 2008, 00:32

"I'm in!" I guess we are both "in." From the tone of your reply, I'm going to be honest I'm out.

I would've understood something so brazen if I had come to you, but you came knocking on my doorstep asshole.

"I did not write you now to receive absolution, nor was I offering any." Well I guess that sums everything up now doesn’t it. You don’t seek absolution… wow, pretty ballsy. You who has everything to atone for is unable to even consider my words on the matter of responsibility. I opened myself up to the hope that I could finally have something productive in the way of answers from you. And I must admit even I was surprised at the answers I got. You regret nothing. 15 years of silence and still you are not man enough to own up to anything. How fucking big of you.

Even now you lack the constitution to be a man. I didn’t expect even for a moment to find a man worthy of the title father in you… but I had hoped there would at least be something in there that passed for man parts. Not even that. You are the same animal you always were. Too proud to make an effort in the only chance you’ve ever had to speak man to man with me. There are people who would give their lives for a shot at another chance with their wayward kid…

Seriously, by the boat loads they’d come. But not you, no sir; you come to me, brazen and unrepentant… and for what? What could you have possibly imagined would come of this with an approach like that?

Neither seeking nor offering absolution… Fuck you! This was a mistake. I went against my better judgment and hoped time had given birth to honesty in you about the past… Not so much huh?

Same as it ever was. Well good news, you gave me my answers. You have no idea why you did the things you did. Nobody as incapable of taking ownership for their mistakes could ever be self aware enough to answer those questions. You honestly don’t know. And that’s how I know I’ll never be like you. I always have an eye facing inward to take stock of who I am. When I start my family, I can now sleep easy in knowing your monstrosity dies with you.

As to offering you some sort of absolution… was that a joke, or are you out of your goddamned mind? I was a child. I don’t owe you an ounce for being the victim of your parenting.

When you wrote your initial message, you honestly thought that there would be a moment where the past would just be behind us didn’t you? Delusional much!?

So here we are, on the raggedy edge…. And now that you’ve shit all over the slender thread that was your chance to have a dialogue with me, we’re done. Lose my contact info. DO NOT SEEK ME OUT AGAIN EVER. Read that twice if you have to. I will burn in hell until the light of the stars runs out before you get to speak to me again; EVER!

Go the fuck away and never look back, or so help me the next time you do, there will be the law between us.

Letters to the Dead

2008-10-21T20:19:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 6-17-08

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: GERRY
Date: 14 Jun 2008, 16:31

Asher, I have resisted the urge to contact you as I did not want to intrude into your life, on the belief that I was not welcome. [Please read this before you give a knee jerk reaction.]

I think about you almost every day. I have been able to follow some of your exploits through Myspace but, I know very little about you as a man. My memories are of you as a child.

Apparently, you are engaged and have moved to Austin Texas. Congratulations. She seems like a very nice young woman.

It is unbelievable to me that I have a son who I love dearly and that we have had no contact for about 15 years.

You are not the adolescent and I am not the relatively young man of our last meeting. I would like us to have contact and for us to get to know each other today.

I have had a cloud of sadness over me all these years that we were out of each other's lives. Time is probably getting short, just based on my age. I could not let this estrangement continue without taking this opportunity, and chance, in contacting you.

Frankly, I am having a very difficult time structuring this email. For me, it has to be about now. There is no way that either of us could reconcile the past. There is no truth to be found. The past was difficult and it is gone.

The present is about us only. today. I would like to have contact with you and see where we can go forward from here.

While I don't really know you as an adult, I know the potential my son Asher had as a child and I feel confident that potential is being realized. You don't know me either.

No matter what, you are my son and I am you father and I love you and miss you and have for all the years that we have been apart. It has left a hole in my heart that will not heal.

This is all I can do on my end. I can only hope that you will contact me.

Love, Dad.

----------------- My Reply -----------------
From: ASHER
Date: Jun 16, 2008 7:47PM

Gerry –

“ITS TIME,” really? Cause I’m pretty sure it isn’t! Whatever chance there was in life for you and me to be even cordials burst into flames and died screaming before the end of my teens.

But OK, I’ll bite. What exactly is this misspelled subject supposed to elicit within me, ya think? Were you actually so arrogant that you thought this could be some sort of bridge between us. Some mythic first step toward a closeness long missed? I think you should probably let the movie magic of that hope go and step into the real world for a few.

You don’t get to come sniffing around in my life virtually, and then arbitrarily decide this is your moment. Did it ever occur to you that there is nothing between us to reconnect. If you had a snow ball’s chance in hell of being anything other than a horror story, don’t you think it would have occurred to me to come calling? I mean really.

The only emotions I’ve ever known when it comes to you are negative.

In the story of my life you’ve always been the villain, plain and simple. Sure I’m a black and white kind of person so the idea of a black hat on your head made some things easier… but in truth it also let you off the hook. To call you evil means that the choices you made in your life weren’t choices at all. It spreads a thin veneer of predestination over every inch of your actions… and you don’t deserve to get off that easily.

Do you have any idea how many years there were, where my blinding hatred for you nearly destroyed me? Hell, I hate you so much that it even pains me to give you that kind of credit.

Seriously you’re a monster.

But that’s the past right, and this is about now… isn’t that what you were sellin? Wow, it must be so nice to be able to wash your hands of the irreconcilable past and approach me with such a clean slate. I mean honestly if only the Nazis had thought of that they could have avoided being war criminals right?

I will not be lawyered!

You can’t plead for the defendant and hope to convince the jury. Case is over, you were found guilty long ago. Trying to insert an argument on your behalf at this stage of the game is a fucking insult.

The past is your curse as much as it’s mine and you don’t get to dismiss it because your time is short.

You were never a father to me, married to my mother sure, but that’s it. She was my parent, you were my horror. You ruled by fear and violence. You’ve tried to deny that, but didn’t it strike you as odd that the second you bailed we were done talking. Wasn’t it weird that the son you claimed loved you so much was so quick to discard you?

You’ve always tried to say that the way I leaned was some misguided attempt at loyalty to mom. I don’t want to make this about her so I’ll put this as succinctly as possible: Are you fucking kidding me?!

I must’ve been one meek little shit to be so thoroughly manipulated that the passage of time had no effect on the programming… You just couldn’t face it. Couldn’t or wouldn’t. Did you ever stop to think that maybe; just fucking maybe it was you?

That picture I took of you about to hit me at Aunt Karen’s over Christmas, I’m sure you remember it… it basically crucified you in court. Can you possibly imagine what life was like for me before that picture got out? Without that picture it was like I was the crazy one. Lying to the world when that’s the dad I knew. You had copes and worked with battered women, who would possibly believe me in the face of all those track covering good works? It remains the only irrefutable proof of who you really were when doors closed … A snarling, angry animal who hurt his (wife and)son… often.

When you bailed I was interrogated by people from the court doing their best to unhinge the things I said and paint me into a corner, no doubt their loyalties were to you and your little boys club. You kept claiming the words I spoke weren’t my own. I was young then and my ability to express complex ideas wasn’t what it is now so you got away with writing them off.

But no longer, lets you and me take a moment to cover what I really meant when I said many times that:

“ I loved my father but I hated you.”

Some social worker with five minutes of experience misread that as a clear case of a kid trying to divide loyalties to mom with some underlying affection for my old man… Not so much.

You were my lie. Always loud and abusive, I spent years trying to craft a believable image of who you weren’t with my peers. And I fell in love with that ideal. I was young, and the fragile psyche of a child finds new and creative ways to deal with things. Besides you were gone so often that it was easy to fashion some picturesque father in my child’s mind instead of the ugly truth. That should speak volumes to you. I simply hope you are man enough to read them.

You know what’s worse. I was misquoted by this same broad again not long after. She asked me to name one positive thing about you as a father.

The beginning of my reply was, “I really feel like dad loves me when he helps me with my math homework.” From then on she stopped listening and started writing.

Let’s go ahead and translate that into what I was trying to say:

“The only time in my life when I felt I was anything other than a possession to you was when you helped me with my math.”

She didn’t hear the rest. When you used to “help” me, you would take me into your office and lock the door. You would yell and scream, occasionally strike me if I argued too much, but eventually I got it. How fucked up is it, that, that was a fond memory? But it gets worse; it was honestly one of the few times in my life with you, where the attention I got gave me the impression I mattered. In spite of how frightened I was, you had to at least care to try and teach me anything right?

How fucked up is that? You would hit me during these sessions. I would cry, more than once you had to lock mom out of the room, and this is the only redeeming memory I have of you… This is your legacy, the only good thing about you as a parent, and there is nothing redeeming about it.

Some stranger was just trying to make you out to be a person, when clearly you had never been one a day in your whole life.

I’ve spent 30 years walking the world emotionally sprained. Terrified of this beast in my belly that is the half of me that’s you. Angry and hateful. Terrified of fidelity because of the man YOU are.

Broken.

And in spite of you I’ve become what I think a man should be. Lived my life quite well knowing I would never in a million years be like you. Trying to get on with the process of living and move past the days of you.

Years of therapy and growth later, you approach me out of the blue.

I swear I’ve made it clear time and time again that though you may have donated the genetic material you are not my father. On top of that you try this mealy mouthed bullshit about time being short, like the guilt of that is supposed to elicit forgiveness in me? Fuck that!Mom’s sister Cecelia betrayed me and even on her death bed she got no absolution… I actually loved her, so you can expect fuck all from me in the way of sympathy asshole.

So what if time wasn’t short? What then, would we still be here? Doubtful, this is the M.O. of shitty people. They see the game come down to the two minute warning; fourth and long, so you’re going for the pre-white tunnel Hail Mary… lemme know how that works out.

See, I don’t believe in death bed absolution. The lives we lead will be held to account, and nothing we say or do in the final minutes can redeem us. If you want a son to love you, have another, adopt one if you have to… but seek life elsewhere. For my own sanity I have to hope that whatever regret you may harbor from being the man you were can be rectified in the hearts and minds of whatever new family you possess. I want to believe that given another chance to be a father you made the right choices and shelved the volumes of wrong ones you made with me.

And for the record I’m just as accountable for the things I’ve done and have yet to do. But there I go not being you again.

This notion of mine about responsibility goes for everyone.

For a great many things in my life I will stand to, because they are my mistakes, I accept the responsibility for them… can you say the same? I realize this may not make any sense to a man like you (using the term as loosely as I am able). But there I go taking the ideals I had to develop without a positive male influence and apply them to the world.

I sure as shit have no intention of following in your footsteps.

Not once has it ever felt like you were man enough to step up when it comes to the things you’ve done… Not once. All I’ve ever seen you do is walk around placid and blameless trying to play the victim. That’s one hell of a fucking conceit considering it’s the abuser doing the playing!

The tone of your little missive speaks volumes of an old man who lacks the constitution to find that one crucial ingredient that may have mended some of the way between us: responsibility.

I mean you’ve hit all the other notes really, really well:

· Guilt
· Impending death
· Forlorn fatherhood
· Pride
· Woe

Unconvincingly sure... but now I'm just splitting hairs right? A lesser man might have fallen for what masquerades as earnest repentance… too bad for you I’ve developed a nose for bullshit over the years. Never ever do I get a real sense that you’ve owned up to your mistakes… not once. This isn’t the kind of responsibility any REAL man would shirk.

I told you on our last visit that the one thing you never ever said to me was you were sorry. That was your shot. That one chance to take some ownership for the life you’d lead. You never came clean like a man; you continued at your lifetime of taking the cowards route.

I walked home.

I suffered.

Continuing to feel internally as though I never mattered to you. I hold firm to the notion that I was just a pawn in your war against mom. An unfortunate casualty in the formative years of my life.

But now that you’ve opened this line of communication riddle me this:

“When you were left all alone with your pride and the knowledge of what you had done to your fucking child, what did it buy you?

I’d stake a fortune on you not feeling a god damned thing at all, but in truth I can’t guarantee I’d believe a word of any answer you gave me. You have made a career of lying to yourself after all…

So fine how about this:

“In fifteen years what’s changed about the past other than its distance to the present that makes you think we can ignore it now?”

I mean what is it with you and this notion that you get to unburden yourself and fix things with me because you desire it. I was the wronged party. Deliverance from all the bullshit baggage I carry around should be mine to want. Just like so many of the decisions in my life, you’ve taken even that from me.

So you forced the issue… my move right? Time to see if I’m a coward too… and afraid as I was of the answer, guess what? I’m not!

My first reaction when I read this was to delete my myspace account and change all of my e-mail addresses. Basically to run. To continue to be the frightened little boy I always was in your presence…

but you know what, “THAT’S NOT THE MAN I’VE BECOME!”

I’m tired of running from my rage when it comes to you. I’ve always believed a man is only as good as the hate he keeps… And I’ve hated you every minute of every day for 17 years (my hatred was more sporadic as it was sprinkled with fear in the years before… with you actually in my life hate wasn’t a luxury I could afford to understand much less feel). But you know what it’s a burden I don’t want to carry anymore.

Just thinking of you popping up in my life has been a kind of tyranny; and one that I presumed was 1,600 miles in my rear view. It has always turned my insides to think that, you could peer into my life whenever a wild hair sparked your interest. But you’re unwanted old ghost! I’ve always harbored this irrational fear that you would appear at my wedding or try and meet my kids. I don’t think I can prevent that fear unless I confront you in the here and now, so it’s time to put up or shut up.

When I moved out of state the first thing that brought me solace was the belief that I would be off of your radar for good. It used to terrify me that you were around the corner every time I turned. A fear you seemed pretty happy to relish in as you looked in on me over the years no matter the effort I put forth to stay off of the grid.

So here’s your moment. I will not block your account and let you talk to me. But it’s conditional. I have questions, you have answers.

If ever I ask you anything and the answer has a stink of lies on it WE ARE DONE.

If you try and contact me or anyone in my life without my express approval before hand WE ARE DONE.

If I am contacted in any way by one of your fucked up relatives WE ARE DONE.

I will not only block every means of access you currently have, I will seek whatever legal remedy available to me.

So let’s be crystal clear here, I want you to have no expectation going in that we will one day be either family or friends. If you want redemption look elsewhere because it isn’t to be found here. If you want to give your son a chance to know himself better and maybe put some of his demons to rest then this is your one chance.

I never once expected to give you even the remotest opportunity for this moment, but I’m at a transitional period in my life. I actually have a rare opportunity to face the things I fear in me through you and maybe get passed them before I move into a new stage of life where I start a family of my own.

Time to man up… you in or out?

Spoken and Broken

2008-10-21T20:18:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 6-17-08

So my old man found me again. I know that over the years I’ve made my hate for that bastard abundantly clear via this blog. And I’m sure it also comes across on some level, just how much his appearance inserts a gentle breath of terror into my life. Cause’ honestly, the very thought of him throwing his gaze in my direction generally reduces me to a jabbering and frightened child every time.

I hate that so much!!! To be really truly honest, I hate being afraid almost as much as I hate him. Kinda’ like my feelings for Supreme Scream at Knotts… but I digress.

This whole scenario leaves me to wonder exactly what kind of man I truly am. Having his donation to my genetic material means I’ve spent a life time keeping a beast at bay. It’s terrified me since I was really young. I see his rage in me. Sure I have a lid on it. I’ve worked through it, but I still fear it.

But, no more!

When it comes to him, I’ve always operated in this fight or flight reality where I would rather run than stand. His very name still takes me back and rattles me to some distant unrevealed core. But I’m not 13 anymore. I’ve stood against better men and prevailed… so fuck fear and fuck him. If I were truly as fearless as I think I am, then it’s time to stop running.

I’ve thought this for a while. Granted I hadn’t faced it. Tried to maybe. On a couple of occasions for sure, but I wasn’t ready. Now that he’s forced the issue it’s time for me to man up as much as it’s time for him to take responsibility for the life he’s lived; pretty specifically in the form of questions only he can answer.

What is it about marriage that kept driving him to failure? Things like that. I’m not looking to establish a friendship with this man, nor will I ever think of him as a member of my family. But when I take that next step toward the future of the family I’m building, I’d like to know where he failed so I don’t. Seems honest enough right?

The list of questions I have is long and distinguished like my johnson… but as he made it painfully apparent he’s been following my life’s exploits via the interwebs, and I don’t wanna’ spoil anything I have for the asking by revealing it here. He’s an attorney after all, and I need truth not statements prepared for the court.

I do worry. I’ve run on hate for so long it’s been the propulsion for my success as an adult. Trained professionals have told me since he bailed that I was destined to be a blip on a graph some day. A statistic waiting to happen. With those words of impending doom ringing in my ears I’ve always over achieved. I’m not gonna’ lie it scares me to think of what I might become if some of that pain fades away. Afraid of being emotionally empty. Of coming to a stop.

Sadly I need my answers more than I fear the all stop.

I spoke to a close friend of mine about that concern and he counseled against my worry… he’s of the mind that who I am is immutable, and working through all this shit will just turn the volume down on the pain. I like the sound of that, has a nice ring to it. So I’ve decided hate without opportunity for growth is too easy for both of us. It's a one trick pony; the same tune I’ve been playin’ since I was a teen. So when the mail came in I didn’t run. I said my piece. I know he’s read it, but honestly I don’t think he has the stones to reply. He wants to forget the past… and the life we are all forced to lead isn’t without consequence so I don’t figure he deserves a free pass. And besides, fuck that Bob Hoskins looking motherfucker I will not be driven to fear like a child by him ever the fuck ever again.

I've grown.

Evolved right?

Time for me to live by example. And this is for my betterment as a man, he gets anything out of it, he’s welcome to try… but I’m not in this so he can die in peace. Any guilt he bears are the result of what his careless hands have wrought, and not my problem.

-P-

Sweet Memory Will Die

2008-10-21T20:16:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 4-29-08

OK, so as this all ties into china in some way, so I'll give you a sneak peak.

HB Independent Article 1
HB Independent Article 2

A big part of the China trip was about parents and children. On the initial level simply by merit of being a school trip that seems obvious I know... but there's more to it than that. There was a kid who was reuniting with his mother. Point of fact one of the major reasons why I was there, was to act as body guard for this kid cause’ we didn't know what to expect.

Story goes his mom gave him up and his father brought him to America (presumably against her wishes) for a better life. 10 years pass. Fate conspires. Kid returns to his country of origin to meet his long lost and ever forlorn bearer... Heartwarming right? So why is everything in my gut screaming?

Maybe it's the fear that I may have to actually protect this kid. If everyone's so sweet and full of mirth then why have my fists been purchased? The school could be naturally wary because of the liability. It all seems pretty obvious to me; yet that's not it. My guts still churn and burn and it isn't the food.

She's this great woman, important with the communist party. Filthy in riches I don't even wanna’ consider. She soils the kid in money and stuff like a Disneyland dad with a new platinum card... but she's not really there. Unconsciously the kid senses something's gone south with the cheese. He doesn't vocalize it, but he cries at night in his room when it's dark and he's as alone as he's gonna’ get. She showers him in thousands of dollars (American and RKB) but she's never really with him when she's present. Always on a cell phone, or surrounded by security.

Our group is blinded by all the gifts and gourmet eats, but still I pause. Like the kid I didn't vocalize the stammer until long after I got home.

I don't buy any of it. Envelopes filled with thousands of dollars do not usually well forth from the downtrodden who give their children away to the ages for a better life. Something stinks and it does hula-hoops in my stomach on the flight back (conceivably it coulda’ been the 7.5 hours of turbulence but I doubt it).

I touch down in SF at the same time on the same day I left China... Time travel is still an oddity to my internal clock.

By the time I'm cresting my mom's porch my eyes are barely open. I flop on the couch and down and out for 8 hours or so. I wake up to AA canceling my flight back. I’m so over flying at this point that it barely registers.

Covington and I have been friends for at least the better part of a decade. I know him through his fuckhead of a brother in law, Jeff, who used to be my boss. One of few adult men I have ever verged on beating the life out of. Jeff of the family Stora is a piece of shit. Nobody not even Jeff has ever really disputed it. The dude tried to elicit a BJ from my ex on a drive home, and when I confronted him about it vaguely, years later he was quick to say she was drunk that night so her memory musta’ been fuzzy... That's funny Jeff I never mentioned what night or that you two were ever in a car together without me... That was the last time we spoke.

Jeff has a sister named Kia who was Married to my friend Covington. For ten years they were the power couple. She makes a fortune and that disparity in income never mattered. Covington worked, till she told him he didn't have to. He took care of her ailing mother. Did everything she ever asked. They were the measuring stick by which I measured many a relationship.

So one day while on vacation in Palm Springs she comes back to the hotel and says she's over it. A rich successful woman like her is exposed to attractive men and she is thinking of cheating, but before she does something to soil her countenance she wants to end it so she can be single. Free and clear.

FUCK YOU KIA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So let me get this straight your clever plan to remain guiltless is to leave first instead of working things out? Wow what a fucking trooper you are. We used to kid about Kia being the milkman's daughter while the brothers were hell's spawn. Guess the forbidden fruit doesn't fall far from the rotting stump after all.

You know what the best part about being single is? The memory of it. The reality is it isn't the wall to wall pussy of perfect memory. It's just lonely people whittling the population down for personal happiness; retelling age old stories to new faces in the blind hope that some mirrored resonance will click. And yet we all drape ourselves in that illusion while we struggle. "Oh wouldn't things be easier if I were single?" Nope. So why are people coming back to this question?

Covington and I talked about it as we drove to the ATX and set him up with an appt in my complex. I can’t tell you how happy I am to have this cockney little sod from East London close by… I’m just missing the words.

When I got home it came to my attention that friend Aaron's wife left him with a baby after a much shorter span of marriage for the same freedom. My old man was the same kind of animal. He left us for the same bullshit ring of brass. Somewhere deep inside; they all looked the same to me. Kia, Elise, daddy dearest and it was eating me up.

Spinning in my innards, all these profoundly cowardly and cruel people, bailing on the things that should matter… and for what? The ether of a memory that's only real on film. Nice work assholes.

When I came back from not so red as we’ve been led to believe China, I was battling SARs (not bird-flu because I only shop outlet so I couldn’t afford this season's debilitating illness). As antibiotics bayoneted their way through my immune system I kept falling asleep. It may not sound it, but that’s pretty unusual for me, since I barely sleep; then all of a sudden boom out like a light for 10 to 12 hours. Normally I wouldn’t complain about the extra rest, at the very least my eyes would be pleased… But my dreams really, REALLY sucked.

Behind my mind’s eye, these sometimes violent morality plays would run along. I never have bad dreams about real things, that’s not my bag. I usually like my nightmares for exactly that reason… so what the fuck, right?

Seems my subconscious was chewing on all of this. And it’s understandable in the ever glorious Hi-def of hindsight. When I moved to TX some of my walls came down. I didn't live in the same place where all my horror stories were born. There was no reason for all the brick and mortar… but then life hit. People started to mirror some of that ugly and I had to piece myself back together.

Is it wrong that I would happily drive out to the middle of nowhere, hit them, in the face with a shovel and leave their bodies for the wolves... is it worse that after I think I would want a coke? Not my place to judge, time to rebuild.

-P-

If I Only Spoke in Words of Hate

2008-10-21T20:02:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 12-29-07

After Thanksgiving I thought things would feel different; hell for a few minutes it’s possible they actually were. I was convinced like I had never been that a real holiday experience was in my grasp. Most of that statement’s blind hope had to do with the fact that I spent turkey day with my peeps out here and for the first time in the history of ever I was celebrating Thanksgiving instead of cursing my old man’s birth while I shoved Turkey down my throat. Everyone I know tried to do the same thing for me in CA and to their credit they did to remarkable effect… but the places where the wounds came from were too close, kept pain too fresh. Memory and location simply had an unfair advantage that this new and strange state doesn’t.

Back in the old homestead I would do what I could to avoid bringing the people I loved down and just go it alone… At least till Gator got wind of it and stopped taking no for an answer (the families Hider and Maricopa are the best no doubt). The madre helped ignore all the tinsel we lacked by bailing on me in the name of world travel. For many years I kept things simple and went it alone... I never complained more than the occasional grumble; I would wait its passage out with haste so I could be free of it’s specter for another 365. But this year, miles and miles from any landmark that reminded me of the past people got together ate themselves into a coma and never once did I have to step out of my minds eye to be in the moment. Not once did I pass something on the way to or the way home that reminded me of something ugly. It was a miracle; and it gave me hope that all the calendar days I dreaded could be this way… not so much!

Two weeks ago I was sitting at home watching season three of Grey’s Anatomy (this is the part where you stop judging and keep reading there will be plenty of time for heckling later)… So I was watching this show, in a strange way taking stock of the life my family would have had me lead (read mom when I say family it’ll make the understanding go down a bit more smoothly). Atfirst I wondered if mom was right, if pouring myself into the life my ancestors lived; behind some Hippocratic oath wouldn’t have spared me some of my pain (which almost assuredly it would have), until it occurred to me in an almost completely by accident sort of way. I like who I am. Had I gone that route I would just now be getting out of school. I would be stepping into the world with no experiencebut that gained from being buried in homework and school… Fuck that; bunch of social misfits who save lives... I’m already related to only those kinds of dysfunctionals so you’ll forgive me if I take my self awareness over a scalpel any day. I’m proud of who I think I am (faults and all) and the life I’ve chosen, more importantly the family I’ve built. Nothing in me is meek or followerly. The statistic my guidance councilors always feared into my ears just never came to be.

Since the move the forgotten thoughts of yesterday haunt me less and less. It’s not that I’m married to a forever in this new place (don’t think that I could be here for any sort of ever but at the moment it’s home and I like it), but it has afforded me a rare silence from my demons. For the record, as long as I can remember I have hated this holiday, why for the life of me I got it in my head that something as accursed as my history with that Fucker Saint Nick could be anything but misery I couldn’t tell ya… I must of wished so hard that I actually forced myself to believe this year; this magic fucking year things could be different. Things that hurt seemed so distant in my rearview that I forgot I was cursed. Christmas is a time that reminds me of nothing but loneliness, and every time I try and craft something else out of it, it all comes back to the way things used to be. My old man bailed on Christmas, and it has been a lonely excursion ever since… not that it was ever stellar while he was around, cause for fucks sake it was whatever is the opposite of stellar (once again FUCK YOU DAD!). But at least I had my mom in the room so we could ignore the monster and make like a family long enough for me to go G.I. Joe crazy and forget the bruises I had to lie about come back to school time.

My blind hope probably wasn’t helped by last year round holiday time as Daph’s parents were crashing my pad while I shivered away the fever pitchings of pneumonia. Since I wasn’t really there I wove this lie in my mind that it was some miraculous joining of two houses. The picture of some ideal painted by Norman Rockwell or Alex Ross… So this year I got it in my head that my mom should come out, crash the couch at my place and we could have our do-over Christmas. It meant something to me, for the first time in ever it actually meant something. I needed a sense of family; and understanding that Daph and I had created something I had never had growing up; father and mothers to whom we mattered. A sense that everything I lost in youth could be found in life if I looked and worked hard enough… I just wanted one Christmas to be the painting of good things instead of ugliness. It didn’t have to always be this way, I just wanted that one perfect holiday that was lost on me. No dad hitting me, or mom traveling the globe because she couldn’t deal with the memory of my old man and the life she gave/lost to him…

Who can guess what I got? Anyone in the audience? Somebody out there has to have an inkling of the wish I made and its granting? I got diddly shit that’s what. Somewhere between Huntington Beach and Austin, momz got it in her head that I had replaced her. Exxed her our of my life and adopted all these replacements… My own mother actually believes this; the only blood family in this world who means anything to me, the only one I can’t turn my back on for the life of me even if I wanted to has decided these crazy things. What am I supposed to do with that? It’s not rational so I can’t fix it. But it steals the tranquility of my quiet, and seriously damages my calm. Worst part of all this, worse than any disappointment or guilt I’m wading through right now is the realization that the worst thing my old man ever did has nothing at all to do with me at all. I do what I can to mend his mess… But momz… he destroyed this amazing woman I love so much; he took the sweetness and light she filled my holidays with and left little but his perpetual victim who relives the pain of his abuse and abandonment through the very act of my being an adult in its place. She brought his ghost to my new home in the new state, and true to form the specter of his misery has me hurting when I should be happy. I hate the holidays; thank Christ I have something like turning 30 to look forward to in the coming months (read that again with sarcasm if ya missed it on the first pass)… fuck this noise.

-P-

From Beginning to Middle

2008-10-21T20:01:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 9-30-07

I have no idea what it means to be a man; and I know it sounds weird but I guess I was just under the impression that if there was some magical dawning of insight that dropped some unseen third nut of manhood in my shorts it woulda' happened by now.

In a few months I turn thirty... thirty. I'm not ready... it's not the age that bothers me either, it's the responsibility... Means I'm supposed to be something, but for the life of me I couldn't tell you what "it" is. Like I'm not fully formed and someone wants to lay me bear before an unseen all knowing eye to pull apart and critique. Because come on; I read comics, I play video games, I work in a geek field... hell I even paint miniatures. I love that stuff I don't want it to be sad or pathetic when I do it... And you've all seen that guy. You know the one: mid forties early fifties, button up shirt , buttoned down past the base of his neck to expose some woolly chest with just a hint of bling (maybe a medallion on a gold chain... for the ladies). His slight mutterings of a paunch lost in bright patterns and an attention demanding hair piece that looks like a hunting accident. This poor sod spends his empty hours cruisin' down the main drag with the top down in a car that costs more than most homes. Saw his type daily when I was back in CA... daily, and It's really sad.

Sadder still, I'm never sure which is worse the fact that he does it, or the fact that nobody has the stones to pull this nozzle aside and give him the business; and by business, I'm talking the bruising of a life time. So what if he didn't know? I'd rather the intel be delivered late than never. All this time he was rollin’ deep thinkin’, "Man I am soo awesome, chicks are gonna’ be crawling over one another kicking and scratching just to get a taste of this!' In reality he was just living a hollowing existence full of cruel mutterings and whispers behind his back. No sir, not me! I wouldn't wanna’ be that guy would you?

Waiting for someone to slob his knob when what's really comin’ is a beating across the nose with a copy of today's paper and a firm, "no!" like he's some mutt making pee pee on your favorite rug. That is no way for a man to be.

These are the things that keep me up at night. Stressing me out (which incidentally is a new sensation for me!). Maybe I just worry too much, but I don't wanna’ have nothing to show for my life now that the years have given everyone of the people I hated time to catch up and marginalize my successes. In years past my stories were impressive, like oh you were a teacher ... at 19? That’s amazing...You ran a comic shop, how cool... Show side AV with cross country travel? That sounds so... I don't know glamorous, like you were living out of some gritty Kerouac novella... these days it's more like yeah, so?

That was then, they caught up. Now they can imagine formidable untruths like, "Degree? Big whoop, I got my degree... and I have a good job too; we're the same you and I."

We sir, are not the same... We were never the same; I never wanted to be the same as anyone.

It's bad enough hot topic took away the uniqueness of all my fringe geekery and gave it to tweeners for half off with coupon and proof of Fallout Boy purchase... F that! There needs to be more to life than this. Having what feels like nothing to offer to the family I'm building, except an under achieving overachiever really sucks. But in the same breath, I have no guarantees to offer you about my readiness for the twenty to thirty change over. There’s no guarantee that I can hack the next leg of my life with any of the flinty grace I found in the first stretch.

What if it's like Y2K and I'm not ready to trade in my converse for smart footwear, or walk around lost in the doldrums of corporate misery. I'm not ready to marry myself to the philosophy that now is the time to knuckle under and make way for the future. I've been sold that snake oil before; you remember the tune: flying cars, summer home on Mars or maybe the Moon... a time traveling Delorean; the defense rests.

Where is all that shit?

You expect me to follow suit with all this growing up when all grownups ever did was lie about better tomorrows. What am I supposed to be now? Who will I become? Is it different from who I am? Should it be? My mom was this age when she had me, and I fancy that I should have life well enough in order by now to follow somewhat in her shoes. But I don't, I have no house, my bank account is not what it used to be... and it just seems like there's something unspoken waiting for me around the bend... why do I feel like the kid in class who forgot the number 2 pencil on test day?

I have these visions of waking up on some idle Tuesday and putting on big boy pants that don't fit... it terrifies me; yes you read that correctly, I am now at an age where I can be terrified by very thought of figurative pants... Oh the horror! I want my girlfriend to be my wife. I want to be a better man than I am; Truth is: I really just wanna’ be a man... if only there was someone to tell me what on earth that means!

For the record I don't mean you old man! I know you wish I would break down and call you dad... but the captain has not turned off the, "you can get fucked and die screaming light!" Don't wager he ever will.

So where does that leave me?

The boy who was raised by a woman, who is supposed to be a man. Closest thing I had to a father was an odd jumbling of an Uncle who died in my teens, a man who worked for a god who abandoned me, and movies by John Ford. I'm ruled by this impression that manhood is some John Wayne like fantasy where I grow into this gruff bruiser with a heart of gold that he guards off from a dreary world... As though my life is going to be riddled with pithy one liners while I swoop in and rise up against, "the man." Carrying nothing but my honor and dignity that demands that those who were once quiet and overlooked stand up and take notice to shield me from harm.

Some where a magnum smokes on a table in a dimly lit room while the lone heroin dipped gently into my chest from a faint is rescued from some awful plight. I believe in that kinda shit.

It’s easy, cause it has nothing to do with reality.

But that isn't the truth is it?

All those things I imagine manhood to be are shambles I've cobbled together from everything except real men worth emulating. Those precious few who have been consistent and good in my life were never real. Cause given the chance who wouldn't rather be a Kent or a Wayne rather than a Gerry or a Bill?

Not me true believers... not me.

-P-

Unbroken

2008-10-21T19:59:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 4-3-07

So California, we begin our final thirty days together. I must admit I’m still having trouble picking my metaphor. I’m not entirely sure if it’s the bottom of the ninth, or 14:59; not that it truly matters right? I mean I’ve spent 29 years living within ten miles of where I was raised. Felt safe here… made many a home here, and now for the first time in my life I’m on the way out. Bittersweet doesn’t even begin. Feels a bit like the last few months of Senior year. Spent all that time rushing towards a moment, not knowing the things its passage would exclude until they had already slipped away. I’ve had all this time to mend the way between you and I, fair city; and I fear I may have waited a tad too long. How am I supposed to adequately say goodbye to so many things that have shown me love through the passing years?

Harbor House; my dating pool/unofficial home away from home. The place that served as my base of operations for all things insomniac since I was 16. Sure I’ll have the Kirby Lane in TX, but it’ll never be my HH. My dark lady who suffered the scribblings of my pen even in the hours when all I ordered was earl grey.

Ocean View; whose haunted comers pass my eye nearly everyday on the way to or from somewhere. I learned so many things there. My first Love, my first kiss, nearly my first everything…

Smokey Stables where Albany and I used to ride.

Tower 6 where we surfed.

Carden where I taught.

The colleges I attended be they GWC, OCC, UCI or UCLA

The Bunker; no more 40k Geeks…

So many places that mean more than I can express; places that will stay behind and forget me soon as I make for the I-10; guess I’m afraid that I have no legacy to leave. Afraid that I’m a ghost walking in a world that has already forgotten me… Tears at the Ego a bit. I’ve been a man on the verge of becoming for some time (becoming what you ask; that’s a question for history, not the likes of me.). Weird for me to think that my becoming is going to happen so far from the only home I’ve ever known. Don’t let this nostalgia kick fool ya; I’m excited as I’ve ever been, just grappling with the tough of leaving home and growing up.

Some time ago my mysterious employer who I dare not mention made with the offer I could not refuse. Now there are those within my circle who think perhaps I should’ve; but that’s neither here nor there. Far as I was concerned (still for that matter) the hands of providence were striking far too clearly for me to ignore. Years ago I met, and subsequently fell for a girl from the far away land of Tehas, in the bastion of sanity within her gun toting GOP voting borders called Austin. In the years that followed the whirlwind of us, Daphne introduced me to the industry I would later make a home in, while acclimating me to foreign geographies… Fast forward a few years. I find myself at the top of my game in the career of my choosing, when low and behold an offer too coincidental to ignore falls into my lap. Move 1,620 miles away to the not so unfamiliar shores of her youth, and grab hold of the untapped potential the “Company” had to offer me. Writers couldn’t sell this kind of convenience to movie goers if they tried; welcome to my life. The decision practically made itself. No regrets, but eagerness. Time to live for victories that aren’t small. Time to take my ship by the rudder and steer; the wind can blow as it wills.

Brilliant.

But wait, these big boy pants I find myself wearing do come at a price. There are circles of friendship and brotherhood that have remained unbroken for decades. Sure many who I care for will enter into this contract with the future by my side, but a precious few remain. Did I mention that I’m horrible with goodbyes? Probably latent abandonment issues rearing; I hates them just the same. Tonight I met with Hyder, his wife, and one of my two godsons (the other was spending the weekend with his Disneyland sperm donor…). I put this moment off for a while. On one hand I figured there would be some magical “right“ time to grip us both and make the passing easier, but that’s a fools dream; in an empty purse. Now I have thirty days to make right where I cowardly went wrong.Feels like cramming for a test the night before; not my style.

So I’m back to the good o'le blog. Recommitting myself to the chronicle of life in passage; to the futile hope that if I write down every day for the next thirty, I’ll waste no more time cowering from the temporary good byes I do so dread. Guess only tomorrow will tell if I am truly man or mouse…

-P-

The voice remains even after you're gone

2008-10-21T18:44:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 6-14-06

I have a question: Are any of you really looking forward to your ten year reunion? I was recently spammed with invites to mine, and honestly… I’m on the fence. I've been going over it in my head and a few things keep coming up over and over. I've made a life free of all of those people I hated back in the day, and I'm not entirely sure I'm down for paying anything to stand on display for the approval of people who are certainly no longer my peers; hell; perhaps never were.

Sure there may be people I want to see, but if I was truly meant to have them in my life then where are they? Those precious few worth holding onto, have, everyone else is, well, everyone else. I've seen a bunch of people on the Space that I knew once. People I liked, some I even loved, but that is the exception not the rule. Most of the people MySpace has put back into my orbit I hate. I know I shouldn't, I know time is supposed to mend wounds... but, just because we've spent our childhoods being told that lie doesn't mean it's true. It is a business of good intention carried on the backs of fools.

Seriously what am I expected to do here? Share a toast with fiends that have no meaning? Perhaps raise my glass to friendship? Cause clearly that is the farce we would all be jerking off around. Painting on smiles while we sit in contempt, and for what? Something about the, “hey person whose name time forced me to forget, how have you been? “ Or the ever ubiquitous, ”remember that time when we did that thing, that once; you were awesome that night.” Words have never been spoken that were so dishonest; I know f-ing politicians who lack the stomach for that kind of meet and great BS, and I’m supposed to Brush on a smile? So I can look at people who time hasn’t been kind to and pronounce judgment?

Sounds like a great plan!

Pop quiz hotshot, why do I need to spend ninety bucks to do that? I’ve been to the message boards. I’ve seen the faces of the people time has not kept me from hating; and you know what I’ve found? Savings that’s what. Doesn’t cost me a dime to come out and tell you how much my loathing knows no bounds. How much things are unchanged. I had a great time in high school, why ruin the memories that still swim fondly behind my eyes with new ones that can only tarnish them all?

Of all the old friends that made my life better for their company only two fell by the way side to the tune of my sadness, the first was like a brother to me. We spent almost every day joined at the hip. Breakfast at his parents, classes together, dinner with his mom and pop after; inseparable. But when the only girl he ever loved cheated on him the following year, he destroyed every vestige of the person who suffered that indignity and I was just an illegitimate side affect. The life he made from then on couldn’t include any painful reminders like me. He had become an ostrich, and by the time his head pulled from the sand the world had stretched and moved on.

The previous has brought me much sadness over the years, I’ll have you know. It’s almost mythic. I take family very seriously, and he was like a brother! The sadness built in me for a while. Years actually, until bubbled over and forced my hand. Eventually all I could do to make it stop was to sack up, track him down via the cesspool that is the Space, and forwarded my well wishing on the good life I hoped he was leading (Ironically, a few hours prior to this writing he called me, but I missed the call; True story! Aint irony about a bitch? If I were to list the ten people most unlikely to call me, he wouldn’t even have made the list. Wanna know why? Cause it was so unlikely it would be a theoretical impossibility to even ponder…). That said, if I could welcome this wayward brother back into my tribe so much the better. If not, then that’s fine too. Time has given me enough perspective on my youth, that I can wish him well and close that chapter as written (few others could get off so easily!!).

The second is the first woman I ever loved. I would like to tell her how much she taught me ( and possibly apologize to the man I tried to take her from; she married him, and I'm inclined to think he earned that... but maybe not). To thank her for the misery and pain; hell and desire she destroyed me through. Where would my pen be without the fire she set inside me? No fuel has had the strength to burn in my belly with such lasting brightness. When the time comes for me to see myself across a whore’s bed and exchange thoughts on young love as Stephen King did in the Wizard in Glass, I’ll be ready. She will always be my portal to a time and place ten years gone.. A priceless artifact that money cannot buy me on the night in question…

Just about everyone else can go die in a fire. I loved high school; I did. But in April of my senior year it unraveled. The question came, “Who were my real friends?” and the answer cut me to the quick. Turns out people are fickle and fair weather. When the chips were down, when all they had to do was choose to stand either with or against their friend and compatriot, they chose the most socially mobile answer: silence. Ten years and it still burns. I would have more in common to discuss with the faculty then those people… So why ride the fence?

Tell me, what do I do? Do I go, to gloat? Stare at the people I still loathe with my lovely Daphne? Measure my success against theirs like some contest is in play? Isn’t that just as bad? To show up and put myself on display for all to see lowers me doesn’t it?

Well?

I wonder what Spicoli would do...

-P-

Some Festivus Cheer 'Cause This Ain't Qwanza

2008-10-21T18:42:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 12-28-06

Yeah; so… I’ve been getting a bit of mail from across the nation from members of my clan who miss when I write in this thing. Seems my ranting into cyberspace fell on relatively welcome ears; even if they’re just being polite.

And since I’m back… (for the moment at least) to wipe the dirt off of this dusty old thing, I might as well return it to its former rant filled glory. Now I’m not promising anything major, at least to start. Girl, full time work, and writing for a project I hope to discuss with you at more length on some unforeseen date… keeps me busy.

That said I miss this, and even writing now warms unused corners of my writing muscle a bit from its atrophy of doin' other things. It’s the holidays (a time I usually hate), and I have pneumonia. So I’m pretty sure you can all guess how supremely pissy I might be. Might being the operative word this year. The soon to be in laws dropped by to meet the Madre and the Tia, and to everyone’s glee they played together soo nice… it was sweet! Granted I slept through most of it, so I should rephrase, “ I heard,” it was sweet! Truth told that’s good enough for me.

First step in the joining of two great houses (of the Landsraad perhaps?); though I look forward to being conscious for the others, but I will leave you with the following festive joy just the same:

T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the pad
every soul was a stirrin', especially her dad.
No stockings nor lights were draped all about,
for dinner was at mom’s; good food no doubt.

So soon we were nestled all snug in my ride,
as I coughed, hit the clutch and let first slide.
Mamma Clare in her scarf, and me in my boots,
Sheldon crammed in the middle as we made for my roots.

I must’ve been speeding before we arrived,
For mom was outside to be sure they’d survived?
She opened the door and to the bedroom I flew.
As what once were strangers became something new.

Handshakes and hugs, with cheer all around,
Their ears filled like stomachs overstuffed with the sound.
This night so important; the joining of two houses,
I was long since unconscious damn my paralysis.

I coughed and I shook I was really quite ill,
but the Doc was nice and prescribed me a pill.
So I dreamed and they joined nearly merged at the hip,
When they’d tell this story to others I'd be barely a blip.
It didn’t matter you see, for Pneumonia's quite bad,
But I take solace in knowing I’m close to her dad.
Once Paul and Clare and Petro and Sheldon
now, one family, two names and a couple to meld them
So as much as it sucked being sick over Christmas,
It could’ve been worse; I could’ve missed this.
From their enormous back yard to my mom’s front stoop,
I must admit we make a hell of a group!

So I tell you dear friends each word without doubt,
Family is important; with pneumonia or without.
So listen a bit longer before I get sappy,
With wherever you are; filled with glee or unhappy.

Time passes too quick especially round pine,
Enjoy those called family, be they yours or mine.
So now I sip up my tea, and pull up the covers
'cause lungs need to heal before me this cold smothers.

So good night and good morrow,
my heart fills with sorrow,
As now I finally go.
'Till next year dear fellows,
May Santa pay what he owe,
with only good health in tow.

That is all…for now (queue the ominous music!!!!)

-P-

I don't live here anymore

2008-10-21T18:35:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 9-3-05

Home is a state of mind for me; had to be from 16 on. Somewhere in the months before my sophomore year of high school, I lost the only home I had ever known, and it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to say I lost my faith on the same day. How bout I tell you the story and you decide

As far back as I can remember 6662 Marilyn Dr. was my home. Even with all the darkness that went on there, I still called it that. It was a little four bedroom with cathedral ceilings. Funny how much I relate things to ceilings. I spent years staring up at the one in my bedroom, drawing pictures in the landscape of the stucco with my mind ( a behavior that has yet to stop actually, for some reason that’s how I find home. I find familiar faces in ceilings, and that brings me to a homely state of mind.) So I spent years in that house (16 to be exact), insulating myself in my room and MY garage (Mom may dispute that claim, but I swear it was mine) from the ugliness. The Garage was filled with these intricate cityscapes for my toys. Shelves upon shelves of Transformers and G.I. Joe’s in their native; scratch built landscape festooned every inch of that garage. I can’t remember a time when a car rolled its wheels into my little world.

My room, oh my room… It was a thing of beauty; poetry in stillness. Every inch of it was papered with drawings and photos and posters. I’d walk in, close the door, fire up my stereo and surround myself with imagination and color that could transport me anywhere in my mind, or deep into the minds of authors whose tales grabbed me when I could manage to sit still. That room was perfect. Every notion I have of what home should feel like exists in that unblemished memory.

When my old man skipped, it was like a tornado ripped through the town of Asher; population one too many. He wasn’t even human enough to just leave; he had to make sure he jammed a gloved fist up every body’s ass before he did it. Apparently he had taken three mortgages out on the old homestead before he took off… travel money you see. And my sainted mother who had never worked since migrating to this country had no means to maintain the illusion of status quo for very long. To her credit months managed to pass relatively intact, but eventually that inescapable tomorrow came. Seemed like overnight a big retched yellow sign went up, proclaiming the house for sale. Didn’t take long to attract a crowd either; hell took less than a week for some carrion feeding bastards to undercut my mom on the price. Sad part is, by then it didn’t matter. By then she had mouths to feed, and no means of doing so with her usual calm grace. We had roughly a month before we had to be out. It’s funny; I remember my faith being so strong then. And why shouldn’t it be, I was a great kid, I did no wrong, I revered the almighty in all his splendor. Fact is I had never really needed him before that point so blind faith was easy… it had never really been tested. I didn’t have a concept of god while my dad was around, so I had kinda chalked that up to the big mystery that had to lead me towards the light. In retrospect; what a crock of naive bullshit that was.

The day we had to be out, the whole house was empty cept’ for my room. I believed with every fiber of my being that the God I put so much stock in would intervene at the last minute on my behalf. So much so in fact that I still remember hassling my mom and all her friends about how they’d be putting everything back and my room would’ve never moved. Two hours before we had to be out the pulled my locked door from the hinges and removed me kicking and screaming. I was taken away while strangers piled my every possession into box after box without even an ounce of affection. An hour later my house’s new family moved in, and we were nothing but old memories; ghosts of the people who used to live there. God didn’t come thru on the only thing I ever asked of him. I’m sure you can be piece the inevitability of my fall from that statement.

We bounced around for a while, Stayed with family friends, occasionally in the car (to my mom’s credit not often) until we found this house to stay in while it was being sold. Someone in the congregation had already moved, and the initial buyers had backed out, so we were kinda the window dressing until it finally sold. What a nightmare that was. Strangers always walking into and out of the rooms we lived in. The realtors were no peach either; constantly kicking us out so they could hurry up and make a commission. And when it did sell we were back to the kindness of strangers. A month or so later my mom found a house to rent in my old track. Kinda felt like home, but part of me never trusted it. We lived there for nearly a decade. My posters and private affects didn’t come out until maybe a week or so before the Madre gave me the boot; even then a goodly number of my boxes were already ready already.

So I left. Lived out of a bag and occasionally at Gwenny’s (while we were together), the rest of the time I was on the road working, living in hotels. I glorify that homeless period a lot. And for a time it was worthy of it, but near the end, before mom got sick it was madness. One more reminder that my roots never took; it’s funny cause I dunno how readily I’d admit to this in those days, but I could’ve killed for roots (still could, now more than ever I suppose.). For a time I returned to crashing at mom’s new house, but the posters never went up, the boxes never unpacked, it was simply a dresser a bed and a shower, until the other shoe dropped.

The following summer I moved into Hider’s with his family; Daphne in tow (it was our first summer together). Shoulda’ never moved, closest thing to living on Marilyn I’d ever felt. I had a family there, my own space downstairs, and a ceiling with a laughing dog and an old roman helmet hiding in the peaks and valleys. Never felt so much like I was part of something, so connected. Then mom got really ill, and Living in Anaheim 25 to 45 minutes away became unpractical. I was paying rent while I slept on her couch… at some point 3 or 4 months into it that stopped making sense.

This brings me to my condo with Banner. It’s five minutes from home, it’s with family, and since just before his girl moved in, it was nearly perfect. It has been progressively more and more miserable since. I love the guy, I do; and his chick ain’t no slouch, but somewhere it just started going wrong for us. Maybe it’s cause I live in a loft with no walls or privacy, or maybe it’s the fact that I’m suddenly the guest in their life together, or better still maybe Banner and I are just too different in terms of the home like expectation (I inclined to think it’s that one by the way). Whatever the reason, I’m starting to feel miserable here, miserable and trapped. I don’t want to let my big brother down and bail on him, but my ceiling has never looked like home, and it’s starting to show. I mean sure the location is awesome and my friends have never been closer, but it’s just so limited. My comings and goings are mired by all these tiny, trivial confrontations, and a decade long friendship is starting to suffer, whether we are willing to admit it or not.

So home has to be a state of mind. It has to be this place I retreat to cause lately it’s been nowhere else. I’ve returned to this other world nobody can take from me, once again a pilgrim (hence all the writing). Problem is: I’m really starting to need walls to call my own, cause I can only retreat for so long before it really starts to become a dagger between the ears cause I spend more time in some distant over there than I do out here in the allegedly really real world, and it’s killing me smalls.

My kingdoms for a decent ceiling!

-P-

Under Rug Swept

2008-10-21T18:34:00.003-07:00

Originally Posted 8-29-05

Doubt will be the death of me. I dunno why that is; hell it didn’t even really occur to me until tonight/this morning, while taking a healthy on my porcelain throne (a place where most men go to reflect, just so you know.) I was sitting there, just finished reading my new Astonishing X-men trade by Joss Whedon (which was f-ing awesome as a side note!) pondering the day. Harper’s had to endure a great many things for the love of his child, for love of everyone but himself. Wounds me to watch; always has. Dude is one of MY heroes! He stepped up to the enormous task of rearing a man in a world of mice, and he does it with grace (Not without fault, none of us can say that about ourselves, or even about others, but it staggers me just the same). So Harper took a monster blow to the chin in recent months; it’s not my place to explain the what, the why, or the how; those are his to dispense at his leisure. Just know that he has and move along, I need you to follow me on this a little further.

So we dine with most of the crew, mourning in a way for the struggles our brother looks to endure. Hell mourning for the struggles of brothers we’ve never met who’ve sat in that booth before us, consoling a friend who needs something none of us has the power to give, and I hate it.

I f-ing loathe the powerlessness of it all. The not so miraculous; it went good but not great, now just spin and twist scenario that has unfolded before us all… I f-ing hate it to the bone. I’m not putting this out there so we can have a pity party just the (insert # of readers who even bother with my blog here.) of us. I’m just saying sometimes we as a people really fail to make a better world. I know that sounds wholly arrogant of me; to presume I can see the path when the millions who’ve come before me haven’t. Maybe you’re right, maybe I’m just an ass, or maybe others saw it too, and dressed their awareness in blissful silence, while all I feel is rage. Who knows they may have been the smart ones after all!

I mention the above cause Harper had me go with him today on what must’ve been a pretty unpleasant journey, and all he had to say was I need you, and I was there. His exact words were I want my two best friends with me (the other being his son), and that really touched me. On some level it pleases me to know that my stock holds, on another I’m warmed because I simply have no real notion of how even those I love perceive me. Since I would never ask, it’s nice to get those nuggets of affection out in the open from time to time. It’s not why I do any of the things I do - understand that. It’s more that I like knowing the way I perceive the nature of my friendship for them, is how I’m seen in return. Remember these are the people I would gladly step into traffic for.

That statement comes with a hefty cart of baggage, which I’m sure is no surprise, but hey what can I say, “It takes all kinds!” When the world tires of its own failure, we all start to let each other down, and I swear right here and now, that won’t be me ever again!. I’ll rant about that to you another time (it’s been written for a while in fact, but I haven’t had the stomach to post it…another talk show!) I’ve failed some people in my life, things I’ll take to my grave. People I’ve loved... Straight let them down when they needed me most. Three times; I didn’t do enough to stem the tide; to keep dark things in shadows where they belong. And dear friends paid a heavy price. I hate myself for my failings, I’m sure somewhere we all do, but that’s not the revelation. The revelation is that at times I hate my successes almost as much. If everyone can’t have it all, why should I? I think it’s why I’m prone to procrastinate (like a few others in the audience tonight I’m sure). So while sitting high and mighty on my throne of judgment I figured out what I presume to be the why of it all. WHEN I LOOK OUT AT THE WAY THE ONES I LOVE SUFFER, MY SUCCESS SEAMS SELFISH BEYOND COMPARE! I think it’s a survivor’s syndrome of some sort. My need to take care of others makes my needs hard to fill.

This brings me to the situation at home. My roomie Banner and I have been ill at ease with one another in our mutual home for some time. Part of it is his lunges for the brass ring in the past (and the way I felt left behind by his I in team, we’ve talked it out in the past, but he’s taken to some old behaviors and ghosts of futures past have come a haunting); it’s not that I don’t get why he does it, cause I do. It’s cause he wants things, hell lusts for them at times, and he feels that at the moment the easiest way to achieve that is to use me more as a support staff than a partner. I get that, I really do, and that statement isn’t a judgment I promise. But when I see those I love suffering, while the penny always seems to land face up, on some level I sabotage it. I resent him too. I resent the way I’ve been abandoned for every girl that walks into and out of his life. I resent the way I’m left out and alienated in my own home by the new friends that she has inserted into their life together. I just miss the brotherhood that made the mutual endeavor of our work worthwhile. This trudge, this chore that chasing the dream has become with him lately is killing me much more quickly then I would’ve imagined, and putting nails in either the coffin or the gulf that grows between us. But I’ve been captive to my own baggage here too. I haven’t voiced it specifically because of the selfishness beneath it. I danced around it in the beginning, I wailed about it in the middle, and I’ve resigned myself to it being the way of things in the moment. Maybe he sees that and resents me for it, hell I might be inclined to feel the same way in his shoes. But it doesn’t change the way our actions are speaking for us, and it can’t erase what it is they are saying.

I blame Dostoyevsky by way of J.M, Dematis for this. Apparently this incredible line was written in the brothers Karamazov, and I totally missed it. I’m sure I’ll butcher the verbiage but it goes something like, “Man will never be free; can never be free until he is willing to see the cage that bars him.” Wowed me to the bone this did. See I can succeed for everyone else. I can mistake it for nobility at that point, and I’ve always been partial to knights and crosses, what can I say. But the truth is success is noble and for them, even when it is happening to me. Banner has been no help in this capacity, his distance and task-mastering only pushes the wedge deeper between us, and it has affected my hearts ability to put the words that have always been my currency into the work. I’ve been terrified to try and make success happen for ME instead of us, when what we really needed was me in it for us,” We shouldn’t ignore the recent past, its stings and its successes and forge onward.” All that has served to do is consume the foundation of a decade of friendship. Problem is we can’t talk about it either… we’ve done that and cheapened the possibility of resolving things with words. What we need to do, is something about it. We need to stop talking about doing and do… Dropping a giant F bomb followed by the word it, has not now and will never fix the problem.

I’ve been awesome lately; truth be told we probably both have, difference is I’ve been punishing and sabotaging myself for it, when all we should’ve done years before now, is remember the caveat I’ve written everywhere: By our own merit or not at all; and the friendship that led me to write it. Nobody is going to do this for me, and frankly it was never their job to. I got the job at Blizzard, I was on my game at Pitchfest (even if I couldn’t remember what was written before we arrived, I nailed all the interpersonal stuff), I have some really awesome ideas, and dreams, and aspirations, and opportunities, but together is where greatness lies. It’s not that I came by all these success alone, but rather I was the led horse who had to deicide to drink. Beside me is Banner drinking form a separate trough while we convince ourselves that being near one another while we do things is teamwork when that hasn’t been the case EVER!

That translates to all of us. Sometimes it gets really dark. For some it’s within (me), for others without (me, but probably you too), but we have to work all that shiza out before it consumes us. The only way I can do that is through the friends I keep. They are the only thing that keeps the loneliness, and the truth of late night typing from consuming me… I’m just tired of the obviousness this seems to have among the rest of my inner circle and not within the man who’s supposed to be my big brother.

-P-

Born to Resist

2008-10-21T18:34:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 7-25-05

I am a pumpkin… actually I myself am not, but I’ve been behaving like I’ve been carving one all day; let me explain. A year or so ago I was in TX for all hallows eve (like ya do) and I was at a party at Nikki’s place. There was to be a pumpkin carving contest at said party and I had been agonizing over my sketchbook all f-in day trying to settle on a design (I take my pumpkin carving pretty seriously, in fact while I was an elementary teacher I won a blue ribbon every year for 4 years so I have this expectation of talent which I loathe). Artistically I’ve always been sound, but I have this critical streak that hits when it comes down to judgment time that makes me wanna destroy everything I touch cause nothing can ever add up! It’s a fault I know, mostly one of over achievement that I blame on you mom (Kidding… sort of). So I carved this dragon spitting fire, and I won in an almost unanimous vote, but I hated it. The pumpkin had kinda gone to rot, and I thought my detail work was suffering. Null on the other hand shaved his pumpkin down with a carrot peeler until it was thin like velum, so his face of Cthulhu glowed all over instead of limiting light to the hollowed out recesses; my opinion it rocked and was far superior to mine. Whether it was or not I don’t really know, some would say that the court of public opinion was pretty clear on the verdict, but to this day and well beyond I will swear to you Null was robbed!

So I’m being a pumpkin right; cause I have this convention called pitch fest coming up, and Banner and I have been working our hustle and flow all month so we have our mound of pitches ready for the big moment. Speaking for myself now, I’ve been waiting for a break in writing my whole life; it has been my singular goal since I was 16. So here I am in what I will probably reflect on as the biggest most singularly defining month of my life, and I swear to you I can’t stand one of the pumpkins I’ve carved, and IT IS F-ING KILLING ME. All day I’ve been laboring over this pitch about a story I’ve lived in more than written since I was in the 7th grade, and nothing works. Banner’s been on his game, and there was actually a moment today where I caught myself loathing my writing partner and best friend for his command of the English language. It’s asinine, the f-ing language has always been my dearest ally, but I was in this rut today, looking to banner and other sources to help me with MY baby, the one story above all others that should pour from my veins in my sleep; then it hit me, I’ve been going about all this the wrong way. I don’t need banner’s words or anyone else’s. The only person this dream hangs on is me… the guy who always knows what to say and when to say it; the guy Banner goes to. The words need to be mine, and I need to stop looking elsewhere to find them, cause they came from within, and if I can’t look there anymore for what’s been my life’s breath since I graduated college then I don’t deserve anything at all; none of it! Guess there’s no time like the present to quit talking about doing and get to the doing… call me in the morn and

I’ll let you know how it played out.

-P-

About the need for Hope

2008-10-21T18:33:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 7-25-05

It's been brought to my attention by a lovely little Texas sprite that my blog has been collecting dust, and for that I'm truly sorry. But the good news is I have a perfectly good excuse and a note from my doctors here's the excuse, the note's in the mail I swear!

I've been living off of a finite supply of cash for almost a year now. My pride has precluded me from abusing the government programs at my disposal (Fact!). Truth is I swore an oath to myself, and I've yet to waver from it: BY MY OWN MERRIT OR NOT AT ALL. That's been my axiom for almost a decade now.

Since my injuries, I swore I'd worked the last job I'd ever work to simply pay the bills. The day I won my court case I decided then and there that it was writing or bust. Since that moment I've lived off of my craft. I signed up for something called Pitchfest; which is basically a pay to play convention that gives the unrepresented the opportunity to pitch script ideas to producers in various media fields. For roughly $400 bucks Banner and I have the opportunity to peddle our wares in 7 minute spurts of madness that hopefully will convey the gist of a handful of stories and our magnum opus of 13 films (more on that later) Now I bet I know what you’re saying in your heads, your thinking to yourself, but Ash how the f are you supposed to sell a 13 script idea that spans 6 worlds and five bloodlines in a generational succession in 7 minutes; the answer is we're not, we have to do it in 5 and leave 2 for questions; can I get an F me from the audience; that's what I thought. But hey this is why dreams are dreams, cause they seem insurmountable until fate comes a calling and we surprise even our selves. All I have to say to that is fate isn't here, and until it gets here all I have is jack and shite, and jack left town.

So promptly after buying the would be ulcer that comes with wrapping all my hopes and dreams up in a neat little pitch ridden bow I applied at Blizzard Entertainment. All I have to say is Covington Frost is the F-in man. He was an employee at the Blizz of ard, and I know for a fact he's probably the singular reason I got a call at all considering how impacted the company is since the debut of WoW.(that's what she said)! So I go in for this interview all Van Dam and shit, ready to shock and awe with the talent I have to keep reminding myself I have on the drive over. The building itself seems to be under the impression it's the pentagon, cause the 3 tiers of security checkpoints and bulletproof glass are quite off putting once you get past the masquerade of the nondescript façade that houses all that gaming goodness(True story: Covington told me a gamer came by with a gun for banning his account so i guess the need is obvious!). The interview itself was pretty standard fare; I had 2 interviewers simultaneously. The guy to my left was really cool and clearly a chief of some sort in the company, the guy to my right; not so much, best I can guess he was an Indian who had a job I want, and I'm sure he was threatened that I would be gunning for him from minute one; if the above is true than the truth is he was totally on the ball about me, but I digress. After reviewing my credentials I was posed with a handful of hypotheticals, and I answered all of them with flying colors, much to the chagrin of the dude at my right. With the interview over the big hat followed me out to my car, shook my hand and said expect a call for a second interview. The second interview never came as 7 days later they offered me the job without the formality of a second appearance; guess I did alright. The job works out something like this: for 90days I'll be in the GM pool in a temporary position familiarizing myself with the game and its mechanics. Assuming I survive the 90 I can move into game writing for the expansion, or any other position I may be eligible for; like I told the guy with the eagle feathers a foot in the door is all I need, I'll let my work speak for itself. Frocking awesome and equally gut wrenching; but knowing my girl is proud of me really helps a lot, but that's her, my port in stormy weather (that is why I dubbed her Fairhope after all)!

So continuing with the coin landing face up in my life, the local battle bunker is without a black shirt, and rumors of interest in me have been floating around. In fact the morning the manager moved on a bulk of customers called me at home to ask when I would likely start. Where the hell was this opportunity when I needed it a year ago? Cest la vie (Hope I spelled that correctly) I guess now's just my (our; sorry goose) time.

Also in the coming weeks my campaign starts, I put signup sheets at the bunker last Thurs. and already have e-mails from a handful of eager beavers; no rest for the wicked I guess. My army isn't done but I hope it will be in time, guess we’ll just have to hope my ducks are all in a row. Couple this with the fact that I still wanna film a short before August comes to a close, I expect to stroke out well before morn; all I ask is that if YOUR god listens when u pray, put in a good word for either success or a relatively quick death, don't think I could hang with failure on any of those fronts let alone stacking them; guess that means failure's not an option! Well good, now that, that's out of the way, who wants pie?

-P-

Forces of Evil in a Bozo Nightmare

2008-10-21T18:32:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 6-21-05

My Home away from home of late has been the games workshop LA battle bunker; ironically located in Westminster (for those of you who are either foreign or geographically challenged LA and Westminster are in separate counties about 35 miles from one another; so the title has always been a weird one to me, I wish I knew why they called it one place when it is in fact in another!). Invariably I’ll be sitting in the back at one of the paint stations bantering with the handful of shop regulars who know me by name if not reputation. It is surrounded by this motley crew of misfits that I spend hour after hour of free time with in hopes of keeping my precursor to an ulcer at bay (more on why I’m so tense later).

My geekery of choice is generally confined to converting and painting miniatures for 40k line or one of its related games. Fact is I’ve been so busy painting and preparing for this campaign I wanna run, that I’ve never actually played 4th edition, hell third for that matter. To a similar end, I own an army that I painted with two of my shop buddies for Warhammer fantasy that I’ve likewise never marched onto the field of glory. I have no particular reason to not play, the army is really well painted and based, and I could use the game time if for nothing else than to familiarize myself with the gaming system. With all this in mind, I attended an RTT (Rogue Trader Tournament) on Sat, and I had a ball. With my 2,000 points of Dark Elf goodness; or badness as the case may be, I banded with the forces of evil (somewhere in the neighborhood of half a dozen players) to beat back the tide of righteousness that sought to repel our invasion of the new world. Now I’m sure most of that is geek speak to my readers, and I could’ve easily written dork, dork dorka, dork dorkitty dork; and it would translate as just about the same, but that’s why I’m here, to keep those non dorks informed so that if they ever run into any of my people on the street, they may have a chance at speaking the language that is nerd; doubt it, but a dork can hope can’t he?

So the game raged for 6 turns (which really means 6 per player… think of it like innings in baseball, and you’ll get the idea.) and as we all tore at our vocal chords with shouts of WAAAAAAAGH: The Orky battle cry; the armies of good and evil advanced. I shouted so loud in fact that my throat began to bleed, and before I knew it I tasted that familiar bouquet of copper, forcing my voice quickly from my lips.

The game itself was pretty intuitive; sure I wasn’t hip to all the rules, but I had direct sales staffer Andy to guide me in my efforts. My force was pretty effective at holding off a dwarven advance, which when all is said and done was pretty significant game wise; there was however this unit of Iron Breakers (tightly ranked armored dwarves; like a tank propelled on tiny legs and big feet) that would not die or even break until my last turn. When finally they were broken, my Dark Riders (elvish horseman) rushed in to trample them as they fled (you have no idea how satisfying that was!); good times. So the game comes to its ultimate conclusion, and the forces of darkness managed to hold the objective and defeat nearly every opposing army on the table… victory was tightly in our grasp.

It’s at this point that the spoils go to the victorious. After that the MVP award was announced… in this particular instance it came down to a tie between my buddy Mike and me for this token of Sotek. Sotek happens to be this god of the lizard men; the same lizard men Mikey played in the tournament. At first I was inclined to simply concede, the token; it had no place among my forces and it would better serve my pal, but my competitive nature got the best of me when the bunker steward suggested a WAAAAAAAGH off. See I’m quite a competitive person; probably has something to do with the fact that I’m an overachiever now take that fact and multiply it by a factor of ten, and maybe you’ll get an idea of how much I hate losing more than I ever liked winning.

So there we stood, two grown men screaming at the tops of our lungs; and though it pained us both to do it, it still came down to a tie and Evan the Bunker Steward had to put it to a vote for a break. First the forces of good and sportsmanship marshaled their voices to Mikes cause, rallying together with thunderous applause. On my side - not so much. Apparently there’s no solidarity among forces of evil. If they can’t win nobody can… there was not a sound when it came to voting for me; like god with his universal remote pressed the mute button on the world… it was f-in hilarious! After the fact everybody apologized for the gag, but dude it was hysterical. When Evan said my name even the crickets stopped chirping; to send a resounding yet somehow silent F that Asher guy.

I guess omnipotent super beings really do have a sense of humor… who knew?

-P-

Time Slashes

2008-10-21T18:31:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 5-28-05

I hate my eyes. My mom was born with a congenital defect called Keratoconis. The disease involves the slow degeneration of the cornea through an alteration of shape that comes with the act of focusing sight. Basically what happens is every time you look at something the cornea distends into a conical shape. This cone thins the surface of the cornea and will eventually puncture the eye like an over-ripe grape. Statistically I have better odds of winning the lottery than I do of contracting the disease; it’s generally passed down recessively, rearing its ugly head every other generation or so.

As I’m sure you can infer from the above, I’m a little shy on the millions, but as a consolation prize my eyes suck. EVERY talent I own is predicated on my ability to see what I’m doing… neat huh? On or around six years ago my sight left me, and it did so in a hurry. Terrified of what I thought the problem was I buried my head in the sand for almost a year, pretending it wasn’t happening. By the time I spent minute one with an optometrist I was legally blind. Without transplant, all I’m left with is a stop gap of sorts. See the lovely people at Cedar’s in LA have pioneered research in this particular field; in fact mom and I have volunteered our time for genetic testing, in hopes of isolating the problem gene, and aiding in a cure that could save the generation’s I’ve yet to pass this on to. In the mean time I’ve been fitted with specialty contacts that return my sight to 20-20. The price is living life with a stop watch. I can only endure so long before they do more harm than good. I push those boundaries as far and as often as I can, but I have no illusions about the game of roulette I’m playing against the inevitable. Almost lost my right eye a year or so ago cause I pushed too far.

At times when I’ve overdone it, I have glasses to try and compensate for the vision I’m missing. Though they keep me from tripping over things, the sight they offer is bargain basement at best. I’m not trying to squeeze sour grapes here, it just overwhelms me sometimes. Yesterday for example; my eyes were hurting so I wore my glasses while Daphne and I ran our errands. For most people Old Navy is a pretty easy place to wander… not for me; at some point I lost sight of Daphne, and I was lost. Not just lost but lost and scared; I know what I’m not seeing, and I know the danger that puts me in.

Just imagine it: you’re a grown man, and you’re completely helpless in a store you’ve been in a hundred times before. It was terrifying, and when I reached out for the arm of a girl in a black tank top, it turned out to be someone else’s girl. God Damn it; it makes me feel so helpless, like I’m some f-in invalid. I try not to dwell on it, the same way I try not to let on how little I’m truly seeing, but it makes something inside me so furious. I’ve never been any good at relying on people, and all this does is showcase that inequity.

My option is transplant, and it’s something I’ve really considered… but there’s a problem. A transplant will leave me in the dark literally. 1 year + of patched eyes, and relying on everyone to take care of me, isn’t as exciting as it could be. Something about being trapped in the dark like that is what I imagine hell must be like. I know this must all read like equal parts self pity and biting the hand that feeds; and you’re right it is, but knowing that doesn’t change the facts. Other than my art, my whole job so far in this life is carrying the burdens of others when they can’t… what the hell am I supposed to do when they have to carry me?

-P-

Fanboy Makes Good

2008-10-21T18:29:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 5-25-05

So my boy Brian wrote this little funny book called Reunion, and it’s been getting some press lately… It’s mixed, but it’s out there, so when he sent me a copy I figured I’d throw my hat in the ring. I’ve known B since Mr. Wood’s art class freshman year. I was always drawing and writing, so like most birds of a feather we started sticking together. He started a comic club I joined… When he graduated I took the helm until clubs were disbanded at my HS. Our friendship obscures my review slightly, but I intend to power through anyway.

The book itself is shorter than I had expected, and the art is OK, but because I know the man and went to the school it’s pretty heavy on content; at least to the extent that I get the discontentment that put words to paper! B’s been waving that flag since before he graduated. He’s always been this bright guy that not too may of his peers every really got, and I think that’s always left him sour. That being said I’m really impressed by his hunger for an industry/world he’s dreamed of working in since his teens. I read every page with pride. Brian and I were part of a literary magazine called SHARP back in the day, and this harkens back to that. The art by Arturo isn’t the kind of work that could’ve left the big two for image in the 90’s, but he does have a better grasp of storytelling than most of the Liefeld clones who make the baby Jesus cry(I used to be one of them by the way…)!

The story is one of disconnection; then and now. So if he’s preaching I’m the choir on that verve. More so cause I was there. And I’ve gotta say I went out of my way to try and figure out who these bygone faces belonged to. Other than B’s pal Shane I really haven’t got much; though seeing him pull up brought me a giggle or two.
I’m really anxious to see more of what they have to offer, and I hope I get the chance to! Congrats B!

-P-

Catching the Enigma

2008-10-21T18:28:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 5-25-05

We (I) live in a world fairly devoid of heroes. Sure Marvel and DC do their best to fill that void, but in terms of the reality I live in I’m pretty much an idolater of none. That is except for Henry Rollins. He’s literate, glib and completely/innocently vulgar. Since sometime late in HS early in College (I can’t seem to remember exactly, I’ve been pretty desperate to find voices in the world similar to the ones in my head; a search that concluded the first time I heard Think Tank. Since then I’ve gone out of my way to own and or participate in as many of ol’ Hank’s spoken word shows as possible; all the while managing to convert anyone who’ll listen along the way.

I mentioned that as context for this: Nearly a month ago I was lucky enough to catch Pastor Rollins live in one of those rare occasions when a mind full of knowledge can be purchased from a scalper for 25 bucks. The day started sometime in the early afternoon; Gwenny (My ex) stopped by to pick me up, and we made our way to Santa Monica for an incredibly intimate spoken word session with the aforementioned man with the plan… Now I don’t normally brave the I10W unless I’m trekking home; the easterly route towards TX is more my style, but Hank dear reader is the man, so I’m willing to make an exception (made easier by the fact that I didn’t drive!)! Besides, he said something tonight that struck a chord with my constant state of wanderlust: knowledge without geography is Bull Sh!t; Translation: I can have the entire catalogue of spoken world albums creation has to offer, but it’s still nothing like seeing the real thing.

The venue was this venerated guitar shop off of Pico, called McCabe’s. Apparently handfuls of the greats have played there, that night being no exception. We waited out front briefly, our stomachs growling audibly over the din of mumbling ticket holders, as we single filed inside. The venue was this tiny back room, that probably seats between 50 and 100 people; the stage itself was no less cozy, it’s this kind of austere black on black with nothing but a few condenser mics and a wooden stool to break up the empty space. Spartan décor works fine with me, I was there for the content anyway… and content there was! My tool box of discontent once again overflowing with contempt for humanity and this regime that stagers the mind. It was awesome seeing him rail on the fascist parts of this nation that preach ignorance as a means of prevention… It was gold; comic gold!

I mentioned my first album of his called Think Tank? Of all the albums I own; Hell of all the albums I’m yet to own it’s pretty likely it’ll remain my favorite (you never forget your first); So you can imagine my amazement when he made reference to it on several occasions during the show. I love location jokes like that; moments when two or three of the serious fans giggle at banal side notes… that’s really funny stuff to me, and it was a night full of those! Stranger still is the fact that, that album was stolen out of Albany’s ride months ago and Gwenny had only just replaced the loss with a burned copy when she picked me up, so it seemed to be the theme for the night (just so you know, I am once again whole now that a copy of Think Tank’s genius is again in my collection!). Consequently it was an important album while she and I dated, so all the threads of past, present and future just seemed to connect with the evening.

Post McCabe’s, we went to Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles also on Pico. Filling the stomach with good grub after filling the mind is a nice cap for any evening. Takes me back in time to a specific moment when Gwen and I were an item. A bunch of us had made an evening of chicken and waffles at the Crenshaw location, the way we usually did every month or so. Just so you know, among THE SQUAD, not even an inkling of prejudice reigns, so our being the minority among the clientele is only revealed when something colossally stupid happens to spotlight the facts. This particular memory is just such an occasion. See we all speak in this cadence of movie quotes; which are thrown around not only for humor’s sake, but to test the attentiveness of the group.

Pretty benign stuff when all is said and done; the kinda thing that barely gets pulses racing on a good day, but this isn’t gonna be a story about a good day. On this occasion, pulses shot through the roof; we’re sitting around a table in Crenshaw when I ask Gwenny to pass me an extra napkin. Without missing a beat she starts to quote a Tarantino line from Pulp Fiction. Normally no big deal, in context; but here, lines about dead n-word storage will get all of us killed (I exaggerate, but you never know, the N word is only funny when everyone in the room has agreed it can be, and I’m pretty sure nobody got the memo!). With wide eyes we ALL kick away from the table and point an accusing finger at her, as if to say, “Cracker bitch said it, we just met.” Now luckily it went reasonably unnoticed but we were pretty nervous about it (and for the record, we’re not a white only group so it wasn’t some inkling of prejudice, it was simple fear of reprisal!).

It’s funny because I distinctly remember a time when I used the nervousness of another to punctuate a similar joke. Albany had this friend named Rob; who I really didn’t like (long story so I’ll spare you for now; but ask me again sometime), and he managed to tag along on one of our Roscoe’s runs. Soon as we’re out of the car he’s eyeballing everybody; like he’s gonna get robbed or something… moron!

The minute we sit down he’s off to the bathroom; and a wild hair eager for comedy crawls up my ass. At the table behind me are three large black men; all of them more than eager to enter into a conspiracy with me; so after a gentle interruption, I explained how much I wanted to f with this guy and they were instantly on board. Moments later the hapless sap returned with a waitress in tow and we order. The usual meal is either a Scoe’s A or B (the B is with gravy, A is without) so the only decision other we’re left with after that is white meat or dark; we all order dark… Rob however not so much.

In an instant three chairs kick out and a deep voice shouts, and I quote: “Why’s it gotta be the white meat cracka’?” after a long piss into cold shorts, a wide eyed Rob offers to make another selection… The largest of my conspirators walks up and gets in Rob’s face as what I swear was a tear begins to trickle down his cheek and says; ”Just messing with you man,” and sits back down.

Not exactly sure why the stream consciousness of this story is important; in fact I’m sure it’s not… it was a great laugh though!

-P-

Since when am I Neo

2008-10-21T18:27:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 5-25-05

Ah the road; nothing like the feel of uneven pavement against well worn radials to get the blood pumping. No one’s entirely sure why I like it so much, something about the silence and isolation forces the hamster running the mind to turn that damned wheel. Driving for me has always been part reflex part wanderlust. It stole my affections the day I bought my first (only) new car; something about the 13 miles on my odometer offended me just so; forcing me to drive until it reached 100 before I could make for home. 96,000 miles later I’m watching the numbers roll over while my mind takes a vacation.

Somewhere around hour fifteen, when the words that form the pictures in my minds eye take a breath, I notice this pang of separation tearing in my gut; leading me to wonder at the cause. The obvious answer is that it was a longing for my girl. Obvious, but not entirely complete; “It’s as if I’m living two lives.” (Imagine Agent Smith from the matrix saying that and you should hear it in your head the way I do in mine.) I’ve probably spent the better part of 6 months in Austin and it’s been growing on me in ways I’ve never imagined. If you haven’t read my earlier blog’s you may have missed my overdeveloped sense of family. People become really important to me when I let them into my world, and to that end, Daphne's wonderful group has embraced me and ALL my flaws with open arms. That and my overflowing affection for my girl makes a home for me in TX that gets harder and harder for me to leave.

This is not to say that the home and family I’ve built hear is any easier to leave when I go, and to be honest it’s the only reason why I bother coming back, so it rips at me sometimes. Deep down I really long for all of us to live in the same place so the two houses that have been joined by Daphne and I can share a Verona of our own design (without the ritual suicide of course). I'm pondering this stuff as I pull into Phoenix; when the thought becomes too unbearable to continue I rush back to the simpler task of living in a world that only exists in my mind and on paper (and hopefully in the hearts of dorks like myself one day!)

Funny how just being home can bring a surprise. Darwin Draw; my pal serving on foreign soil threw us all for a loop this week when he pulled up to Harper’s door unannounced (Kuwaiti sand still clinging to his boots). On leave long enough to join the squad for a viewing of Episode III. George Lucas is like that really hot ex girlfriend who you know is REALLY bad news, but you can’t help finding yourself in bed with… You’ve been hurt before... badly even, but she’s just so hot!!! That’s my relationship with this trilogy.

Phantom Menace broke my heart, but memories of Empire got me into bed with Attack of the clones for nostalgia's sake… when the inevitable hurt pushed me away again, I swore I'd never go back. Hell I was so sure I had warded off the seductive hope of Vader’s birth I didn't even consider working Celebration III; I was lying to myself;. Soon as Lucas came sniffing around again with promises of a movie darker than the one that shaped my childhood, I slipped right back into the sheets… I’ve had better, but at least he managed to leave me without anally raping my childhood further! Sorry I got off topic...we'll get back to this!) . You cannot imagine my delight at seeing Darwin unharmed and relatively unchanged. I’m almost unable to recall what we all did first (Though I'm sure it was geeky!) so I’ll jump right into the flick…

It didn’t suck! Sure it had problems; some of them insanely large in terms of continuity, but when compared to the nearly unwatchable two that came before it, it was like a breath of fresh air. Dialogue though minimal was diabolical (Especially the really forced (pun intended), “I love you, No I love you more,” nonsense between Padme and Anakin; Gods above did that suck. But I digress) All in all it was ok; leaving me both happy and sad that this chapter of my pop culture childhood has come to an end. In the final analysis I think I would’ve liked the world a little better if the prequels were never made; at least then a former hero could fade away into glory untarnished, instead of limping away like a soft old man.

Anyway Darwin’s home… Since he’s been around I think we’ve all been breathing a little easier. It’s like the specter of the unknown stopped looming over our heads, if only just for a moment; his too I’m sure! In his two weeks here we've spent a lot of time with our 40k nonsense. in the breaks between the opening and closing of the bunker we've caught up on funny stories and Halo 2; with sporadic bits of good eats along the way. In any event it’s good to have you home brother!

-P-

Curse you Murphy

2008-10-21T18:25:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 5-12-05

A month or so ago I wandered across the open road of I-10; eager to be in Austen, TX and in the arms of my Daphne. This is not a new length of highway for me to traverse, I’ve doing it for years. This trip was strangely longer than it has ever been before (temporally it was about the same, but it taxed me physically in a way it never has before (if you read my last entry, you’ve probably noted that sleep deprivation was involved.) I still dug the jaunt; it’s always nice to be isolated in your head for 15 to 18hrs at a time with nothing, not even the sound of the radio to fill the empty space.

Sure I listened to it here and there; and I have plenty of Rollins’ spoken word highway road song compilations to keep me in the journeying mood. Truth is I like these trips more because of the isolation than the driving. 15hrs or more of quiet is somehow incredibly honest. I think we all hide from internal discussions on a day to day by filling our time (be it contrived means or otherwise) with stuff to keep ourselves busy. For me it’s mostly a chance to work out story concepts, practice dialogue, and dictate things into my PDA. To the passer by I must look pretty foolish with all the arm gestures and talking, because I’m pretty sure it’s not to be mistaken for my usual state of rocking out in my ride.

So I wrote in my head and on my PDA while I powered through 25 hrs of driving in a sit; got a lot done I might add, and pulled into Daphne’s drive at about 2:30 my time 5:30 hers. After making a racket fumbling with my keys I found the one that opened the door and slipped inside…

My reason for being here (other than the obvious of course) was Daphne’s Fashion show in the Erwin Center (otherwise known as the drum) located on the UT Austen campus. Though the show went well for my girl it was kind of a fiasco on my end. I lugged all this camera equipment to the drum round 10 of the clock, for an 8 pm call. I was courteous to the AV guys, as I found a good place to set up my tripod for video, my still frame camera’s were good and charged; if I didn’t know better I’d say the prep work went off without a hitch… I should’ve known better. After my set up Daphne a friend of hers and I went off to grab a bite to eat, and when we returned her friend and I were barred entry (Not cool!). Impervious to the answer NO, I found alternate means of entry, but I was treated really poorly by the convention staff, and it really annoyed me.

Once in I waited patiently for the lights to dim. I slipped Daphne’s pop one of my cameras: my digital rebel; I figured since he sat up front he’d get better pics than I would. Mid way through the show the camera timed out and he didn’t know how to light it back up so that was out; no biggie, I’m still getting video right? Right, wrong… for some reason a freelance photographer decided to make a home for his gear beside me (no biggie at first) which apparently should’ve let me know he intended to make a home in front of my lens; Dick! My footage is rubbish; between him blocking the shot and our arguing I got nothing accomplished at least not well (which really pissed me off).

The only saving grace to that is that a week later it forced me to take the time to do a more professional shoot which turned out REALLY well if I do say so… Check them out on my flikr page; if you didn’t know better you’d think I knew what I was doing!
I was going to stay for graduation as well; try and make up for the botched endeavor at the Erwin Center, but the opportunity of Pitchfest* didn’t seem like something I should miss, and Daphne agreed; so I’m heading home this coming weekend of the 15th.

* Pitchfest is a convention in the LA area the weekend of the 21st (Graduation day for Daphne). As I understand it, conventioneers get to pitch unsolicited movie scripts to producers for two days. The way they manage this is through a series of 7 minute appointments. In those 7 minutes we (Banner and I) have the opportunity to convince and enthrall complete strangers with our “Talent,” as it were and hopefully make our way into the industry of our dreams. These pitch listeners are broken into groups of genre and then further subdivided into media: Gaming, novels, comics, movies etc. Law of averages says one in every 12 has promise… we have 15 so I guess we’re hedging our bets a little…and why not?
Wish me (us) luck!

-P-

Rant in the key of G

2008-10-21T18:24:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 4-19-05

Ever had one of those days? I’m sure you know the kind; they begin with a laundry list of menial tasks for completion, and end with hair pulling frustration. This was my day yesterday. Come Tuesday I’m hitting the road for TX, so my first order of business is to get all my ducks in a row, before my languorous drive along I-10 (that’s not a complaint mind you, just a fact) My registration for my ride came up due a week or two ago, and I paid it… what I didn’t do, is have a current insurance card to send with the fees. This simple fact led me to; yep, you guessed it: my insurance agent. Now like most people I go to a broker; reason being is, a broker in an ideal world has access to better rates; my fault for letting something like an ideal cloud the path to getting things done.

I hate bills, so I intended to buy a six month policy rather than a thirty day, and I was about to do this to the tune of $290.00 when I got greedy(it woulda’ saved me on interest charges as well). I looked at that number and wondered if my broker could do better… to do so she had to run my DMV which has 2 points on it from 03. The instant that info came up, all the numbers shifted (See what happens when I try and get a break.. not that I learned this lesson… keep reading). $490.00 later I had begun my spiral down a well of frustration and dismay.

Next we move to the DMV or Satan’s Asshole as I like to call it. I knew from the moment I had arrived that there was no fun to be had. There was a line at least 20 or 30 people long, whose sole purpose was to grab a number enter hell and get in line… imagine my delight! So I get inline, with my mother in tow (I figured if I’m gonna suffer I could use the company!). My sticker read B447; they were calling B404. 2 hours I spent in that place watching old people race the reaper while trying to complete a written test and eye exam; when low and behold, I return to an old revelation I had, had in this very same place a year ago. Wouldn’t it be great if we could alter our perceptions randomly while awake? For instance, rather than the MIND NUMBING BOREDOM of sitting in the DMV, I could imagine far away vistas with aliens eating all the stupid humans… just to pass the time of course.

The second B447 was called; SNAP back to hells waiting room... I’m just saying. Anyway so I finally get called, I walk over to window 27 and I hand my paper work to this very unpleasant black lady (explains why she works here… when I read the letters DMV, first thing I think of are people skills!) I open my still sealed envelope which contains my statement of payment and I slide it over to her along with my proof of insurance. She pulls up my file and asks for my proof of smog. Confused, I tell her, “I smogged last year, why do I need to do it again?” Apparently, Arnold the governator, in his infinite wisdom offset the ever increasing registration fees by requiring smog every year after a certain year (F me).

After wasting two hrs for nothing I run to Red’s auto shop, and he directs me to his smog guy. In a few minutes I’m smogged and ready for a second tour in the mind numbing hell of the DMV. I walk in, and mosey on over to window 27, where the lady instantly recognizes me and says, “I can’t believe you got smogged so quickly.” Now you need to understand all she has to do at this point is put a turquoise slash on a slip of paper and pass me along to this tiny line for stickers. She refuses and hands me another number; once again trapped behind thirty white hairs and dumdums eager to murder my time. As luck would have it, when my turncomes around I find myself once again at window 27; for a third time mind you, where I receive a turquoise slash and hop in a tiny line for my sticker…

It’s because of events like that, that I long for the I.Q. bombs (see if only I had learned Something from the breakless lesson at the insurance agency, I wouldn't have gotten my hopes up!)!

Already pissed off, most men would throw in the towel, but I’m on a mission with things to do so I press on. I return some 40k stuff to offset the insurance fiasco, and make for L & O Hawaiian food with the Madre for a quick bite. Now I have THOUSANDS of dollars in the bank, so I’m fairly certain I can afford $17 worth of BBQ; mom figured the same until my CARD WAS F-ING DECLINED.

Happily moms paid, but I was beyond pissed off, so I called Wells Fargo; where I was introduced to Tom. I’m sure for any other patron on any other day Tom’s quite the peach, but not today, not for me. My questions and comments were simple; all I did was ask the F-ing dick why I was unable to access my OWN money that’s linked to my personal accounts. But Tommy, my buddy, my pal tells me there’s a per day spending limit on my account and I’ve exceeded it.

See if you can wrap your head around this cause I can’t. It’s my money, it’s not unsecured credit, and still I look like an A-hole when I try and buy less than $20 worth of food. The solution to this matter is priceless! I can either A: go to a branch and petition for a higher limit (so basically I have to ask nicely while they decide whether or not they wanna stop inconveniencing me with my money) or B: he can speak to a supervisor and try and get me a $100 emergency advance on my account for the next 4 hrs. MY MONEY, why is access to my money like asking mom for movie money when I was in my teens? I know maybe they’ll make it $200 if I clean my room first! F this, I thought as I hung up; matter for another day.

That brought my day to a close. Unable to even purchase gas without suffering the interest rate of a credit card I caved, I'd have to finish my few tasks in an orderly fashion tomorrow and hope for the best; which also failed to happen the way I planned. Inevitable variables filled my every moment until I missed my traffic window, so rather than napping like I should before a 24.5 hr drive, I’m venting my frustrations here… For the first time in my life I wish I was on a plane!

-P-

Slannesh just wants to Party

2008-10-21T18:22:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 4-14-05

Sometimes I can be a real ass! It’s not an everyday kinda thing, or even every month; but now and again I get this wild hair, and I start trouble with random people. For example: This last weekend a friend of mine from the local battle bunker (it’s the official title of the 40k mother ship I frequent to paint my miniatures, and socialize with likeminded social misfits.) and I ventured to the valley of the dirt people (A.K.A. meth valley or the 909); to indulge ourselves in the geekery that is GAMES DAY.

Now normally, at least in my present state, you wouldn’t even dare wake me before 9:30-10 of the clock, cause I like sleeping in. But I must remind you, I am usually awake writing till seconds before dawn, so cut me a little slack. Gate opens at 9; Pitcher and I are out the door by 8:30. Five after 9 we’re all up in the Ontario Convention Center, like every other American idiot with an agenda of geekery.

A badge later we’re through the door and funneling into an enormous snake of a line that clearly serves the dark powers of consumerism, cause it’s wall to wall dork. Now My shopping agenda in this place was pretty straight forward; I wanted the new box of Termies, How to paint Space Marines (for Booker) and some inquisition bits for a conversion I was working on (Now I realize almost all of the latter was Greek to most of the audience; just know it has meaning to me and my tribe and move on would ya?).

my needs were pretty simple and straight forward, but low and behold by the time I got to the 40k tables, the Termies were gone; but before a frown could crest my lips a solution presented itself. See there’s this kid Matt who bugs at the shop; he’s probably not a bad kid, but he’s wound pretty tight for a little nerdling. Couple that with the fact that he’s 18 and less advanced socially than Harpers kid (Booker’s 12… 12!), and you’re probably beginning to imagine how annoying he can be (Matt not Harper’s kid, in case I lost ya).

Now that you’re acquainted with Matt, here’s what happened. Matt rolls up and gloats about how he grabbed the last box of Termies (cue the wild hair), so I grab them out of his basket, rush over to the register and buy them, my only reply was, “No, looks like I grabbed the last box.” Kid put up ZERO struggle, and later, while Pitcher and I are grabbing a quick grub he walks over to our table; still scowling mind you, and apologizes for MY being an A-hole… Dumb founded I accepted; and so my day went on.
The Con was a lot of fun; I entered a conversion contest and took 4th.

I was hoping to grab a coveted Golden demon, but alas I fell short.

Frustrated I built another conversion that was ineligible for victory points; but we all seem fairly confident that it woulda’ won something if it got in. If you saw my room, or more specifically my closet, you’d have an idea of just how much I’ve devoted to the hobby, so I decided they needed to make a donation to the cause that is Asher. 20 paints from the painting table, a few brushes, a pair of clippers (for Harper) and some scenery bases later I had enough to fill a bag; and to the credit of the GW staffers, they were kind enough to supply me with one for my ill gotten goods…

Conclusion: it was a blast, and next year I intend to enter a few of the golden demon categories. Evan and Jason (two of GW west coast muckety mucks) hinted that my conversion stuff would do really well if I really spent some man hrs on the painting. Truth be told that was all the prompting I need to throw my hat into the ring. Next year I intend to conscript the crew and make it an event (bits re-allocation alone would make it worth the money). Till GAMES DAY 06 make mine Slannesh!

-P-

A Road Diverged

2008-10-21T18:20:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 4-14-05

Sometime on or around this coming Sunday I’m making my way once again to Austin the only bastion of the color blue in the big red heart of Texas. Now some of you may wonder why anyone would be brazen enough to travel to the south, ever. The question is as valid as the answer is perplexing; Daphne is mine, and I’m sure some of you reading this could muster a reason of your own, hell maybe not; in any case I’m goin’. But before I make my 24hr trek cross country, I run this checklist of things that need doin’ before I get gone. Today’s chore was having the 100,000 ml. Tune up done to Mathias: my little red Neon. I took it to this really cool mechanic Albany connected me with off of Slater in H.B. by the name of Red. Red’s this kinda grizzly old dragster who will avail many an interested ear, with stories of the good old days (being a story teller myself, we got along from the start). After a bit of nostalgia, I left my car at his shop and made for Harper’s on foot. The couple of miles to his pad seemed welcome compared to the handful of miles between me and home. I figured what the hell the walk would do me some good forcing this cold out of my system. So there I went, putting one old school (Converse All- Star), in front of the other, as I followed a somewhat familiar path. The path was familiar because roughly a decade ago, back when I was in H.S. before I managed to own a vehicle I could call my own, I did a lot of walking.

When all of a sudden before I knew it, I was treading on the familiar soil of my old H.S. (Ocean View) Weird how easy it is to return to familiar habits when trotting on familiar terrain. I moseyed past my old photo lab, my ears perked to the sounds of kids leaving Mr. Jenson’s final period (6th or 7th, I just can’t seem to remember). Letting my mind wander back to the days when I used to loiter in the halls, my trusty Pentax swinging from my neck on a gaudy 70’s strap; hungry to take pictures of all the pretty girls. So I continue walking, passed Mrs. Amelott’s (or Satan’s midget as I used to call her) Economics room to the spot where I lost my first love (above the libraries north facing alcove). It was really weird; I swear if I were to squint just so, and reach out with my feelings like Luke, ten years never passed at all. Still weirded out, I made my way across the street and over to the site of my first job.

Wall to Wall Comics was the most fun I ever had while collecting a paycheck (I'll qualify that by saying all 4 of my jobs in this life have been awesome, but none of them left an uninterrupted smile on my face like this little corner of geekdom!. It had it all. Comics galore (fed the habit for 4 years while I worked in that place… the additions I’ve managed to make to my 37 long boxes of comics since then seem infinitesimal by comparison!), a big screen TV that played the holy trilogy everyday for the first 6 hrs of my shift and a miniature arcade, which permitted me to school little kids at X-Men Children of the Atom (Over and over and over and over again… Dude I was the master at that game!).

4 years I spent in that place; these days it’s an empty slot, eager to be filled by some mom and pop operation. It wasn’t until I paused and stared into its vacancy that I realized my 10 yr reunion looms large around the corner.

In my mind’s eye, I flashed ahead, and imagined what it would be like to see those whose friendship didn’t survive the passage of time; that’s about when it hit me. What happens when I’m asked the million dollar question: so what are you doing these days? I can regale and deflect with stories of what I’ve done and been, or razzle dazzle with what I intend to become, but what am I now? Whole lotta’ nothing that’s what; my past, and what I hope to be my future are easy for me to see.

I’ve always been really good at looking forward or back in time… still suck at the now. Harper says I’ve been banking experience and living life, and that most people don’t have my kinda stories to tell; on some level I’m sure he’s right, but still. There’s a difference between talking about doing and doing; Guess that's why the fire under my ass has burned a little hotter in the hours since!
-P-

DC in the heezy

2008-10-21T18:18:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 4-6-05

This past Sunday, Team Dirty Cash (my bad ass paintball team) competed in our first five man tournament of the season; the story in its entirety however begins at around 8 pm Saturday night.

A few entries back I mentioned that a friend of a friend is a friend. Well that’s true in the sense that it’s how I roll; but, among those walking outside my circle of family, the same cannot be said… See I have this habit of keeping my word, even at a cost to my own well being; Something about promises made being promises kept (whatever that means right?). I made this skate video premier happen I incurred the cost, I handled the gear, the location and by proxy found a struggling cinematographer freelance work to bury the lean times. What do I get in return you ask? Empty promises clearly my least favorite kind. I was promised and I quote, “I’ll do your next two gigs for free.” The first and definitely the simplest gig in that two pronged commitment was the filming of a full days worth of gaming, so that we may commit an edited version of it to DVD for the purposes of procuring sponsorship for our fledgling team (now I grant you, we didn’t have the best of days in terms of game winning play so the flake was probably meant to be, but that’s not the point!).

When I spoke to him around 8 pm Saturday evening he wasn’t busy… but by 11; 3 hours later he filled my ears with excuses (now I’m a reasonable guy, and gas money and car trouble are legitimate issues… but I’m intuitive enough to know when someone’s just too lazy to hop in their car before say 10… In fact I’m supremely guilty of late sleeping and I MADE THE 6:15 CHECK IN: SO I EXPECT NO EXCUSES FROM THE GALLERY!). Personally, I tend to adhere to this code, that the first time is generally free, and this is no different, the only thing that really chaps me about the whole mess is the way it forces me to break the promises that I’ve made, and that’s just not my style!

Anyhow, dawn breaks well before I’d like to see it; the same way it always does, and I’m forced to get up by the call to duty. Before long I’m dressed in my wargear and well along my way to the Paintball Park on the edge of creation; my old roommate Hyder, his wife and most of the team that has rendezvoused at the old apartment convoy in tow. The morning was brisk to say the least when we arrived, and after 2 hours of formalities had concluded the fun began. We played hard, won little, but worked toward behaving like a team (this was the first 5 man competition DC had ever competed in, so obstacles were to be expected!) Of the 5 of us, only 4 were fixed into membership, and as the day waned on, it turned into a casting call for our fifth man. Blissfully that fifth man is a dear friend of mine, my limey: Covington Frost. By days end he was our guy. The logic behind that was as simple as his support and commitment to the game and the team (he came out to B.F.E. to cheer us on, when nobody else did; just because he knew his boys needed the support).

The games themselves were fast and furious, and I loved it. Rec. ball will never be the same! Our next event is sometime in mid June, and I’m eager to see how much better we play with a solid roster. Consequently, Covington is the envy (that’s English major for bastard) of the team with his shiny new DM-5 that he managed to buy before days end? must be nice (don't worry, there's nothing shabby about my arsenal, My tricked out A-5 and my Auto Cocker custom do just fine, I'm just sayin’.)!

Truth is I had a pretty great week! From U2, to the Synopsis premiere, to the opening tourney of the season, it looks like it’s gonna be one hell of a summer, and I haven't even left for TX yet!

-P-

The KA return to the lonely road

2008-10-21T18:17:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 4-2-05

Albany Springfield has always been like a little brother to me. We walked some hard roads together growing up, and though he thinks of himself as a dim beacon, he has always been the bright light at my moral center. When I was teen... shortly after my old man split I joined the Mormon cult (sort of kidding). The reason isn't particularly a question of doctrine so much as necessity. See my mom's only job in this country was the task of my rearing, and when the time came for her to pursue gainful employ, I was left to my own devices.

Call it weakness, or fear; to be honest whatever you call it doesn't particularly matter... I needed a structure by which to self govern cause I feared without the excuse of my patron deity I would slip into the pie chart of statistics I was trying to avoid. During my time on the prison of pews in my local ward I found a kindred spirit in a scrawny little smartass whose mom had been stricken with a severe case of BITCH (good news is as of this writing she has left the state for the mother-ship we call Utah... for some reason a song from the wizard of Oz about a witch is playing in my head; go figure). We became inseparable (you can’t imagine how many ass whippings I spared him over those years… you really can’t) until he moved away during my sophomore year of HS. We never lost touch, even as the church departed from my better graces. Hell I was best man at his wedding (Even though I wasn't allowed into the temple for the actual ceremony.) So I see Albany as often as I can, and usually when we get together a bike ride or death match on Halo2 tends to ensue... Today was one of those days that's too beautiful for staring blithely into a monitor while hammering at buttons, so we made for the sandy shores of our surf filled youth.

Riding bikes is nothing new to our friendship; we used to spend all of our free time mountain biking at Smokey Stables until the street lights came on. We were on bikes so much we even had our own little riding crew the illustrious KA (ok not So illustrious, we named ourselves the KA because over the course of one particularly hot summer we carried packets of Kool-aid in our pockets; stopping often at the fountains to fill our mouths with water and powder... in those moments we became the KA or Kool-aid's.. I know lame now but we were bad ass at the time!) So today we took our sweet bikes out of our respective garages and returned to the highways and byways of downtown Huntington Beach for exercise and an old fashioned reminisce. Now Albany is the most pious man I’ve ever known, and so the theological debates between us usually tread in at a hefty depth. We started talking about the Mormon Temple (to which I still bear a shunned beef over the wedding.) and he told me a few things that touched me: 1st thing he said was he puts me on the prayer roll every time he goes. IF ANYONE ELSE IN THIS WORLD SAID THAT TO ME I'D ASK WHAT THEY WERE SELLING! Not Albany though; we've spilt the same blood in the same mud, and the depth of our familial bond is obvious in his attempts to sway the lord to my favor. The second was a bit more heart wrenching for me... apparently he misses the days when it was us against the world every Sunday; and you know what, I miss those days too. Now that being said, I’m the sheep that got away and turned into a wolf, so my return is about as likely as a blizzard in hell, but I’m once again moved by his friendship!
Anyway enough of the sap! As we were cruising on our badass cruisers we stopped for a breather and this old man walks by with this shirt that says, "ABORTION IS GENOCIDE," besides the obvious ignorance of that statement I can tell you right now without a doubt that he should have been a BJ! Once again the allegedly religious have gone out of their way to illustrate something I’ve always known: I am over whelmed by the uncommon stupidity of the common man.

I stare at all these cute girls walking by with their boobs hanging out while I sip my Jamba juice and point out Catalina. As I ponder these things, I wonder why I fail to connect to these people; why the friend beside me is more family than most of my blood, and why everyone else outside my concentric circles of friend-family seems so distant to my own humanity...

Ever think about things too much? I do, and this was a good day.

-P-

Um… my streets have names…

2008-10-21T18:15:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 3-31-05

To all the U2 fans in the audience I say,” Hello, hello.” Just so everyone is in the know, last night my pal Flash took me to see U2 in San Diego. It was equal parts science project and belated birthday present; here’s why:

U2 has never been a stand out. For some reason every time I read an interview or turn on the radio, someone is constantly singing the praises of two bands; who have never spoken to me. These two bands without exception are U2 and Radiohead. Now this is not to say that I have no affection for any of their music, because I do. It is simply to say I have NEVER understood what all the fuss was about! Flash being the rabid U2 fan that he is did what any good friend does when they love something: he shared it with a new audience, or in my case, exposed the band to me in a setting other than occasional radio play on KROQ. Being the kinda guy that I am, I always wanna know what it is I’m missing, and I’ve tasked those closest to keep me in the know; and to a great extent Flash did.

-Rant Alert-

An aside on the mentality of lines; patiently we stood, eager and hungry for the blaring tones of wailing vocals layered over the top of a three piece band. Everybody in line I would assume wants the same thing; Right? Wrong, everybody in line wants to be an A hole! From the passed their prime idiots in front of us who kept making fools of themselves on camera (A news crew was present, and these morons were trying to ham it up for the lady reporter who pulled the short straw) to the damned stoners behind me who kept stepping on the backs of my shoes (THE LINE WASN’T EVEN MOVING), I (we) were barraged by dumb-dumbs; left, right and center! (Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest I feel better, don’t you?)

-Rant Concluded-

So the line starts moving something like 30 minutes after the gate was supposed to open, and we begin our languorous journey to the front (Imagine a line for a ride at Disneyland gone wrong, assuming they ever go right? once you have that image firmly in mind, picture Flash tripping over something every 4 feet or so? if the moving pictures on the other side of your mind’s eye aren't funny, stop take a deep breath and try again until they are; trust me.), wading through the trash these savages have filled the street with until we hit the security check in. After a quick frisking by a chick in a yellow jacket, we're free to enter the arena. I’m at the wrist band table, when low and behold my good fortune strikes again; but when I turn around to tell flash about it he's nowhere to be found. That’s alright cause to be honest I had no idea what I had won... in my mind it coulda’ been a car or something, the look in Flash's eyes told me different; somehow he already knew. Apparently I won all access to the foot of the stage or the, Bomb Shelter, as Bono called it, for myself and a guest.

One pit stop and two beers later we were listening to the Kings of Leon; who I must add were pretty damn good. Skinniest kids you've ever laid eyes on to be sure, but really good all the same. Beside me Flash is just amped to see his favorite band up close and personal, and before long, I must admit so was I.

24 hours before this moment I would've happily told you to, "F the house that Bono built," but there waiting patiently against the stage with an open mind and a critical eye the lights dimmed?

Between the two here’s what I saw:

The stage set up was pretty meager in my opinion. There was all this hoopla about these lights and how special they were, but when it came down to seeing them, they were kinda lame and distracting. The only exception to that sentiment was the image of a man walking. Having been an AV guy myself, I realize how crazy that would be to program and I was a bit awed by the mastery of it. All in all though, I found the raising and lowering of these strands of lights anything but seamless, as they detracted from what was going on with the band.

The Edge has more stage presence than Bono I'm sorry to all the fans in the audience but he does. His guitar work was awesome, and to be honest I think he has a better voice as well, but like any great duo (Tyler, Perry for example) you can’t have a band without the both of them. While we're on the subject of voice, Bono's is slipping fast. He looked and sounded awfully haggard for the second gig of a world tour (Please send that hate mail to Jonin21@Gmail.com or post a comment on this blog!)! The bass player whose name escapes me at the moment seemed like the only one having any real fun. Somehow he managed to spend the entirety of the show with this sort Cheshire pre grin that longed to crest into this I can't believe how much being in a band rocks smile. Something about the energy of that ear to ear tooth fest was very cool to me. The drummer drummed, and he did it well?

Now to the music; (Just so you know I boned up on the catalog before I went.) The music I knew was really good. From Sunday Bloody Sunday to Elevation. The execution of the music was tight and well performed. The new stuff however reminds me a bit of new music from the Cure: tired and past its prime. Vertigo kinda blows. It sounds like this rehash of old musical styles, and lacks any of the innovation that seemed to fill all the albums that preceded it. Maybe it's because Bono is too busy being political (I can't tell you how weird it was to hear him quote King and Mandela between songs. In fact while I'm on the subject, I'm still not entirely sure of its authenticity... If he's everything he claims to be then I'll support the band for that reason alone; question is: Is he?) Now I know the diehard's have probably stopped reading, but for those of you still on board, riddle me this: Why don't bands fade away before they start to suck?

The size of the audience tells me that throngs of fans from sea to shining sea love the band, and to be honest on the surface I get how they could, but in terms of me little has changed. Their music is pretty good though sometimes misses me with all the proselytizing. Generally I love when people have something to say, but after last night I think Bono's already said it. Maybe the time has come to retire to duties with the World Bank and leave the music to the Kings of Leon? I'm just sayin’.

-P-

PS. In case I was unclear with the preceding, I had a blast, we both did. And in spite of all of the above I thought the experience was awesome, and I am supremely grateful for the opportunity to criticize it!

Asher Turnaround <---not a rookie

2008-10-21T18:14:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 3-31-05

The friend of my friend is my friend. Harper has this buddy who’s a pro skater and a cinematographer named Daryl. I was introduced to this man because of our mutual desire for film careers and the short film I intend to direct later this year (more info on that to come). From the moment we started talking about the project I liked the guy, though he was clearly jaded by what I can only assume is a constant barrage of would be auteurs who, filled with dreams and best intention don’t follow through; so I knew I had some proving to do, and when the opportunity arose I seized it.
See Daryl had filmed a skate video, and was looking for a venue and the proper gear with which to premier it. Harper knew my industry connections were the right ones for the job and gave me a call. In a few hours I had secured the gear but that wasn’t enough. Daryl needed a better location so we scouted the Long Beach Convention Center, and settled on an area in front of the performing arts center; one problem… there was no way we could legally use it…

Undaunted by that obstacle the planning began, I printed up a fake Matrix work order, and posted all of Paul’s personal contact info incase I needed to prove to a cop or local employee I had the needed permission. After that I prepped my staff: Harper, Daryl and Booker with our cover story:

“The convention center has contracted us to air this skate documentary to potential vendors in the hopes of getting them to sign on for the Extreme Sports Expo, being held in the convention center in late April.”

And with that we were off and running.

Something you should probably know about me: I always have a backup plan, or 12; because I hate getting caught with my pants down. I’m this way partly by nature, and partly by experience? fate can be a cruel mistress if you test her.

We weren’t on site two minutes before the cops showed up, and our cover was so seamless I thought they were gonna stay and watch; with our fear of being shut down behind us we pulled not one, but two showings. The turnout was not as large as we hoped, but advertising wasn’t my gig so I take no responsibility for that whatsoever.

Daryl I think is finally convinced that I don’t mess around. Up to the moment when the projector fired an image onto the screen I think he still had his doubts; he was constantly calling me and questioning me, terrified that I wouldn’t come through? And though frustrating I get why. This was his moment with his baby, and if he’s to show any respect to me and mine then he needs to know that I’ll do the same for him. To my credit I think I did, and I had a fairly good time doing it. Honestly this has been a hell of a week, and it’s not even Wednesday. Some really great stuff is just around the corner, and I can’t wait.
As to my film I’m looking to start filming in mid June. It’s going to be a 15 minute short, shot on 35 mm in roughly 3 days (maybe 4 for pick up shots) If anyone who reads this blog lives in So-cal, and has any interest in working on a film, I encourage you to E-mail me at Jonin21@Gmail.com with a resume if crew and a bio for actors. I’ll keep you posted as the dates loom ever closer.

-P-

Bang - bang Freeze

2008-10-21T18:13:00.002-07:00

Originally Posted 3-31-05

I haven’t played paintball for almost 2 years. A few blog’s ago I mentioned injuries to my neck and shoulder, and they are the dominant reason why. See I used to be an AV technician for a company called Matrix AV. During my first year in their employ, their owner (A slimy fellow by the name of Paul Motal) tasked me to tear down a show alone; after reading the specs on the gear I was to strike, I pleaded with him for an extra pair of hands on the gig. He refused, sighting the expense of paying two men overtime, and promised me that the client would be there to help. Promises, promises, promises, that’s all this man ever makes are empty promises. By the time I arrived the client was long gone. Though he did me the solid of returning most of the gear to its cases, I was still a little fish on a big f-ing hook. Now I’m a broad guy, and I managed to hoof most of the gear without incident, but on my second to last trip to the truck something terrible happened! With my right arm I secured two large scale projectors that were in stacked/wheeled cases, and with my left I elevated the lift gate. These projectors while cased probably weighed 2 or 3 hundred pounds apiece, and when they rolled off the lift gate under the truck, I was along for the ride. My body spun so fast that a disk in my neck was herniated from the whiplash; the force that tugged on my arm was so extreme that my trapezius tore almost instantly causing moderate nerve damage… As you can probably imagine I was pretty F-ed up.

My kingdom for an employer worthy of loyalty; I was promised that I would be cared for, and not to worry. So in spite of the pain after three months of being confined to my room I returned to work; I was promoted even. I became management, (a position I was heading to before the injury) and took a desk job. Having been a tech I was really good at it, because of the practical knowledge I brought to the table… It was all a sham.

Statute of limitations on an injury is 1 year; I got hurt on May 24th, 2003. On the morning of March 24th, 2004, I got a termination call; someone had missed the fine print and blown their wad early. An hour later I had lawyered up. I’m a young guy, and I’ve always been active, so the prospect of losing most of the strength in my dominant arm for life spirals me into a realm of pissed off you can’t possibly imagine.

So two years pass; every step of the way I’m in rehab and physical therapy, eager to regain the arm I’ve lost, everyday fighting a legal battle with the employer who would’ve happily knifed me in the back and fired me after my year was up. During this time my buddy Hyder Maricopa (a man who I introduced to paintball and my subsequent wingman on the field) founded Team Dirty Cash. I’ve been a founding member for two years, and for the entirety of that time I’ve been on injured reserve.
Earlier this month my case was settled, on or around the same time a new season of tournaments started. So I came off the bench eager to use my dead arm again; but I didn’t want the big game to be the first time I picked up a gun so this last weekend, Hyder, and a few of our friends put me through the paces playing some rec. ball. Most of my skill sets remained, and it was like riding a bike, but I lacked the strength to hold my gun for a prolapsed period of time, and failed to make it through a full day of gaming. This coming Sunday is the big game and I’m anxious to play, but terrified to fail! Wish me luck!

-P-

Cancer: The retarded cost of living

2008-10-21T18:13:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 3-18-05

Today has been a weird day; not weird bad, just weird. At the time of this writing, I am sitting in a hospital recovery room beside a window that is far taller than it is wide. In the court yard below, blades of tall grass, roll in herded patterns against the wind; as I begin to drift off, a tiny rabbit hippity hops across my field of vision in long tranquil strides. I hide my fears in my reflection. To my right a stack of monitors thrum and click while my mom snores the day away in a morphine drip.

Two hours ago she underwent, invasive surgery to prevent the onset of cancer (by the way; at what point did cancer become the new black? Did I miss an F-in memo, 47% of Americans will fight cancer in their lifetime… It’s an F-in epidemic, and nobody seems to be talking about it!). Seeing a pillar of strength like my mom lie pale and semi conscious beside me daunts and humbles my resolve in a way that my vocabulary fails to repeat. When I was young (a place farther and farther away it seems!), I regarded my mom as a giant; the way we think of gods as big; and if you dear reader knew half of the darkness this woman stood up to, and beat back in my lifetime, you’d fill the saddle of your jeans! So trust me when I tell you how unsettling it is to see her enfrailed from threats to her mortal coil.

All I can say is F cancer, F that noise in the neck. Recently it has struck viciously into my circle. Other than my mom, Gwen (#6 of my 7) was recently diagnosed; even my old boss was forced to serve up his dangling bits to the dark god’s of carcinoma (oh yeah... F gravity while we're at it); and he’s not much older than I am…. In fact if I’m not mistaken Gwenny is a few years my junior (WTF!), how messed up is that? What have we as a race done so wrong as to incur the wrath and revolt of our own bodies? Is it the food we eat (maybe)? Are cell phones or the internet to blame (probably)? Whatever it is, it needs to stop right f-in now! How many candles lit in the name of a life must we prematurely blow out while this epidemic goes unnoticed?

I’ve got an idea for our “Boy (he said sarcastically),” in the white house. Since he likes war so much, maybe he could spare the tribes of the desert and declare war on cancer. He’ll have a much better time waging a war against an enemy we CAN identify; I’m sure of it.

Obviously I wrote the above in a beleaguered state. It however is my distinct pleasure to inform you that my madre is out of the woods. She was released from the hospital yesterday, and she begins her 6 weeks of labor intensive recovery as we speak? I can’t tell you how relieved I am that she’s alright!!!!

-P-

Singing a song of seven birds (part I)

2008-10-21T18:10:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 3-2-05

So here we are, finally ready for my list of seven. I warn you now, thiswill probably be longer than any blog I’ve ever blogged before; so what I mightdo is break it into two entries covering the first 3 and the last 4. That’s theplan at the moment, but I haven’t written anything yet so who knows it may turnout to be more or less of an undertaking than I’ve imagined.
Also you’ve probably noticed no band is listed, that’s because each of thesewomen has a track that is specific to them… some of them two or three, so Iwill list them and listen to them as they pertain to my subject. So withoutfurther ado – let’s get to it!

Dawn Burnett (Another Pseudonym folks) was the first girl I ever loved. I’msure that would ring a bit odd to an onlooker from the time, seeing as I actedlike I hated her the first time I ever set eyes on her. In my defense, that’show it was done in those days for my Freddy’s. It was high school, a time whenyoung men like myself are still at war with the awkwardness of their skin. Soit should come as no surprise that I teased this girl I would grow to adore,just so I could have a reason to talk to her.

As the first year of HS wore on, we became friends, and by my second we wereinseparable, best friends, thick as thieves... But by the time I started tonotice the fact that what I was feeling was more than friendship, it was toolate. It was a nonstarter. She had a senior for a boyfriend, and though I wasfeeling more than a crush, I wasn’t the sort to intrude on a regularlyscheduled program already in progress. So I sublimated; kept my feelings on thedl, too much ugly stuff was going on in my non-school life to chance loosingsomeone who was by my side all the time crush or not.

Besides, he was a senior; it was bound to come to an end long before wegraduated (or at least so I hoped), maybe I still had a shot. So when his Senioryear came around, and the inevitable break-up happened, you know what I did?Nothing. Having her, sharing those four words between us, was at the time, themost important thing in the world to me… but for some reason they broke up, andI still wasn’t ready. Now in my defense, I wasn’t ready to open up to anyone.There was nothing exclusive about my reluctance. In fact, If I’m being reallyhonest here: She had a better shot than most!

What I did as an alternative though, that was perhaps the dumbest thing Ihad ever done before or since: I hooked her up with an upperclassmen friend ofmine…

Sure you can ask why. I know I did; asked it for years to follow. And bestas I can tell the answer is because I was stupid, stupid, stupid (among high-schoolers dumb isn’t so much a disease buta constant)! Lucky for me he too graduated before we did; only problem was nowshe was with a friend not just some jerk-off upper class-men I could take orleave. So when he left, guess who the only guy he trusted to watch out for his girlwas?

Yep, you guessed it: me. So imagine me, Mr. Loyalty first caught in anuntenable position. What was I supposed to do? Honor and loyalty mean more tome than anything. Without them we (I) have nothing. So I do the only thing Ican: I bite my lip and try and forget. A year passes, and not I’m a Senior;high school’s ruling class and we’re still inseparable – so much so, that in spite of how I felt I hadstarted giving up on the hope that we would ever be together. Compound theproblem with the fact that a girl-friend of mine had fixed me up with hersister and we started having a really great time together (it may surprise youbut I dated a lot in HS, I was single after all, regardless of my heartsintention).

Then in March of 96 we had this dance at Knott’s Berry Farm. Dawn wanted togo, and I was already taking Becky (my friends little sister) so after a longtalk with the already in college boyfriend, he agreed to let me take two dates.I was rolling all pimp and shit. Imagine how confusing something like thatwould be for a guy, hell for anyone in this situation. On one arm the girl Iknew I loved since freshman year, the other around the little cutie that wasmaking me forget. I was living a dream, so why did I feel like fate’s wishbone.‘Cause that’s what I felt like: a wishbone, ready to break in twain with theslightest pressure. What follows is an un edited (except for the names ofcourse) excerpt from my journal at the time, the writing style will likely seemfamiliar, but bear with the spurts of melodrama, Remember I was actually youngonce, and this is as close to proof as you’re likely to get.

-Asher’s first journal, March 1996 (Unabridged)-
"I have decided to sit down and chronicle the events of what is tocome. I have feelings that may forever change my friendship with Dawn. As longas I’ve known her, I have felt something indescribable. My life has been fullof trial, but I think I can shoulder this; it is new territory and I’mmortified (that’s a new feeling!)! Tonight I told Darwin of my feelings? Thejerk slapped me, personal reminder: in case I forget, this will not gounpunished.

Tonight I had planned to ask Becky out, but I realized without letting myfeelings for Dawn run their course I can never be true. **You can't imagine howawkward a night that was!** Dawn and I held hands? I liked that! **Actually asI recall Dawn grabbed my free hand while my arm was around Becky. My mom was inEurope at the time so I had the house and the car to myself, this playedprominently into the fact that I had two dates, and gave me the opportunity toprovide the ever ubiquitous ride home.** Here’s where things get interesting;on my way to take Dawn home, she scared me. She asked me who **among ourfriends** would’ve liked to be with her if Badger **her BF** was not? BUSTED; Ifessed up. When we got to her house she leaned over to kiss me: the real kind,but dumb ass that I am I turned away. My heart is elated and I flinched. God Ifeel lame. Lame and confused, I smell a winner!?

Today I was at their house. I could tell something was nagging at Dawn so Iinquired. She said she was afraid I would, “kick her in the jimmy,” to the curbI mean. I’m so scared I crack jokes even in my writing. I told her I love her,but I don’t think she really knows. I’ve decided to follow my heart in the mosthonorable way possible; I don’t want to betray Badger’s trust with my actions:side note; guess that’s why I turned away.

Jessica **Kerrington** tried to kill herself yesterday; I just found out.Bad timing for matters of the heart! My emotions are rampant. Since this beganI have not slept or eaten much, I’m afraid things will change irrevocably, **afraid**that what I told Dawn when **she brought up** the issue of what’s on my mind waspressed.

Then it happened, she asked if she can love 2 people? My God my heart almostburst, but now I feel guilty, Badger’s my friend (moral dilemma alert!).

I have not written in two days; I could barely make sense of my thoughts letalone make them legible? I’m sort of lost on a sea of emotion. Man that soundsmushy! I’ve decided to record anything poignant instead of everyday.

I’ve been numb for days; we talk on the phone about everything and nothingall at the same time, then today a breakthrough. She told me I was her choice.Wow that felt, "Cest encreable."

Today it was taken away. Badger called crying so she changed her mind, Ifeel broken alone and empty, oh so empty. I cried she saw I feel like a loser!I’ve decided not to write anymore. I told Draw I was going to destroy this, butI just could not bring myself to do it.

It’s a Monday, this past Saturday we went to Knott’s. Dawn and Badger went;seeing them together/all over each other really hurt. Sam’s presence was likesalt on an open would **Sam was a girl I dated sophomore year who I laterlearned to hate**. Then things got weird, Badger told me he suspected Chavez ofcoming between him and Dawn **He didn’t know it was me, or maybe he did and wasjust fishing... looking back I wonder**; I was ready to come clean, but Ididn’t.

I feel like crap!

Today Dawn has begun avoiding me. I know it’s tough, but I really love her!In light of the callous behavior at Knott's I’ve decided to try to move on,though the mere thought kills me!

Today the silent treatment began; no talk no looks, I think Reiter **SaraReiter; a girl friend of Dawn’s** has a hand in this but I’m not sure. It killsme that she’s ignoring me, but I’ll give her time.

Today is Friday; I made contact with her. A note detailing her anger **waspassed to me** I was shocked and appalled; I moped all day, in photo I evencried. M **Emily** saw, people don’t need to see that. The subject matter isall the more painful, how she believes I could soil anyone’s integrity withslander is beyond me; but sex of all things **her plan was to get rid of theboy everyone thought of as squeaky clean by making out like I was spreadingrumors about us in the sack. This was at the height of my Mormonism, before thefall so I was still chased and strangely proud of it, and everybody and theirmother knew it wasn’t true! Not that, that stopped them from spreading it, justthe opposite, it was the impossibility of it all that made it so news worthy**I’m furious that anyone would say things like that, and I’m disappointed thatshe could **would** believe it. But questioning my loves sincerity andexpressing regret of it is unconscionable. I want to die **not a cry for help,I was just being melodramatic on paper to myself**, but not before I find thedefiler **SEE**!

Today is Sunday, as I sit in the church choir I’ve decided to confront therumor openly **on** Monday, and secondly I’m considering this as evidence of mysincerity, it’s a little personal, but necessary. I make no apologies foranything that is written here **I started talking directly to her in thatmoment in the hopes that she would read my journal; She didn’t**, I only wishyou could understand. If you feel these words are insincere then you are freeto terminate our friendship?
Regrettably yours Asher.

-P-

P.S. A note attached you wrote; ask yourself if the person you describe iscapable of saying these things, **if so** then the love you spoke of was fake;but as much as I wish mine was insincere to make your treatment of me easier,it was not! I have never loved someone as I have loved you. I held it in for along time; I thought I saw it in your eyes looking back at me. But love canonly be given; it is painfully not requisite that it is returned. It has beenmore pain than it was worth, and I was right, things did change. I hoped ourfriendship was stronger! I am truly sorry to burden you with something soapparently worthless as my heartfelt affection.
Can you tell I was really wrapped up in all this? Sufficed to say I wascrushed when everything ended; crushed but not ignorant? I learned a thing ortwo in the process. There’s a circumstance that was omitted from the journal, Iguess because I wrote it to myself so I knew certain facts that may elude youthe reader. See part of the reason I lost this girl (or so I think) is becauseI wouldn’t sleep with her, I was posed the request and denied it for religiousreasons. Because there were things I wouldn’t give up for her, this girl Iallegedly loved so dearly, she didn’t buy it and ultimately went out of her wayto destroy my good name (which was really all a child that age has.) so thathurt, coupled with the concept of loyalty to a friend vs. loyalty to the heartbecame a huge theme in my early writing and was the emotional foundation forthe opus I had started in my head. If I had given in to temptation, and goneagainst what I believed in (regardless of my current issues with the faith, andwillingness to F.), I would have started a trend of bending on everything forevery pretty face that turned my way. In the end she taught me how to lovewithout getting lost, a lesson that would shape relationships to come.
As a strange side note, we met one day after class in college, and I had thesecond chance I thought I always wanted; to make things right with my firstlove? Funny how much you 9 months of suffering can chord steel in your heart."Too much water had passed under the bridge," I told her, and walkedon? And like that a four year chapter of love and friendship had closed. Onlythe circumstance of my main character would survive as a testament to the firsttime love graced me; she married Badger a year later. Life’s funny huh? Alrightso I lied, this entry was longer than I had expected, so what I guess I'll dois for the next few weeks I will submit one of my 7 and we'll play it by ear.

How can Duke still be in that coma? I swear he does this every time!

2008-10-21T18:09:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 2-12-05

I’ve spent most of my alone time in the last few months converting and painting squads of miniatures for my 40k army. In my defense, I’m not the only one doing this; between a few of my buddies and harpers kid, It’s a group effort; though it can be said I’m all if not part of the reason everybody listed does it. In any case, my penchant for what the uninitiated call “toys” shakes more than a few heads in my crew.

So when Daphne and I were in bed talking and she asked me why I’m so into painting miniatures, I got to thinking… To begin with, in the months since I injured my neck and shoulder, its been one of the few things other than reading and writing that keeps me going (Don’t get me wrong I’ve been more than a casual observer since the mid nineties, but my efforts have definitely over doubled since I got hurt.) while those closest to me do the 9 to 5; I don’t think that’s entirely it though.

Seems to me there are 3 major factors (four if you count my basic fondness for creative geekery.) first is the universe is really cool, and I like it enough to let my imagination roam its halls when it tires of worlds of my own (think of it as a vacation without really going anywhere.). Second is that it keeps me connected to a friend serving on foreign soil. It’s the geek equivalent of rappers pouring one out for the homies (except of course he is very much alive, and carrying a f-ing sword I might add.). The third reason however is a story (big surprise huh?); for some reason the question brought me to a memory I haven’t consulted since the summer before the 6th grade.

I remember it like it was yesterday. It all started sometime in or around the winter of 88; I was in the 5th grade. It was the year of the GREAT G.I. JOE WAR. 6 of us; two teams of 3 on 3, each with sizable collections of action figures and vehicles wanted to emulate the recently released G.I. JOE the movie; so we crafted rules and readied our forces for mock combat. We had until the first day of summer to amass our troops. And let me tell you, boy did we. We all raided our toy chests for miscellaneous guns and backpacks to equip our boys with. No stone in my house went unturned. It was during this time that I nagged my mom day in day out for just about every expensive toy in the Hasbro catalogue. To her credit, she made me pay in trade with menial chores and good grades, so in a sense we both won. So I had all these toys and I supplemented my armies with constructs I had made out of wood with my dads (and I use the term loosely!) tools while he was at work (Beatings followed but hey, story of my life.). My two generals and myself crafted these elaborate schemes, and spent weekend after weekend leading up to the big day filling my garage with bunkers and booby traps. We were all but ready, but something in my mind was missing; I needed an avatar, something to represent myself among the little plastic men. On Feb. 14, 1988 (my B-day) a close friend and one of the opposing generals got it for me. Hasbro was offering a personalized JOE. I eagerly filled out the info card and sent it in. A month later the mini me, had arrived to lead my mighty army of JOE?s to victory.

Truth be told the war was rife with problems from the start. First were the less than agreeable rules of engagement, and the second was my garage was impenetrable? No amount of backyard and makeshift fort could possibly make the game even, I know that now (hell I’m sure I knew that then but I digress.). Despite the many obstacles the war still happened in a series of weekends, and to this day I still remember it as one of the highlights of my childhood. One of those rare moments where kids being kids did something epic in their little lives. It was also a hard fought goodbye to childish things. It was a year before middle school, a time when toys became baby stuff while girls and skate parties were the rage. I think we all said our goodbyes that summer. Most of those friendships didn’t last the coming years, for some because geography changed as parents moved. For others time just moved on, that’s the clocks job: to keep ticking when you wish it would stop, right? Anyway it was a goodbye that part of me was (has) never been ready for.

I’m sure that’s why 40k is so strangely important to me. It’s a tunnel of nostalgia that leads me back to the summer of 88, when kids could still be kids and the greatest worry we owned was how to replace the rubber band on a fallen JOE. During that next year, in secret; I started to dislike the body of my personalized figure, so I began to cannibalize figures in my collection (ones I had doubles of etc), reassembling them into a form that I would later paint and arm (Call it my first conversion.). So 40k is my way of taking my ability to paint and sculpt, and that unfinished longing from my childhood, and combining them into something both old and new. For some reason that part of me that filled 5th grade heads with grand plans of toys locked in mortal combat still exists. Since I got hurt I’ve been converting and painting another army, for a new campaign I’ve written. This time the count is 26 instead of 6 (what can I say size does matter); a second take I guess on some old school flava (That’s ones for you Mix.).

Now that I think about it, it’s probably the same reason paint balling appeals to me. One more epic struggle between boys playing G.I. JOE as grownups.
Don’t know really why I thought this was worth writing down, must be because I have a birthday coming up, and for some reason getting older reminds me of being young. Hope it stays that way (I bet it will!)!

F.Y.I As to the title; Duke, the JOE?s 1st sergeant was mortally injured and lapsed into a coma during virtually every miniseries, and even did so in the movie? I’m just sayin’ cause’ I wanted you to know.

-P-

Guillermo got f-ing told

2008-10-21T18:08:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 2-12-05

I hate the holidays, too many people with too much baggage trying to cover their disgust for one another with plastic smiles and bad food. I mention that so you’ll know how AWESOME my thanksgiving was! It started like every other thanksgiving, one big ball of suck; that is until I went to Harper’s pad. See he has these white trash neighbors that live downstairs, and apparently their daughter (you know the type girl who wears a top that’s strapless with a bra that isn’t.) had, had a few friends over. Apparently her Hispanic boyfriend was exchanging words with another Hispanic lad over uninvited flirtation with the aforementioned slut. Clearly they had all been drinking outside on the walkway with all this drama as I pulled up.
Harper’s a light smoker and I’ve been trying to get him to quit for years, but wouldn’t you know it, the second I got up to his apartment I told him we needed to go out onto the veranda so he could smoke… puzzled by my enthusiasm for his bad habit he did what anyone would do… he grabbed a cig and asked me why as we walked outside, and boy howdy were we glad we did. My answer to his question was simple… I had this feeling that some next level shit was gonna go down, and I was certain it should not be missed. Surprise, surprise, surprise… I was right. His cig wasn’t even lit before the fun began. Apparently the non boyfriend (we’ll call him Guillermo for identification purposes.) was in the alley yelling and cussing loudly enough to disturb a dad in one of the other apartments, and so he came out to see what all the hub bub was about.

Clearly he didn’t want any trouble; he just wanted to dine with his family in relative peace and quiet. So he comes out and what he says is very simple, he says, “Look son you’re obviously drunk and I know you don’t live around here so take it home.” The punk responds with the cursory FU and still calm and collected he gets a, “boy go home… you have a home go there, I don’t want any trouble.” And with that a drunken Guillermo gets in his face and throws a haymaker that doesn’t connect. The dad still, just looking for some peace takes the kid down gently, puts his knees on the boys chest and repeats his simple mantra: “Boy go home.” He starts to get up as another haymaker is thrown and connects. What happens next was f-ing hilarious. This mild mannered dad dropped back down on the boys chest; in his left hand he twisted the collar of the boys jacket choking him? With his right he threw a blur of punches. They were so fast and hard that Guillermo’s head was bouncing off the asphalt into the oncoming fists of fury. Guillermo struggled meekly as his breath went out of him, and before he passed out completely his flailing arms fell slack and the man stopped hitting him, got up and said, “boy go home,” and this time he did. From the veranda we made like Nelson from the Simpson’s with the, “haw, haw,” as he took his stumble of shame.

Hours passed and we were still laughing at the karma tornado we had witnessed when guess who comes sniffing back around. This time we got a good look at his face so believe me when I say. “DAMN.” The first words that came out of his mouth were beyond priceless? he looks at the girl and says, and I quote, “did you see the way I kicked that fools ass?” I shit you not, so I lean over the veranda with a smirk and tell his girl that what he meant to say was did she see the way he kept hitting that guys fist with his face. She chuckled as he took another walk of shame… you have no idea how much I wish every holiday could go that well!

-P-

When fate says jump

2008-10-21T18:04:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 2-12-05

The last time I really spoke to my father was 14 yrs ago. The court had granted him partial visitation (ain’t justice grand, I think all abusers should have visitation against the protests of the mother and son. No seriously that’s not sarcasm at all officers.) So every Wednesday and every Saturday I would pick my moment, a time when his attentions were gathered elsewhere and run away. Sometimes he found me on my long treks home, others he didn’t and I’d spend the day wandering the streets toward the safety of home. These were the days before cell phones grew on trees so I was pretty much screwed from the moment I started walking. Anyway a few months had passed and something inside me snapped. Psychologists will tell you: when a child is abused, he or she will revert to the age first abused whenever faced by the abuser. So you can only imagine what kind of Herculean task it was to have my balls drop when he was around. To my mom’s credit, she prepared me for this day with a strange foresight. I had been in martial arts since I was very young (around 4 or 5) so I had the means and know how when it came to defending myself … just not historically around him. So like I said, something snapped and out of the blue I turned to him in the car and said FU; you can’t imagine the surprise on both of our faces. As his shock faded he threatened to hit me (a tactic which normally kept me quiet.), so he was doubly surprised when I said it again, this time louder. The threats continued, but as luck would have I kept saying it and something in my belly turned to steel, the defiance of his tyranny got easier and easier with every breath. Eventually he pulled over and told me to get out of the car, so I did. In a moment he was in my face, except he wasn’t. I had a foot on him and 50-60 pounds tops. It was my first year playing football so I was in good shape and somewhere deep down I knew I could take the hit; so there I stood defiant to the last, and you know what happened, he started to shrink. He told me if I said those words one more time he would beat the shit outa’ me, but it was different this time; somehow I had stopped being afraid. So I told him, I said, “do it, hit me. Do that and I win. One look at a bruise on my face and these visits are done.” Then I got in his face and I softly said, “just make sure you knock me out; make damned sure, cause after the first punch I’ll be comin’ to collect on 13 years of pain and suffering, and I’m pretty sure you won’t be walking away!? Weird thing happened, he flinched. He got back in the car like the little wife beating cowardly bitch he was and drove off. He left me alone on the side of the road, miles from home, and we were done. Like that’s all she wrote done, the visits stopped and things went back to relatively normal.

Sure I’ve seen him since; in court during divorce proceedings or on the street, and the reaction has generally been the same. Two magically empowering words leave my lips and he shrivels a bit and slinks away like a little bitch.

I mention this because that letter I got started me thinking. The future is coming up quick, and maybe it’s time I bandaged that emotional sprain and let some of this heavy baggage go, seems like I’ve been carrying it forever. I think fate agrees here’s why: Ever seen the movie With Honors? There’s this scene with Joe Pesci where he arrives unannounced at the home of the son he abandoned, and there’s this moment where his granddaughter asks, “daddy who’s that man?” and the daddy replies, “nobody sweetie… nobody.” Something about that terrifies me. It’s like I know the second I start my family this dark piece of past is gonna come a callin’, and I don’t want that. So what I figure is maybe I should leave a message on the number he left. It’ll detail the specifics for a one time meet, I’ll tell him upfront, friendship and absolution are off the table, so if that’s what he’s after, no dice; but if he has the balls to let me calmly say all the things a child can never voice, I’ll give him the opportunity to say his piece? Whatever that may be. Something inside tells me it’s that last step I need to take to be my own man. A way of finally putting all that darkness to a long overdue rest.

So I’m considering this right? Talking to Harper, Banner and a few of the boys in the know from my squad; like I do when I’m at a cross roads. And like a day later Harper and I are at Kings Pizza when I notice a guy who I’ve known since kindergarten. Friendship passed us by in HS, but we were still cordial. We get to talking and what does he do but ask about my dad. Out of my whole crew only 2 of them have ever seen my father’s face, to most of them he’s some boogie man from one of my stories. Moreover nobody, I mean nobody would ever think to ask about him cause he’s a ghost from my past. So here’s this guy asking this question; now I’m no slouch when it comes to seeing fate pull strings, and this was immediately clear to me. I wasn’t the only one either, Harper saw it too, and it’s been eating me up ever since.

At the moment I don’t think I have the strength to face him or my past like that, but I know a time when I’ll be ready fast approaches. Question is: Am I a man or a mouse? Guess we’ll have to wait and see.

-P-

History is like a mirror; a monkey can’t look in and see an apostle looking back

2008-10-21T18:03:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 2-11-05

I read once that what we are never changes, but who we are, is in a constant state of flux; I’ve always been a storyteller, and a bit of a misfit even now at 26, I read comics, paint miniatures for RPG’s, play video games and write stories for the mediums previously listed. The most important of which is the effigy I use for dealing with the “REAL” world.

When the esteemed George Lucas fell to the taint of the dark side (by pandering to the lowest common denominator) a flood gate opened. The once distant bar became attainable, and a great many things rushed in to grab for that brass ring in the void. What happens when the galaxy stops being so far, far away?

The answer is a lot of things. In some cases what’s old is new again, and the world is reintroduced to greats like Tolkein, Herbert and King (for my money Dune has always been the seminal science fiction.). But in these latter days newcomers like Abnett and Thorpe (40K) have crafted a mythos so ripe with life, that I find myself wanting to trade my light saber for a heavy bolter or a weirding module. Though 9 times out of 10 when I need my fix of space opera I sit down and work on my own.
It all started sometime late in my senior year of High School; as did the first name on my list of 7 (I’ll get to it I promise!). My first love and the crushing blow of its failure forced my pen to paper. Up to this point, most of my waking hours were spent with my head in the clouds. Heroes in pages of comic books, and the heroes I crafted for role play with my friends (think D&D for those of you unenlightened!) had been pushing against the walls of my skull for years; more so after my parents split. But the stories never had that punch until my junior year. I crafted this story about aliens and time travel, and well, it was really good for a kid my age (sure it borrowed on a few things that came before but hey, what hasn’t?).
During most of my high school career I ran a comic book shop, and while there I read everything on the shelves; a habit that has endured to this very day. In doing so I got a feel for how things in that medium were told and I started writing and drawing stories of my own. Most of the time, it was a sort of oral tradition, either as a way for me to run stories past coworkers for input or for use as a campaign setting for our gaming. I got the inspiration for my idea from my favorite Twilight Zone episode called, “To serve man.” Months later when I turned it in to my 11th grade English teacher for review, she encouraged me to illustrate part of it, and eventually it was printed in S.H.A.R.P our literary/ art mag. Before I knew it I was off and running. The quiet little town of my imagination was no longer resigned to a population of one.

While this new maelstrom of ideas was coalescing in my head I fell in love and later watched it go down the tubes? If you knew me then you know that those were dark times (dark and perfect for writing my opus that is.) ideal for seeding the worlds in my mind’s eye. Fact is most of the time when I write my blog, it’s after I’ve reached a stopping point on this or related stories in my grand design. This world (which remains nameless due to paranoia) has been home to most of the writing acclaim I’ve received over the years. In fact the first short story I ever wrote about it won me three of the most important things in my life(all of them monumental, so the ordering isn’t important)? The first was the knowledge that writing was my calling so I switched my major from Psychiatry to English. The second is it saw print in the college paper, so I figured it was pretty alright. And lastly it won the heart of Daphne Fairhope (numbers 2 and 7 on my list - you know, the one I keep promising I’m getting to!).

So I’ve been submitting a portfolio of my writing to submissions editors in a vast array of mediums? Most prominent of which is in the video game industry where I feel the avant guard of storytelling has yet to be born. The only feedback so far is from a friend of a friend who tells me I could be a junior writer in a heartbeat (so I have hope, writers are a confused and insecure lot, so we need/dread feedback!). I know only time will tell, but I remain ever hopeful. I will keep you posted as new info arises to be sure, till then.

Vox et Praeterea Nihil (all I will tell you is it’s Latin, I’ll trust you to sort the translation out yourselves if you care.)

-P-

Elroy makes the baby Jesus cry

2008-10-21T18:00:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 2-11-05

I know I’m a geek and if you didn’t, read my last entry (actually don’t, if my geekery is news to you, get the f-out of my gene-pool, it’s shallow enough as it is.) I grew up on discovery channel and 80’s cartoons, so imagine my surprise when the future came and it resembled the past.

Every child with an imagination was promised flying cars, ray guns and robots.

I’m not greedy so all I wanna know is where the hell my flying cars are.

I mean c’mon Marty McFly had one that traveled through time… I don’t want that (well I do, but again not greedy) I just wanna have a flying car.

All I ever wanted was the promise of space stations and lunar cities and a future that didn’t recycle the past to come true. Sure we have computers, and the internet. And I’m sure Bill Gates even has a flux capacitor, but what about me, what about the proverbial little guy?

Don’t we deserve a better tomorrow today?

Hell even the trekkers will get on board with this one, and most of us hate those guys (except Bill Shatner... he was the mad note)

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: but Asher, we all know the elderly need to die off before we can kick start the future that you’ve got sitting in your garage.

First off I’d tell you you’re right (actually I have a very special member of my crew selected to explain that idea to you), but I have neither the time nor the staff to implement an operation on that scale.

But you know more people would get on board if they weren’t so busy surfing E-bay to recycle their childhoods while getting fat watching reality TV and desperate housewives; I say those people should get the casket along with the old but that’s just me.

I know genocide is off topic a little but while I’m at it I may as well get it all out.

I hate the monumentally stupid (not just the old)… always have.

And never more have I been reminded of this disdain then when I worked in the AV industry. I traveled cross country in a big ford F-450 with a 63 ft. trailer full of gear. The company I worked for furnished the Movie/music/trade show industry with technology, and in my travels I was amazed by the pockets of humanity that wander the mid west and south anxious for opposable thumbs. It was in these wanderings (mostly along the I-10) that I began to mentally masturbate.

Hell I even remember the event that sparked the line of thinking. I was on my way back from Star Wars celebration II (neat how it ties into my last entry huh? Think I planned it or something? If you do you’d be wrong, I’m such a geek that it all comes full circle eventually, it's just a question of when.), in Indianapolis Indiana along the I-35S, when I passed a sign.

I read it twice and by the time it was behind me, I had, had all I could stand of it. It said and I quote: Microsurgical Vasectomy reversal and Botox now available and a phone number ran beneath it.

You need to know that along that stretch of highway there’s nothing? no cows, no people, no running water nothing. Stephen King and T.S. Elliot both romanticized the wastelands, but let me tell you barren straits are eerie quiet and sometime a little unnerving. So I called Harper to bitch about what I had seen and to stay the loneliness.

First who straddles that fence? Either clip my boys or don’t, but I’m pretty sure if it ever came down to making that call it would be a onetime thing.
Two; and botox, goddamn I hope they don’t mix up those needles!

And lastly for whom? I’m in the middle of B.F.E. who’s performing this procedure, there’s nobody here. I’ll bet it’s a pair of hillbillies with a dull knife who’ll lead you into a room with a tub full of ice? You know, the one where you wake up a kidney later with a note on your lap.

So my mind started working on the ultimate solution for the uninitiated among those on planet stupid. Before long I had it: I.Q. bombs. I’m still feeling some resistance from the audience, but stay with me you’ll like I promise. All we need is a device that once detonated wipes out those with an I.Q. below say 115.

The obvious exceptions would be children and vapid busty women ( I have needs and so do you, so I make this concession for us both).

We build two, this way those marginalized by the first blast will be wiped out by the second, and the 500 of us that are left will have plenty of time to repopulate the globe while we build our flying cars.

ASIDE: now some of you out there may think me some sort of mental elitist, and well yeah I am, but I’m not stringent with the rule of thumb. If by some way my I.Q. doesn’t make the grade I’m willing to fade away, I just pray the bomb is dropped east of me so I can see the dumb drop in droves before I fall?

This rant has been brought to you by contempt and spite? For more info on Asher’s mental masturbation keep reading this blog?

Thank you.

-P-

Dude, Han didn't shoot first - he shot only… I was there!

2008-10-21T17:58:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 2-11-05

Why, why, why won’t George Lucas stop making Star Wars films? Hasn’t he pissed on our collective childhoods enough by making the prequels?

I’m just sayin’...

The circles I travel in, we take that question very seriously. There was a time when all we wanted in our lives was a Correllian YT-1300 and a Wookie. A time when hordes of fans existed in an unwavering hate of the Trek (I have no beef with trekkers per se, but the camps before the prequels were divided roughly.)

We were a fan base who loved the mythology and the idea of a swashbuckling space epic. They were cold, rational and scientific nerdlings, eager for visions of space communism in distant futures that could be, not ages past in a galaxy far, far away…

But what has become of us and the golden calf of George's imagination?

We’re all a bunch of post teenagers clamoring for the lost glories of Han and Leia in the south passage. We’ve padded the wallet of Lucas film our whole lives (hell Harper raised a kid on it!). Some of us found our chosen fields because of movies like A New Hope and Empire (which were better then any retouched re-cleaned special edition drek he’s foisting on the kiddies these days!).

Han shot first, Hayden wasn’t a ghost, Jabba made his appearance in Jedi and all was right in the galaxy. Since the release of the prequels all has been mediocre and it hurts me because it doesn’t need to be this way. I just watched the holy trilogy on VHS (I’m a DVD snob, so you can only imagine how backward I feel wiping the dust from an old VCR!); but as soon as I did so, I was a kid again.

There, I said it!

I started my day happy. I was reminded why I started writing, why I long for a job in the film industry, why I dream. There’s no extra exposition; the audience isn’t beaten to death by Qui Gon Jinn's over-explanation about midichlorians… and do you know why? Cause one, we don’t need it, and two we don’t care. Avoiding bounty hunters on Ord-Mandel isn’t important enough to flesh out (in the movies of course, I’m all for the expanded universe; Shadows of the Empire fucking rocked).

When was the last time you stopped to explain anything to anyone… that’s right never, because we live in the real world and everything is short hand; no time gotta move, places to be. It’s charmingly real. Watching Jake Lloyd, stare at the audience, with his hollow little eyes and ask what midichlorians are, drives a stake through my black little heart.

Star wars used to be the Shit.

It was the brand we knew and loved, and I miss those days! Days when I wanted to be Han? days when Banner dreamed of being Luke? In the age of a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, we could be whomever we chose(hey don’t judge I knew a kid who wanted to be Greedo - true story); point is those movies shaped our imaginings when we were young, and I don't see a soul post prequels aching to be Padme or even Anakin.
Can you imagine? Nobody wants to be Anakin!?

Maybe you've heard of him, the Baddest Jedi badass that ever lived; born of the f-ing force (though I'm still not sure how I feel about that last part!). That guy! Who knew he’d turn out to be the kind of whiny little bitch that makes Luke's line about Tashi Station, sound like it was delivered by Barry White?

The Ewok movie had its faults but at least it didn’t rape my childhood!

-P-

P.S. George, god love ya but stop hurting the fans and release the original trilogy on DVD, you’ll make another million rehashing talent that ended 20 years ago. C’mon, do it for the kids.

Blogging in the New Year

2008-10-21T15:53:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 1-10-05

First blog of the New Year (sorry it took me so long... Daphne came to town for the holidays, and I was otherwise engaged.)

Anyway as 04 closes and 05 rings in, my mind wanders through the year past to take note of my successes and failures in an attempt to forge mistake free into the New Year. Now I know mistake free is one of those impossibly lame goals... so I’ll spare you the time; I know the coming year will be anything but mistake free... I'm just trying to keep history from repeating

In terms of successes, I think the most rewarding part of 04 for me has been those closest to me. We've all struggled a bit this year, but without the cast and crew of my life... I'm sure I'd still be toiling away.

So let me break it down:

Without My mom, my girl, my crew, and a chosen few, I would be nothing. It is only through their support devotion and love that I mange to exist, and as with every year that's past they are my successes. That being said there’s so much more I wish I had the power to do for all of them.

It can really daunt me when I realize I’m only one man. I take my friendship/love very seriously, and their struggles are my struggles… So if there was any grace I could pass on to them in the coming year I would! I only hope that in 05 I have the strength to do more than I did in 04.

As to my failures, they all amount to mostly the same thing... I need to work harder, produce more and stride farther if I ever want any of my dreams to come true.
To the hurdles ahead, May we all have the wisdom and speed to surmount them all one at a time! Happy New Year y’all!

-P-

School of Thought

2008-10-21T14:42:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 12-29-04

It's ironic but I find life to be an interesting journey. It seems to be a certain course of events that replay themselves over and over with only the names and places changed to catch you off guard. Follow me on this: High school in its entirety was a gratifying four years for me; not without regret but gratifying none the less. I was a hot shot, my grades were high, I played sports, worked a full time job and had an avid social life; I squandered it all. I rushed to have my body catch up with my mind. My hurry to grow up caused me to lose track of a glorious four years never to have them again. Now that I'm out of college, I find myself dreaming of days past and losing ground in the present.

Issues concerning life and love remain unresolved as I find myself creating more issues for a latter day!

Life is repeating the lesson and I’m only beginning to learn. I find that I have questions about life that are rhetorical; I've either hid from or avoided the answers which lay before me.

Example: Psychology has benefited me immensely (though my grade the first time I took it may illustrate otherwise) I've taken great solace from what I've learned about myself: An abusive childhood coupled with a turbulent adolescence (the loss of my childhood home, and financial stability.) caused me to seek out momentary refuge in worlds of fantasy and fiction. Movies, books, comics, multimedia etc. became playgrounds where my imagination could run rampant. My art and literary talents brought others to my safe havens. This seems to be a matter of contention with those I care about. Characters larger than life doing deeds of heroism, maintaining honor; these are the qualities of an ideal world. Though hampered by evil, good prevails as a constant. Reality seems to be plagued with injustice. Evil doers commit crime without recourse. Rich criminals abuse a system that caters more to their checkbook than, "Truth, Justice, and the American Way."

My childhood remains an odd point of reference. Though the ideal concept of a worry free childhood was lost to me, mine was not without whimsy. Toys and cartoons created avenue's for me to vent a budding imagination. Now that I'm older I seek out things from my past in an attempt to recapture a lost innocence (proving once again that it's not what you keep, but what you threw away and how much you paid... can you say EBay?). My room is filled with toys and trinkets that in some way recapture the child like awe I felt briefly in my youth.

Now I bet you're asking yourself why is he telling me this (maybe you're not, just humor me.)? Simple, I sit before a potential future that offers me a chance to put the lessons I think I’ve learned to the test. I just submitted my work to a video game company for employment as a staff writer... Now I’m not saying it's a lock, but it's something. At the very least it validates the clutter in my room (my thinking on the matter is anyone who reveres childish imaginings as much as I do, is the perfect guy for the job!) If no, then hey one more lesson to undaunt my resolve.

Wish me luck...

-P-

Entropy in Descent

2008-10-21T14:41:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 12-22-04

I haven't written in a few days, I don't know if I should apologize to you the reader, because to be honest I’m not entirely sure you (if you truly exist) give a damn. If those of you out there do care I have good news, sadly at this moment I’m in no mood to tell you about it; here's why:

I wonder how many times the system must fail a child. I ask because I spent most of today pondering that question.

I've watched it fail more than half of my peers, it threatens the son of a friend, and when I arrived home, my memory of its failings were renewed. (before the tirade that follows, I must confess that I had no intention to bitch from my virtual pulpit... truth is I wanted to avail you; my imagined audience with humor and an epiphany about the brightness of the lining that rims clouds... to my chagrin, and probably yours a letter on the stairs to my loft darkened my tone and I'm sorry) My father (sperm donor is more accurate, since nothing he's ever done for me bears mention!) and I haven't spoken in more than a decade( probably couldn't even tell you what he looks like); in fact, this past week was a landmark for me... On this past Tuesday I turned a corner; for the first time in my life, the majority of my years alive have been without his tyranny, and if you only knew what a victory that is, every last one of you would buy me a beer. My childhood plays like this: I lived in fear of a man who openly struck my mother and me.

My first memory of being alive was the sting of a leather belt after biting his daughter from a previous marriage for taking a doll from me(I was 3 ok)... From that moment till the day he skipped I lived in a state of horror that tried to murder my soul, and I’ve been sprained ever since. So I get home and there's this Christmas card waiting for me. There's no return address, a fact I notice as odd immediately, but it could be from my buddy in Iraq so I’m not quick with suspicion. I never in my blackest nightmares would've guessed who it was from.

I've spent my whole life with a view askew because of the scars of my childhood. I have abandonment issues, and as a result I overachieve intensely to insure my value doesn't decline and leave those close to me looking for friendship or love elsewhere (don't worry therapy helped me with all this, I'm just letting you know); I've always known the statistics, and I struggle with every breath not to become one of those numbers.

THERE IS NO PART OF MY CHARACTER OTHER THAN MY ABILITY TO HATE THAT, THAT MAN CAN TAKE CREDIT FOR.

Every dark understanding, every scar, every hurt and F-ed up sensibility I’ve had to work through he exposed me to, and now 14 years later he wants to unburden his sins... I'll tell you what dad," why don't you go play hide and go F yourself!" The balls on this guy; for him to even try to apologize for his sins this late in the game tells me the flame from his candle must be growing dim, and to be honest the thought of his passing warms my black little heart. As to the debt he owes me for a childhood stolen; I say this, "keep your blood money you son of a bitch, use it to buy something nice because when all is said and done it is a debt you can only repay pushing a rock up hill in hell! So spare me your false F-ing regret, no human being who hurts a woman or a child deserves anything more than my contempt.

If you seek absolution, try confession, priests may be obligated to forgive you, but gladly I AM NOT!

-P-

Everybody look busy Jesus is coming

2008-10-21T14:40:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 12-19-04

First let me start by saying I love bible thumpers...

Sure they're misguided, but I tend to treat them with the same sort of mild neglect I reserve for the small town populace of Middle America. Most of them are simple and sweet, but the occasional pamphlet tosser really chaps my ass. Something about a complete stranger’s self righteous indignation and judgment seems to counter the point of a redemptive messiah. Judgmental little god pamphlets make me wanna just pop one of them in the groin and then simply ask," Where’s your god now holy man?" Fact is I don't, but much like my last entry, doesn't mean I don't have the impulse.

So to showcase the kinda rabble rouser I am I go out of my way to expand the minds of the flock. (Before you get all insulted on me, my mom was an interpreter for the pope, so it's not like I’m unfamiliar with the text in question) I'll give you an example: When the movie the Passion came out (You know the one; The Jesus Chainsaw Massacre) I went to see it and to be honest I really enjoyed the flick. What escapes me about it is the alleged revelation of the audience. Most of these people used the movie to further their own religious agenda. They brought prayer groups, handed out pamphlets and proselytized from the bully pulpit. I on the other hand wore a simple black tee shirt. Granted emblazoned on it was a stylized picture of the devils face, and the moniker: "God's busy, can I help?" (I wanted to wear one that had Christ crucified winking with the slogan, Jesus did it for the chicks, but I was unable to get it in time.) Now I don’t care what anybody says, that’s funny hah ha. Not just to me mind you, but to most people who read it, it’s absolutely absurd (especially at the passion, c’mon people lighten up). Some of the pamphlet passers thought otherwise and began to point and whisper... Invigorated by the prospect of my own blasphemy, I began to harass them. First thing I did was tell their pastor how I thought the book was better, and how much I hate Hollywood for perverting good book's when they turn them into movies... Again absurd and funny, even got a few chuckles from the gallery, the thumpers should've left well enough alone, but did they no. This old couple comes over to say something, and before they open their mouths I lean in and whisper, "I hear he dies at the end, don’t tell anybody."
Thoroughly disgusted they return me to my golden silence - ahh hear that, neither do I.

Now that we've showcased the kinda prick I can be when I’m in a mood, I went down to Main Street tonight and low and behold thumpers en masse. Now for those of you unfamiliar with my neck of the woods, Main Street is a place for tweeners and young adults to front for the ladies and drink till the po po break up the fun.

So there I am picking up a friend who was obviously having too much fun to drive, when I’m barraged by dumb dumbs. It always comes in waves: First, guy hands me a flier, it clearly states I’m going to hell; my desolate soul and suspicious character clearly bound me for the lake of fire; fine. I was in a sarcastically hostile mood, so I made a bee line for whoever was the leader of this cult (Usually it’s not that simple, there tends to be a bevy of intermediaries before you reach the grand doodah). In the meantime little tweeny punkers are walking by, minding for the most part their own business, with more than a right to do it in relative peace. (A tween of similar temperament was asked once if he had ever heard of Jesus, he responded by saying,”Yeah man what have you heard? Still makes me laugh… anyway) in my estimation it makes a mockery of god, Christ congregated with lepers and whores; he pleaded with the judgmental masses to cast their aspersions elsewhere. The kingdom’s gates will bear all those who receive their brothers with open arms. Hell pamphlets seem to miss the point in my eyes.

So I’m greeted by this woman and her daughter (A virtual tag team for Christ). And I give them the speech I have rehearsed for fun like this.

"Let me make sure I get this straight... I'm going to hell?" Asher said (that's the pseudonym for me).

"Yep," said Thumper mom.

"So you're judging me, cause as I recall it reads something like, let he who is without sin cast the first stone," Asher watches with glee as the back peddling begins. "Or maybe you know the mind of god; you've got some red phone to the pearly gates or something... that's cool can I get one?"

"Well no what mom meant was...." said thumper daughter.

"Cause last time I checked it says in that vaunted book you seem to carry but never read that you can't know the mind of god so I’m curious... have you read any of the propaganda you pass out, or is it just reflex?" (By the way at this point I bet you're wondering how I got all this dialogue... A. I'm a genius (lol), and B. I recorded it on my PDA) What I said after I say to all of you out there who may see fit to criticize me for the aforementioned.

Pamphlets make a mockery of the message, and you are NOT better served by hassling punker’s and turning them off to the idea of God. Try living by example. Go, volunteer at a burn care ward or a NICU, spread a wealth of kindness and service, and maybe.... MAYBE one day someone will be so touched by your example that they inquire about your faith... That's the epitome of WWJD not this farce of acoustic camp songs and brimstone handouts; they just turn generation after successive generation off to your truth... And to all those who may hate me for the statements above I have only this to say, they agreed and went home, before they did, the mom told me they'd be volunteering at the burn ward as soon as god willed. All that those soul soliciting pamphlets are good for is kindling, faith; real faith, takes more than dogma!

Jerry Falwell can blow me!

-P-

Shame on me for the Ruse

2008-10-21T14:38:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 12-18-04

Sometimes being a guy, or more accurately being a guy like me is a curse.

Every man has a vice. For some men it's alcohol, for others tobacco or drugs; but not me. In some ways those vices are benign in that they are just things, my vice walks on two legs (and long sexy ones at that) A pretty face, and quick wit, has always been an obstacle for my attention. First and foremost I love women, even when they drive me nuts (Sometimes especially). Something about their nature fascinates and intrigues me; always has. I wanna know their secrets, I wanna save them, I wanna be loved by them; all of them sometimes, and it's madness.

In the years since I came into my own, I’ve dated more than a few (but less than too many) and I’ve been afraid to commit to most of them. That fear keeps me up at night. It drives me, sometimes to write, sometimes but not often to drink, in any case it's behind my figurative wheel and like the women who entrance me it can't drive (kidding ladies, spare me the hate mail). More over it shouldn't drive, it makes me a cliché', and I hate cliché’s!

So I have this list; my list of 7: 7 women who have changed not just how I date, but how I love. I'm sure some of you are asking why seven, and the simple answer is the #'s 3, 7, and 21 are recurring themes in the story that is my life. Anyway so there's this 7. (6 really, but one girl appears on the list twice; don't worry I’ll esplain') anyway of the list of girls I’ve dated, only 7 really had a major impact on me as a person. It's because I either loved them or at the very least wished I had, and that want (but never achieved) changed me somehow for the better. It's a pretty straightforward concept so follow along.

Seven women changed my life, I’ve dated my fair share, and I have the greatest girl a man could ask for: She gets me ( a huge plus), She's artistic, she loves me for who I am, and strangely enough she allows me to entertain the whims of both my wandering eye and fear of commitment... great set up right? Don't be naive, her unconditional love just makes my faults that much more visible.

Like I said, I'm afraid of commitment... now I know I’m not the only man on the planet who is, but I wish I could figure out why. Well actually not so much the why, I know the why, that's the easy part! It's not a long walk from my childhood to sort out why I’m so desperately afraid of failing at marriage and breaking the heart of someone I love...

See at this point if I F up my life the only casualty is me; dunno’ what I would do if I let the body count go above one(Something I have no intention of doing). The hard part now becomes doing something about the problem.

I'll give you an example: I'm in a relationship with Daphne Fairhope (it's a pseudonym so don't go looking her up) I've loved Daphne, since I was 19 (I’m 26 now), and she's the only woman to appear on the list of 7 twice.

She knows all this about me, and cares enough to well... ignore it. Now I have two other girls who wander in and out of my life that I care deeply about... I'm not doing anything about it, but that's not to say I don't have the impulse, and sometimes I hate myself for it. These two occupy some back corner of my heart (one more than the other), and it unsettles me and calls to me all in the same breath.

All I hear in my mind when I feel this way is go and sin no more, as if that's such a simple mantra. What happens when the heart wants one thing and the blood boils for another? Even worse; I've dated both of these women (though one more seriously than the other) and to be honest though it didn't work, they both are among my seven, and as such my affection and desire for the both of them may wane, but I fear it will always be there in some fashion...

What's that say about me?

Is it the prescience of my own downfall?

Could be.

Maybe it's natural and I’ll out grow it...

Maybe I’m lucky because I have nothing short of permission from Daphne to find out. Whatever it is, I would happily exchange my lump of coal this Christmas for the gift of being a better man, for the strength to be greater than my flaws, the strength to be something other than my father.

I see this flaw in me and I despair... Sometimes it's a curse to be a guy. (I know the ladies out there will shed no tears, especially the two who read this, but still) -For Daphne, who’s always believed in me, and for the other 2 who helped make me the man I am (flaws and all)!

-P-

Haste is making me

2008-10-21T14:37:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 12-17-04

I realize time ails us all, but sweet Christ where does it all go?I met with a former student today, and she's in her second semester of college.

What the fuck right?

When last I saw her she was something in the neighborhood of 12. 12! Now she's 18 going on 30, and I wonder what happened to all that time. I know I spent it somewhere, but right now, if you were to ask me, I couldn't tell you where to save my life. I think this is why I never sleep, I miss too much of the goings on of living while awake, a truth which I can hardly stand as it is, so why oh why would I then choose to miss even more of those moments when it gets dark? Must be why corporate coffee makes so much money. We should all be more caffeinated if we wanna capitalize on our living before we're dead.

Speaking of corporate coffee (Starbucks), when did caffeine become such a value added commodity?

I swear it doesn't cost anyone five bucks to make it, so why do people stand in such long lines to overpay for something they should be able to get in unlimited quantity for less than a buck? Must be why they all have their heads down while they wait, I’d be embarrassed too!

I had Starbucks today in fact, and yup I’m embarrassed.

The whole coffee drinking subculture is odd as hell to begin with, but the hangout atmosphere that Seattle has sold Bars & Noble couldn't be more bizarre. When I get up at the crack of noon, first thing I usually wanna' do is write, not pack my gear, go to some coffee house and plug in there.And for those making the trek to meet women, it makes even less sense... you can do that online for none of the cost surrounded by all your creature comforts.

I know I do!

I mean I get it. Guys roll into the 'Bucks cause they wanna look artsy, and I respect that, but I doubt the ladies buy the farce. Some do, sure, but it seems so lame from my lap topped throne. Wanna be a writer move to some capitol city, find a beat poetry corner, sit at the most smoke filled back table you can find, order a scotch (single malt nothing younger than 18) and simply let it ferment the air you breathe while you write. Do not talk to, or look at a soul.

That my friends is art. That is brooding. That'll get you laid.

trying to work your magic on some chick while sipping 5$+ Venti half caff with soy milk, is just sad, and I no longer want any part of it. Even as I sit outside this Starbucks and write this entry brimming with self loathing and judgement I see a guy across the way who is guilty of exactly what I'm talking about.

I watch with the tormented fascination of a train wreck as he pours over the only book he's ever read, peering over the edge of its pages, desperate to impress anyone who will talk to him with his knowledge of it.

This is not to say I haven’t been there done that once... or twice, but It’s been said I’m better than that, it's not true, but it’s been said. Sure I came in today, but I’m in control, and I can quit anytime.

So I’m sitting in Starbucks drinking tea not coffee (hey it's caffeine back off), talking to my former student, when I see another former student, so I say hello. Her father is at my back, and when he sees some older guy talking to his daughter (and rightly so), he comes over to investigate. No biggie, when he sees me he knows it's a false alarm and we exchange hello's.

After 5 minutes of talk so small I can remember every single word, they turn and leave. Embarassed as I am to admit it, I can clearly see her ass peaking out of the top of her low rise jeans as she walks away. I'm not trying to be vulgar by telling you this, but what the hell? Tell me something, why would a parent freak out over his daughter talking to a guy if he has no qualms whatsoever about her bare ass hanging out of her torn jeans?

The world goes forever topsey turvey!

It's gonna suck when I have kids. The in thing will be to let your daughter dress like a stripper, (I swear we're already there) and I’m gonna be the lame old dad who says not till your thirty... I know this but still, what the hell? I should invest in a rocking chair and a gauge now, so at least I’m practiced at the aesthetic.

-P-

That's what I'm talking about

2008-10-21T14:36:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 12-16-04

I'm a big movie fan.

Now I know when I say that more than a few of you reading this will think to yourselves," yeah movies are cool, I like movies." That's not what I mean, allow me to illustrate. I love everything about movies, I love the artistry of production design, the lithe grace of a camera man's lens, the vision of a writers imagination, but most of all I love Directors. Having managed a crew myself, I know how rough it can be to direct any combination of personalities to do anything, and It awes me when someone can do it well. I’m also very critical when it goes abysmally wrong, if you can’t manage a crew, let alone pre-Madonna actors; then step down and let me have a try.

So if ever I’m a fan of anything it's never nonchalant. It must be a character flaw; because when I get into something, especially something that pertains to an industry I aspire to enter, I devour it (useless knowledge becomes fat mans kryptonite for my mind). So when I say I’m a fan of anything, I hope you detect the not so subtle weight of that statement. As an industry, film calls to me in the night, just the idea of taking one of the worlds of my imagination and putting it up in lights makes me giddy. As such I have a list of directors who if I had my way would headmaster my school of thought. At the top of the list is Alex Proyas.

I told you that to tell you this: I saw I Robot (AGAIN) on DVD and let me say Alex Proyas (The Director) is a closer, not just a closer but a God. And I don't drop that line without serious consideration. So let me tell you Proyas is not only a man of vision, but at this moment he can do no wrong. His first film the Crow was brilliant. Like many Highschoolers of the day, I thought that movies dark brooding vision was, well… awesome. (Brandon Lee will be missed) Like too many of my friends, I wanted to be the main character , (not as much as my pal Harper, he has a pic of the crow tattooed on his arm... or is it Freddie Mercury? anyway...) in fact it was the Crow that made trenchcoats cool(Too bad soo sad for all you Matrix wannabe's out there!) So when time came for Proyas' second outing it was no surprise that it was dark and brilliant as well. Aliens and superpowers meet in the urban sprawl where a strangely majestic and inspiring story of self discovery unfolds. Two movies in the can so far, both impacted me as a writer and a wannabe auteur, hell of a jump out of the gate for some no name director. When Proyas jumped track and did garage days I was worried, though not surprised when it turned out to be well made. The grunge scene has never been so audience friendly... Then years passed and I wondered what (or more importantly if) Alex would do next. When he emerged back onto the scene a few years ago with River World for the sci-fi Channel I was excited, I knew he was dusting off his chops for a new project: As it turns out that project was I Robot.
It's nihilistic, set in the urban sprawl and its main character is brooding and anti social, (Rubbing my hands together like Mr. Burns) now that's what I’m talking about! Let me tell you, the sets look like they were all designed by Apple, with their smooth symmetrical edges and Aero-Dynamic styling. Now I have a tirade about flying cars that I will spare you from for the moment (Where are my flying cars, the future is now and I still drive a Neon dammit; consider yourself spared), all I will say is this, it was a future I’d be anxious to live in. The camera work is nothing short of phenomenal, with effect shots so seamless that it makes me weep. Purists will defend that the movie bears little resemblance to the story it's based on, and to that end they are right. That being said this maybe the only time I will ever say these words so listen carefully," I liked the artistic license they took, and I’m glad someone had the vision to take them."

Screaming children and bad parents aside I’m a big proponent of seeing flicks in the theater when you can (But in this world of the ten dollar admission I miss more than I’d like). To those of you who missed seeing it in the theater I’m sorry, but all is not lost, the dark powers invented DVD’s for just such an occasion. So scurry to your local video shop like the little automatons you are and watch the movie! Pirates and Ninjas agree,” It be good times.”

-P-

P. S. Alex, if by some miraculous happenstance you read this... I have a dream project for you!

Blog Blog Blog

2008-10-21T14:35:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 12-15-04

The insufferable spirit of Christmas!

You know it's funny, I’ve been anxious about getting to my blog all day... now that I’m here I dunno’ what to say. Tell ya’ one thing I do know, every time I say the word BLOG, either in my head or aloud, I hear the Log song from Ren & Stimpy play so loud in my head that it drowns out the rest of the world...

I'm sure that piece of Cartoon trivia dates me, but I wish I could be bothered to care!

Moving right along, gonna keep it light tonight, something about the sound of System shouting about Toxicity in my headphones, tells me the world is serious enough!
So it's the holidays, by a show of hands, can you out there in the audience explain to me why a time that's supposed to be filled with joy makes everyone so damned miserable?

For starters, I think it has something to do with the shopping experience! So help me the next woman who runs over my big toe with her stroller is gonna get a boot full of my holiday spirit where the sun don't shine! And if I’m pissed off so is everyone else I assure you. Something about the hustle and bustle of commerce makes the already dumb descend further into stupidity. This being cannon I do my best to keep away from Mall's and their ilk, but this crazed hurry bleeds over onto the streets. Road rage on Christmas - ahhh smell that - that’s the smell of irony.

I live in CA, where nobody knows how to drive (or merge for that matter, my kingdom for someone who knows how to merge!) but it has gotten markedly worse with every strand of tinsel that ensnares a light post.

It's madness; like when sharks feed, and it kills me smalls; KILLS ME! You've never felt the spirit till you've witnessed a grown woman clip a pedestrian to take that last parking spot only to lose it to me. All I have to say is her free pass through the pearly gates was revoked... I’m not sure what depravity I can legally repeat on here so let’s just say I’ve seen sailors with more decorum.

Way I see it, I should have free license to go upside the head of the colossally stupid or unpleasant with something like a hammer. Give you an example: Woman today drags her two mewling children into the optometrist. First of all I don't know why she was dragging them, I’m sure they lacked sufficient propulsion to escape her gravity on their own, but I digress. She's yelling every two seconds at the top of her lungs, and there I’m sitting, watching with embarrassed eyes, trying desperately to hide myself in my little PDA. Bad News is neither I nor the reception staff could escape the shrill of her screams hard as we tried, and so we did what people do... we watched. Christmas with a rare flower like this woman would make any man BEG; I mean BEG for death. Something like an hour passes, before I’m bailed out of the office by the sound of my cell phone. I'll spare you the the gory details, only to share them later with CPS and the po po, but what I can tell you, what crosses me as the punch line to all this is this woman was in full view of the public what must it be like in that trailer huh? Behind that closed screen door, I shudder to think! Any way till tomorrow brings better commentary I'm still:

-P-

Sinning Alone

2008-10-21T14:33:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted 12-14-04

War wages on foreign soil and it leads me to despair. I’m not interested in your politics, if ever there was a topic that is meaningless to me it’s politics.

The party line is just words. What has meaning to me is that men and women - one of them, a friend of mine - will spend a holiday away from his friends and family to protect an idea on the other side of the globe.

On occasions like these, I sometimes fear that I lack the vocabulary to express the how I feel. There’s no hallmark card for the occasion, and somehow merry Christmas seems a bit lackluster. I don’t wanna' dwell on the situation either, I’m sure the camel spiders and contagious gunfire punctuate the sentiment better than some picture of a fat man and reindeer.

So what do I say?

All I can think of is sinning alone sucks! The holidays when we were kids were full of mischief and fun, and none of the boys (or their respective women) in our little clan feel quite right this year. The old hijinks seem a bit tired without the 9th man. Where’s my side kick (that’s how I see him, but I'm sure he’d tell ya different)?

So I took it upon myself to send the gift bag to end all gift bags, even now it travels over hill and dale to its intended destination. We all put in on it. CD’s, comic books, mags, you name it, it’s there; I even had all the boys and girls from the school I used to teach at write cards to all the men and women in my buddies unit… I figured whatever dislike I feel for sinning alone someone else must feel for some of the other rank and file, and I venture they could all use some holiday cheer.

Something nags at me though.

I wonder if it’s enough, at my core I know it’s not, but what is? Short of the sudden outbreak of peace I’ve got nothin’! Is it me, or is the only thing that seems to be spreading my own powerlessness to bring my friend home safe?

-P-

Who am I (unabridged)

2008-10-21T14:29:00.001-07:00

Originally Posted 12-14-04

Who am I, sometimes I wish I knew.

As time flies and weeks pass I find myself in life’s fleeting moments contending with this, its most grandiose of questions.

The question is age old, though the answers are infinitely different. I find myself to be a duality, a conundrum if you will; maturity coupled with brash spontaneity. Talented and bright yet without direction, as a child I spoke as an adult, my path, predetermined. Unfortunately life’s trials and the instability of my adolescence has left me forever at a crossroads. Paths uncharted lay before me, yet it’s one step forward and two steps back.

When I started college, I was torn between medicine: The continuation of Dr. Turnarounds, and trail blazing new ground. I have a real talent for the arts (Writing, Drawing, Sculpting etc.), God given if I may be so bold, and I was always taught talent is a gift given of God’s grace and not to be squandered. That inner conflict boiled down to a single question: Whose dreams am I obligated to chase, my family's or my own?

Far as I’m concerned, my English Degree is as loud an answer as I can offer to that end.

That choice opened doors, Doors that have changed my life in many ways. The first door opened to me was Education. I taught for 4 years, and waved a fond farewell to my teens as I did it. Teaching computers K-8th and eventually remedial 8th grade English Lit. I can’t tell you how gratifying it was, not only professionally but socially. A man, especially a young man gets a lot of credence weighed to his words when he’s a teacher at 19. Fixed a dark part of my childhood too; gave me a chance to re-imagine my formative years by being the stand up kinda’ guy I wish I knew as a child.

After four years the time came to move on, it was mostly fear. Teaching for the most part is a career, and it’s hard to have already peaked at 19; for a guy like me with delusions of additional grandeur, it’s downright terrifying so I made for the lonely roads of Frost’s yellow wood.

Before I knew it, my path put me in production, 4 years into that I was running the warehouse/personnel side of a production company, pining for a future and eventual immortality in prose, and that’s where we return to the initial question:

Who Am I?

All I’ve done so far is tell you who I’ve been. Maybe it’s a question of who I am emotionally, if so that’s simple. I’m responsible, compassionate, artistic and bright (or at least I think I am); but is this an answer or just another question?

What defines who you are; Life experiences, talents, personality, or the combination there of?

For that matter is this even a valid question or a paradoxical one?

Can a question concerning the internal workings of the soul be feasibly measured at all, or is it so intangible that you learn as you go?

None can answer a question this personal. I deserve an answer, we all do but does it change overtime or is it a constant?

I guess I’m writing this so you and I in the great ether of cyberspace can find out together; all I know is it’s dark and cold in here… and I think I hear wolves!

-P-