Rewind

Listening to music from my wide-eyed days has shaken me to the gray-haired roots. I copied and heard the two Twin Peaks soundtracks and Depeche Mode's Songs of Faith and Devotion, a quasi-industrial record based on religious imagery. So, yes, your typical dramatic college music. But it all holds up. I think it does, anyway. I'm pretty sure I'm not bolstering it to validate my old interests. I mean, I have no problem mocking my old fashion sense, including my perpetual trenchcoat and dangling earrings. No wonder college buddies took me to gay bars. My afternoon was a fog of distortion and deep, repetitive bass tones. I remembered mindsets long shelved, and I wonder if this is how midlife crises start.

Probably didn't help that I had the Naked Lunch movie running in the background. I saw this film at ECU's old student center cinema and loved it. I was already a reader of Burroughs, and I thought the movie was a dead-on adaptation of a novel that was supposedly impossible to adapt. Legend has it Burroughs was so whacked out on drugs that he didn't know his friends had published his writings until after the book was printed and making money. The film is about a bug exterminator who disappears into a hallucination of a foreign land after he accidentally kills his wife. Burroughs actually did kill his wife in the manner the film gives us: He would shoot glasses off her head in what they called the William Tell party trick. The last time they did it, he missed the glass.

Comparing the film to the book was an evoltuonary advance in my critical thinking skills. Seing it again yesterday revealed what I missed the first times I watched it, yet it felt like slipping on an once beloved shirt. A lot of intensely earnest English majors go to the beatniks for at least a few months, and I chose Burroughs over Ginsberg and Kerouac. He was Hunter S. Thompson before Hunter was Hunter.

 I had this soundtrack on CD, and I remember My Mom hearing it waft out of my bedroom and asking if it was supposed to sound like an acid trip.

"Heroin," I corrected her, and she walked off wondering why they just didn't buy a cat instead of siring a weirdo.

I was initially drawn back from the ennui abyss by my cassette of a Paul Simon anthology, but the tape flows from bouncy '70s pop to a crowd of heartbreak and nostalgia, and that didn't help what was becoming the damp, drizzly November in my soul. Then I ended the night by reading from Steven King and having a dream incorporating Silence of the Lambs (Your Sister and I bought a house with bodies packed behind the clapboards, and suspicion grew that one of us was responsible). My brain has tumbled backward 20 years, and I'm simultaneously invigorated and exhausted from all that black-box urgency.

My iPod-powered commute will definitely have a different tinge to it. I wish car stereos allowed us to tune into others' iPods during commutes. I always wonder what mixes other folks have crafted.

Picture of the Day
This image reminds me that I started sketching my comic pages at a larger size. This is the hard work of tightening camera angles and solving anatomy problems.The final large pages will be a cinch once this step is completed.

Clearing Away the Debris

I once had boxes of cassettes. As part of my bedroom cocoon in high school, I taped songs off the radio for my imaginary radio station, and I had as many official tapes I'd buy at the mall. Moving a number of times in ten years whittled them down to a shoebox of treasured albums: Twin Peaks, Depeche Mode, adaptations of The Shadow, Hamlet and Les Miserables.

I had the notion for years now to burn them to digital files, but my two options involved elaborate Goldbergian methods to make copies or paying someone to do it for me. The local radio store does this, and I hesitated, hoping a simplified option would emerge, and finally it did.

Using Audacity, the software I already have for remixing music, I learned I only needed a dubbing cable to connect a tape player with the laptop. Luckily, we had a tape player. Unluckily, the store most likely to have that cable, Radio Shack, isn't open on weekends. Because, really, who shops on weekends? I hopped into Kmart on the off-chance they'd have it, and they did. The packaging is so contemporary, it doesn't mention cassette dubbing. I am a man from the distant past.

Your Sister lent me her classroom tape player, and I've already made copies of my Def Leppard tapes. I was surprised to see how many tapes I had already replaced with albums bought off iTunes, but I will be able to hold onto my drama adaptations and hear them during my commute. This tape copying has lingered over my head for years. It's a relief to chip away at that cloud.

I also chopped at the driveway ice, and the remnants were sizable. The flat area was still a sheetcake of snow and ice, and it took more than an hour Sunday to clean it away. I only worked at it because we're predicted to get more ice and snow this week, and I didn't want to surrender any ground to the elements.

We took the sidekick sledding Saturday morning. It was a passive experience for him; Your Sister and I took turns holding him as we went down hills at the school. This was my first time as I grew up in flat lands, and I stunk at it. Your Sister was on a varsity skill level, diving belly first on the sled and down the hill. She's determined to get back into pre-baby recklessness. No, not recklessness. Spontaneity. We then left for lunch, and she inhaled a bowl of chili.

I made simple borders for some of my comic pages and ordered a mess of more. I tried Amazon, but the storefront wanted to charge me shipping for each bundle I bought. Instead, I went to the manufacturer and bought more than twice as many pages for the same amount I would have paid Amazon. Now I have 100 pages lurching through the mail service toward our citadel of ice. The month is half over. I have to start cranking out art.

Picture of the Day
Keep within reach at all times.

Cooking With Villainy Supplemental

Dear Warren Ellis who just posted a recipe,

Doom warns you that Doom is working this corner.

Not that your dish does not intrigue Doom. Mayhap Doom will command a chefbot to whip it up while Doom is off conquering Asia. Don't get all atwitter. Doom said "mayhap."

Yours in Christ,
Doom

Putting My Back Into It

A strange, yellow object appeared in the sky yesterday afternoon, and it brought warmth and light. I remain confused and frightened. The city's storm passed by, and our road was obviously plowed again. The driveway had a new inches-high border of frozen gunk. But what caught my eye were the tire tracks near the carport. Clearly, Your Sister tried to leave the house, and the car couldn't make it. She managed to get the car back in the garage.

When I asked about it, she said she tested the driveway before loading it with gear and child. She could back out, but the car wouldn't get up the caked pavement to the road. She had to free it from the packed snow to get it back into the garage. And that gets me worried. If something were to happen to her or the sidekick, she's stuck. That won't do. I offered to shovel the driveway on the spot (about 6:30 after I just got home), and she said she'd rather have me indoors than out there. OK, I said.

Cut to this morning, and I hop out of bed before the sun does. Most of the slop is powder, and it shovels away in convenient clumps. The tire tracks are iced, however, and I could only chip away at them with the broom head. If I chop at them with shovels, I might have woken the neighbors. Or their babies. So I stayed polite and stuck to the quiet cleaning.

After about an hour, all that remains are the tracks, and already the lingering snowdust was evaporating. If she needs to get out today, she should be able to. I feel for her: I can imagine the cabin fever she's suffering. She was still in bed when I showered and dressed, but she mumbled good morning.

"You should be able to get out of the driveway easier today," I said.
"Yeah, it should be warmer."
"Yeah."
"Wait. You didn't shovel it, did you?"
"Yes."
"Oooohhhh."
"Just remember this the next time I do something stupid."

I expected her to say this was something stupid. It was mighty cold, after all. The feeling returned to my fingers only when I got in the shower. Still, I'll need to get up early to work on the comic pages, and they will seem much easier compared to hunching over and heaving snow for an hour. I'm sure I'll feel all that work after eight hours sitting at a desk.

Speaking of comic pages, I'm officially on the list of artists for the May convention. Note that I am not listed as a card artist, meaning they won't be using my art for a collector card. It thus becomes a flyer.

Pictures of the Day
These are two new images of upcoming Marvel heroes.
The first is Captain America, the first "official" film in what will become the Avengers franchise, including Iron Man, Thor, and Hulk. The second is the new actor playing Spider-Man in a reboot of the franchise.

Digging Out

A third day of shoveling ended with dry pavement around the car and a road caked with snow. Unlike with previous storms, this ice and snow have turned to Styrofoam. It's much slicker to walk on, but walk I did to check the conditions of the road leading to ours. It looked clear from what I could see, and that part remained clear as I drove to work this morning. But the stretch just around the bend is just like the road outside our house: caked and slick. I also drove into sideways snow halfway to work. The city is a mess again. I'm supposed to tend to Your Parents' house while they're gone, but I won't get there until next week.I have to get Your Sister out of the house this weekend before she cracks. Although, we have taken to primetime hot toddies as we eviscerate each other at Jeopardy. Weak ones. She's still breast feeding, after all.

I expanded my comic to a more-traditional 24 pages from the previous 19 by beefing up the fight scenes. I printed out comic pages at the size I'm looking at for this year's hero comic, and I think it will show off the art better and sell better. It will be twice as tall as last year's books. It will also cost more so I'll print fewer of them. I've got to start penciling soon. I have four months before the convention.

Our buddy Kathy dropped by yesterday to drop off some videos and CDs as a follow-up to conversations from last Saturday. She and Travis have borrowed our "one and done" parenting discipline and adapted it to "two and through." They call it bolstering to define their family to people asking when they'll have more. I congratulated them on the stance and said this is what they mean by "planned parenthood." Family doesn't have to be random.

Picture of the Day
MAC Cosmetics has launched a line of Wonder Woman products.

Thoughts on Tucson (Again)

I like the idea of continuing the decal decor as the deputy ages. Those images are cool.

We watched the Monday installment of the Daily Show, featuring Stewart's request for a change of rhetoric so we can distinguish discourse from insane ramblings.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Arizona Shootings Reaction
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog The Daily Show on Facebook

And then we talked for a bit.

Our points:
1) Politicians used to kiss babies. Now they wield guns. Guns have become the symbol of political expression in a country founded on election cycles moderating revolution. When you can vote and impeach and recall, you don't have to take up arms against your government. But the notion that the government is within minutes of instigating martial law is too profitable for those who woo audiences with fear and paranoia. The NRA contacted me just within the last two weeks to ask for my help against a mythical nationwide gun ban to be magically imposed by the United Nations.

The 2010 campaign featured fundraiser events where voters could shoot machine guns, sometimes with the candidate. Healthcare protesters carried guns to town hall meetings, allegedly to prove their political firepower.This latest asshole, this shooter, he did exactly the same thing: He took a gun to a political event. And until the second he pulled the trigger, he's supported by those who advocate "gun rights." But when he fired, he magically became crazy and dangerous. I argue he was dangerous before that.

I'm for hunters owning hunting rifles. I'm for collectors buying replicas. But handguns are designed for mobility and quick fire. Cops can have them (cops can have anything, frankly), and sky marshals should have them. Law enforcement, I'm talking here. Personal citizens don't need concealed handguns. The boogieman of rogue cops or federal military coming to your house won't be stopped by handguns, which is why the NRA supports automatic rifles and machine gun ownership. Look, if the military is coming for you, they don't have to knock on your door. They have bombs. They have drones, missiles, chemicals, and snipers. Gun advocates learned a lot from Waco. So did the federal agents.

2) Crazy is relative. Your Sister noted the special-ed kids she teaches. They are separated from the majority student body schedules and criteria because they can't handle expectations. This stunted ability to handle mundane tasks could easily classify them as limited to the same degree a crazy gunman. He was able to hire a cab to drive to the event, and he walked in with the cabbie to the store to break a $20. He managed to keep his composure until he aimed the gun. He wasn't a drooling, flailing maniac. His past behavior suggests at least an eccentricity, delusions, and antisocial demeanor that kept him marginalized and angry. But that's not "crazy." Sullen, perhaps. Emo, maybe. A jerk to the fifth power, I'll grant you.

So what makes him crazy, and for how long does the definition of crazy stretch back along his personal chronology from the gunshots? Was he crazy on Friday? Last year?

"Crazy" is a convenient label. It suggests that he would go violent and irrational no matter what environment he dwelt in. That relieves some burden of introspection from those who may have been even indirectly influential, those who threw our violent imagery during the recent campaigns. And I agree that he's directly responsible. He's not a robot. He chose his target and the manner of attack. But why didn't this happen before? Why now? Why this way? He had a YouTube page, Facebook, and MySpace. He was connected and swimming online among us. He had the same access to the rhetoric and the means to debate it online. He was plugged in. I consider that exposure and environs critical to his thinking.

But if "crazy will out" regardless of influence, I think we then have to park all accusations of influential media. If craziness trumps environmental factors, then drugs, heavy metal, the lack of prayer in schools, ready access to abortions, and all the other bugaboos have to be shelved. They can, by argument, be no more responsible for violence and a decline in civilization than constant angry. political accusations on the various media.

Also, handguns can't help you against the crazy. If "crazy will out," as if the crazed are invulnerable zombies, concealed weapons can't save you from the faceless enemy. Also, a concealed weapon wouldn't have kept the first bullet from hitting home. Maybe not even the third and fourth. A concealed weapon can only respond. It can't prevent. The argument for concealed weapons claims that the threat of retaliatory gunfire would deter the mugger or burglar. Except, of course, for the crazy, right? They're crazy; they don't operate under the logic we do.

The new argument seems to be this: In a gun culture permeated with angry accusations, everyone knew to behave themselves except for the village idiot. Someone how the one loony who couldn't distinguish rhetoric from identification grabbed his gun and went to town. Again this doesn't excuse those who construct the pollution. If anything, it should behoove them to be more mature in their product. Media broadcasts are global migrations now. The perceived audience has to expand beyond the key demographic. Even I, with this blog, am talking to you but can be, and am, accessed around the world. That's why I use "Your Sister" instead of naming her. I don't trust everyone who might read this to respect her privacy. So I filter. The possible audience reactions affects my communications. It's not limiting. It requires me to be more clever without diluting my message.

We live in a nation of mass shootings. The audience doesn't just include people who grok your intent. The violent and dangerous are among us and breathing the same air. It's senseless to pretend verbal vehemence can't wind up the easily swayed. I mean, the easily swayed are a key demo. They'll buy without thinking, they'll subscribe without considering, they'll act without doubting. Does that make them crazy? All of them? If you court the gullible, you can't then pretend your audience is devoid of them.

3) What do we want to happen now? Well, I'm not for Congress folk arming themselves. We don't need to return to dueling legislators. People attack the Capitol or the White House often, and security protects the lawmakers. As they should. (And for those who are for small government but want to beef up personal security, how do you pay for that?) The local police should work the appearances of politicians in official events. The Tucson appearance wasn't a fundraiser; it was a casual town hall meeting. The police are trained to respond and protect. Let them do their jobs.

I suppose I want the constant media to take a breath and look at itself. Not that they aren't already a narcissistic bunch. Half the job is branding and marketing, after all. But I want people to consider that we need to scale back the tone. We need to talk like adults. That's going to end the careers of some professional bomb throwers, but that's a small price to pay. If all they can do is insult people to make a living, get off the political shows and do stand-up. There's a legit arena for that kind of talk, and rare is the comic whose incited violence.

But let's remember that "inciting" exists a legal term for a reason. Words can be regarded as accountable.The "fire in the theatre" hypothetical is a classic example of inflammatory language, pardon the pun. It's not simply a concept for political gamesmanship. Intentional or not, those swayed are just that: swayed. Let's stop pretending we're all on the same frequency. Even my limited experience as a dad has already told me I'm gonna have to watch the language among kids. They don't know better than to recite. It's not just clear-thinking mature people tuning in out there. There's some dangerous fuses easily sparked.

We talked for about an hour about this, and we commented on how we hope to have responded at that event. I'd like to think I would incapacitate him for the authorities to retrieve. But if I saw him shooting people, I admit, I'd be violently angry. I'm pretty sure he expected to be killed on site. I wonder if he feels lucky to be alive. I wonder if he feels, period. I wonder the same about those who have taken a defensive stance amid the reactions. We're not looking to blame. We're looking to salvage.

Picture of the Day
And then we watched an all-robot cast re-enact Dynasty catfights. Alexisbot9 just clocked 6Crystal-12.

Watching and Blinking

The crushing snowfall has us huddled in the cave. Your Sister jumped at the chance to shovel the driveway -- as the snow continued to fall -- just to get exercise. The dish service never cut out, and I didn't go on the roof. I bought a water gun to knock off the snow from the dish if needed, but the gun doesn't have enough distance to it to reach the dish from the ground. If we have to clear it, we must go topside. Well, I must go topside.

We've spent some time talking about the shootings in Arizona. I happened to flip channels Saturday when the news broke and watched the rumors and reports slowly congeal into fact.

It's difficult not to jump to conclusions. But I'm partial to the theory that political rhetoric influenced the shooter. The 2010 campaign was ugly, especially on the west coast, and the rhetoric got heated. There's a video spreading online of the Congresswoman speaking against a PAC campaign map that put her district under a crosshair. she said someone would get hurt. She was right.

Various accounts say the shooter fixated on the Congresswoman, possibly because he didn't get the audience from her he wanted, possibly because he blamed her for supporting the healthcare reform. He seems to have prepared for the day, and that suggests he wasn't as crazy as some need him to be. But how many people who commit mass shootings are sane?

Still, a political component can't be dismissed. He chose his target and disqualified those he knew personally. He filtered out those closest to him. He didn't commit a similar act before this. If he snapped, if he reached some point where he was nudged toward the violence, did that happen in a vacuum? I tend to doubt it.

What I hear and read now is a desperate effort for nothing to change. We should still apparently sell extended magazines for handguns. We should still use outrageous political comments to scare audiences. If he was crazy, as they argue, why should we change anything? Crazy people can't be stopped from being crazy. Except we've militarized airports because of crazy people. And we've detained suspects indefinitely because of crazy people.

I have the same stance on the environmental/climate debate: Maybe we can't alter the weather by being cleaner, but why can't we be cleaner because it's what responsible people do?

So we talk, and our voices echo off the walls as we watch the snow fall.

We cleaned out the TiFaux list by watching the Crucible. She'll watch anything with Daniela Day-Lewis. I had seen the original Wicker Man a few weeks back, and the two films make a strong argument against zealotry in all dogmas. We also watched Vantage Point, a clever political thriller buried under a needless gimmick of multiple perspectives.

I'll work from home a bit before attacking the driveway.

Picture of the Day
I can't quite make the joke between stitches and sutures.

Once More Under the Sink

She survived jury duty without sitting on a jury. And now she's free of the obligation for two years. I am back at the office as the region once again looks to the skies for a crippling snowfall.

While I was home with the sidekick, I decided to let him play with the bathroom mirror. Instead of patting the reflected image, he yanked on the cord connected to Your Sister's radio, and it tumbled into the sink. The battery compartment holds three batteries, and it popped open. I could only find two batteries, and it appeared the third went down the drain. I set down the baby and pulled apart the drain. No battery. But now I know how to take apart her sink to attack clogs. I should mention that all this happened while the Terminix guy was checking out the house, and I had to move between the baby, the disassembled sink, the panicky cat, and the exterminator's sales pitch for an expensive termite protocol. I found the missing battery hours later behind the bathroom door.

When she got home, we somehow got onto the topic of Solomon Grundy, the bad guy from the old Superfriends cartoon.

He appeared years before in comics. She didn't know the original nursery rhyme from whence the comic creators got his name:

Solomon Grundy,

Born on a Monday,

Christened on Tuesday,

Married on Wednesday,

Took ill on Thursday,

Grew worse on Friday,

Died on Saturday,

Buried on Sunday.

This is the end

Of Solomon Grundy.

I remember him as a swamp zombie, the angry body of a wealthy man murdered and tossed into the bog. Your Sister wondered what brought him back. I admitted I didn't know, and she suggested "swamp magic." "Swamp magic" is now my favorite comic-book origin. Also, it's my new band name.

It was announced during this year's consumer electronics show that the Star Wars movies are going to Blu-Ray in September. While that's no shock, the intriguing information is the inclusion of deleted and alternate scenes. I hope that includes the Biggs Darklighter scenes on Tattooine that provided Luke concrete reasons for wanting to leave home so badly. That would dovetail nicely with Anakin's frustrations at the seeming patronizing by the Jedi council.

Picture of the Day
I found this Esty storefront yesterday, and I'm tempted to buy/make one for Your Sister.

Bidness

Your Sister was dismissed early from the courthouse, and I set to work.

With a small list in hand, I zoomed to Lowe's and walked blindly through the store. After looking at sink drains (hers is busted again), I was asked by an employee if I needed help. I explained I needed to replace or fix a folding pantry door, and he showed me to a section of the store devoted to parts for folding pantry doors. I had no idea. They had exactly what I needed. I strolled on, guided by the list, and looked at snow shovels. They had but one kind, and it was plastic. That won't cut it. Literally. It won't slice through the ice we get. But they did have a replacement garage door opener, which Your Sister requested. Our door system is almost 20 years old, yet Lowe's had an exact replica of our openers. I also bought air filters.

I grabbed a Wendy's lunch to try out the new seas-salt fries (tasty, very salty) and returned home to get to fixin'. I was done in a half hour. The #!@$ pantry door is finally fixed, and Your Sister has a working door remote again.

I parked her car atop the driveway in case we get snow, but I had to move it away from the mailbox. Our postman wrote on an envelope that he wasn't obliged to deliver our mail if the mailbox is blocked. By "blocked," I assume he means "might have to walk three steps from the vehicle to the mailbox in times of wintry devastation." I thought it rude. I mean, we didn't get any mail for three days prior despite the famous pledge of the mail service to be deterred by "neither rain nor snow nor gloom of night."

As she napped, I took down the tree and minded the boy. I also took another shot at organizing our CDs onto the new iPod. It's not quite big enough. I reckon I'll buy a second one in a few months and rotate them out. I packed up the CDs and stored them in my workshop, and I call that a productive day.

I slept without medicine last night, and I can't remember any dreams. More important, I don't have any emotional seismic activity based on those dreams.

We got only a dusting of snow, and Your Sis is back to the courthouse.

Picture of the Day
Edna Mode is watching you and your hobo suit, dahling.

Get Me Off the Medicine

She's back to the jury pool, and I am home with the deputy. We enjoyed a relatively normal night with him. Maybe he's getting better.

Last night's fever dream included Dr. Gregory House, wearing a row of metal dentures like tiny cigarette lighters, joining me to visit an old girlfriend and her grumpy husband at Christmastime. I was also a teacher/prop comic who was secretly Superman. I flew off toward France but stopped to fight Lex Luthor in a meadow. I woke up when he sicced a fuzzy brown spider the size of a Doberman on my arm, and I had to throw back the covers to convince myself that no such spider was in the bedroom.

I'm getting tired of these dreams, let me tell you.

Predictions of more snow abound. 

Picture of the Day
A drink and a plane ticket sound nice.
 

A Haze of Various Quils

NyQuil got me through the night and back to work, and I am armed with DayQuil, cough drops, tea, and OJ. I don't know if one can overdose on Vitamin C, but I'm taking many a supplement and chugging the juice. I'm on the other side of this flu, and I hope it's gone by Thursday. The deputy is on the crazed-energy side of it and did not sleep much last night. So I heard, anyway. I was in a medicine coma. Your Sister and I are exhausted and sickly and on edge with each other. We immediately take innocent comments the wrong way. I do not want this.

She sat through two jury assemblies and may have to go back tomorrow for another jury pool. She is so far not on the grand jury or the jury overseeing the multiple-count criminal trial. I minded the boy, and he was cranky. He wouldn't sleep without a struggle. Wouldn't eat without a struggle. Wouldn't stay on the floor without a struggle. He was not my friend. If she goes back tomorrow, I'll again stay home with him, and I hope he's easier to handle. I was able to briefly baffle him into inertia by setting him in the laundry basket. I may set him into various containers throughout the day.

Last night's fever dream included me playing Jeopardy in a high-school gym, arguing with Your Sister over what kind of helicopter she wanted, and writing the lyrics to "Be Our Guest" from Beauty and the Beast.

I thumbnailed more of the comic, and it appears I'll be able to add pages to beef up the fight scenes.

Picture of the Day
Beware. A major spoiler follows.

Outlaw Fever Dreams

I know I'm bad sick when I have weird dreams.

Last night, I dreamed I was on the commute to the textile mill where I worked one summer. On an overpass, I pulled over and accepted a job application from a man in a car. He was looking for people to warn residents about low-flying airliners. He thought I would be a good prospect because I could read a combination of Latin and Spanish.

Soon after, I decided to take an aggressive stance and steal an airliner. But I couldn't get it off the ground, and I drove it on the interstate. Eventually, I came to a traffic circle, and I took an off-ramp surrounded by tall pier columns. The plane's wings jammed in the columns, and I snuck out an escape hatch. Somehow I managed to blame the theft and subsequent massive traffic back-up on Steve Carrell. The traffic block created a ravaged parade -- think The Road -- as people shambled home and groused about Carrell and the plane theft. I stayed mum. But people started to piece together the crime, and I became paranoid that I'd be discovered. Then Your Sister woke me up. She is currently sitting in court hoping to be excused from jury duty. She left me the makings of turkey-and-tomato biscuits as a sick breakfast.

I still feel like I hold a secret that will be uncovered any minute.

We're supposed to eat buffalo wings tonight, but my throat may not allow it. Or will I overrule the flu? Stay tuned.

Picture of the Day
My head is seasick.

The Future Snuck Up On Me

The late Christmas dinner only had one parent. My Mom arrived a little early, and I made the majority of the food while the ladies passed the baby between them. He was sick, we assume, with the flu following the vaccination. The deputy had bad congestion all day, and now we have the icks. Fortunately, he seems to be past the worst of it already. This puts the kibosh on our plan to meet up with buddies for a New Year's party tonight.

Mom seemed to enjoy the small meal and exchange of presents. She brought me Devil Squares, and you might remember that I was tempted by them during our grocery run. She bought herself a digital camera, and I walked her through the basics. She's still a little skeptical that she won't have to get the photos developed. She gave the boy a Bible picture book and a new outfit. She appreciated the tile from Your Parents. Mom loved and adored and inhaled the baklava you made.

Because of the housewide bug, I didn't stay awake to greet 2011. Your Sister did while she prepared a humidifier for him. Not just a new year, but a new decade. Amazing. It greeted me with another busted drain stopper in Your Sister's bathroom. I'll probably use the Lowe's card Mom gave me to replace the drain fixtures in both bathrooms. I've fixed these -- allegedly -- too often.

A warm, dark rain is washing away all the snow (And the bad memories from 2010? Let's not carried away here.)

Picture of the Day
Know your Cyrillic. 

Cliffhanger

The good news is that the deputy got a white Christmas. The bad news is that so did all of the eastern half of the country.

My vacation started Friday, and the boy and I spent much time together as Your Sister visited old friends and attended an evening church service. All was clear. Then we woke up Saturday to a snow that never ended.

We lost satellite service around noon. Your Sister and I have passively established a morning schedule with him: she sleeps in, and I mind him until about noon, depending on how she wants to feed him. While we have plenty of frozen milk, she may have jury duty next week, and we'll need that to feed him. She also has a cold that's reduced her milk flow, leaving not much to pump and store. For now, he drinks straight from the tap.

After she awoke and I handed him over, I gussied up to climb the roof and clear the dish. I always forget how far it is from the roof edge, and my plan to jostle the dish with a broom was chucked as soon as I saw there was no way to reach the dish from the ladder. I stood on that ladder a good three minutes debating the intelligence of following through. I decided that a fall from that height onto that much snow would probably be somewhat better than landing on the ground. And with that slight comfort, I decided to try it.

Up I went, and the wenting went well at first. I dusted off the dish, and eased my way down, and it was within five feet of the ladder that I started sliding toward the gutter. I was only stopped by the mound of snow my sliding created between me and the ladder. I realized I had positioned myself on one leg, instead of keeping both shoes on the shingles. Once I got back to one flat sole and at least one toe section, I could control my movements to the ladder and gently gently gently reach my legs over to stand on it. We stayed in the rest of the day. We did Christmas in the afternoon once the sidekick was settled, and it went well. Your Sister made a new lamb recipe that was astounding, and we cut into our holiday red velvet cake.

On Sunday, I attacked the driveway, for, I think, the fifth time this year. Unlike the previous storms, this was mostly snow, and it was an easier row to hoe. I could work the shovel like a gliding plow instead of digging, lifting, carrying, and dumping it. That Girltalk album got me through it, and I again thank ye kindly. The new neighbor walked over with a beer as a way of introduction, and I told him I'd hold off until I finished the drive. He told me he was trying to dig his driveway clear so his parents could get back to Myrtle Beach. When I finished ours, I walked over to help him clear his, but he had finished already. Instead, we talked families and weather. I gave him some bags of cocoa Your Sister made before getting back inside to thaw.

We had to rescheduled today's doctor appointment for the boy, and we're aiming for Thursday. We have no idea what the weather will do for our Wednesday and Thursday plans. I've already bumped back a photo session with a high-school buddy for Thursday. It depends on how warm the air gets, and what kind of snowplow traffic we get in the next two days.

Picture of the Day
We may use these hobo signs if we try to walk into town.Before the boy came along we would trudge through the white junk to the local Italian spot. Now, we'll have to drive there if we can go at all.

Moving Forward

The music is a'downloadin' as I type.

I'm only as far as the Beastie Boys in burning our CDs. This is gonna take a while. Although, I think I already burned the Beatles so that's eight or so CDs I can skip.

I'm listening to guest-host Hal Sparks on the Stephanie Miller Show, and he's streaming the president's formal signing of the DADT repeal. I'm obviously glad it's on the way out, but the Pentagon will still need to make adjustments, and Congress could vote down any financial bills needed to make those changes. Still, this repeal is the product of political arm-wringing and generational distinctions. We no longer live in a culture where the only gay representations are limp-wristed fops or skeevy club-hoppers. The easy punchlines in the 1970s were the wispy gentlemen and niche performers like Liberache and Paul Lynde. Do you know Paul Lynde?

I think it's too simple to say AIDS humanized homosexuality to the mainstream. I don't think it was one event that made gays less abhorrent to the majority. But I think we can point to educational programming like Sesame Street that made it a point to say diversity was no sin, and when sitcoms began tackling social matters like homosexuality, it lost its stigma. I think it's similar to the thinking that a generation raised on Eddie Murphy, Tiger Woods, Bill Cosby, Michael Jordan, Whitney Huston, and the emergence of rap/hip-hop would have no trouble with a black president. That's why John McCain is on the wrong side of this; he seems to have never reconciled his generation's notions of gays and his personal associations with the military. Not even a gay daughter can sway him. He's entrenched. I feel sorry for his mental roadblocks, but only to the point that he's intentionally preserving the mindset.

+ + +

I'm tracking the Amazon order for Your Sister, and, while the package is officially in the state, it's on your side of it. It has three days to move four hours this way. I have my fingers crossed.

Real-Time Girl Talk Reaction
Skee-Lo mixed with T-Pau is awesome. Old Dirty Bastard + Radiohead is eye-popping.

It's What We Really Wanted

New comics are up.

Under an arrangement with My Mom, we would buy our Christmas gift, and she'll reimburse us.We decided to get a smaller stereo unit and replace the frat-boy unit I've had for most of the decade. The old one is fine, but it requires a standalone cart, and that cart clutters up the large room and it's running out of room for our CDs. Virtually all single-unit stereos include an iPod dock, and getting one of these lets us remove the cart entirely. So we bought one. That required getting a new, larger capacity iPod, and I picked up a 16G player that claims to hold 4,000 songs. That should be plenty. Now, unfortunately, I need to burn all our CDs, and this will take some time. The transition to the new stereo unit will not be immediate.

Note: We'll keep our CDs squirreled away. You'll still be able to rifle through them to burn whatever catches your eye.

Buy the two pieces meant going to Best Buy, and Best Buy was a scarf bedecked riot. I genuinely pity the associates; I've worked such jobs at Christmas time, and between the foot pain and increased employer demands, you have to handhold shoppers who haven't done their homework before walking in the door. I hope to go to stores and malls during this week's lunch breaks just to watch the madness.


Your Sister delivered cocoa to her teacher buddies during school yesterday and took the sidekick in a Santa hat. Cooing ensued, I'm lead to understand.

We're aiming at next Wednesday for a holiday meal. So far, My Mom is the only one to RSVP. You're certainly welcome too.

Picture of the Day
Maybe we'll catch up on movies during the vacation.

Don't Ask, Don't Have a Cow

We watched the Senate votes on Saturday. The final Don't Ask Don't Tell vote was originally scheduled to take place around noon before it was pushed back three hours to accommodate debate on the START Treaty. We tuned in just in time to see the DREAM Act, providing citizenship to illegal aliens who serve in the military, fail in the chamber. The DADT vote was a pleasant surprise, 65-31, and the president should sign it into law soon.

I heard the usual rhetoric about this on the drive home Friday -- DADT gives gays special rights, this will weaken the military, and it disrupts unit cohesion. When I hear the argument about rights in the military, I don't hear the obvious counter: When is bigotry upheld in the military? Soldiers can't veto their commander's orders on grounds of prejudice if they're paired with a Catholic or black or a woman. Why would they get to mumble about the gay soldier they're partnered with?. (Ignoring for the moment the old irrational notion that homosexuals have no criteria and will fuck everyone in their gender).  As George Will said Sunday:

WILL: The Marines are a small service in which every Marine is a rifleman, and their specialty is small-unit combat, and unit cohesion matters. With that said, the Marines have their orders from the commander-in-chief. You tell a Marine to take the hill, the hill will be taken, and therefore they're going to implement it.

There seems to be a mass assumption that allowing gays to serve openly means the military will place walk-in volunteers into war zones without boot camp or basic training of any kind. Anyone who signs up still has to cut muster before they're deployed. Whoever is in the war zone will be prepared and capable no matter who they dream about when they fluff up their pillow. And the rampant fears of sudden sexual harassment against straights suggests that the military won't be allowed to shut down anyone's unwanted advances. That's crap. Military discipline is still in effect. The only thing this law changes is automatic discharge for soldiers discovered to be gay. 

The deputy seems to have a small cold. We think we all three have the same nasal drip, and it's affecting his sleep patterns. He had a rough weekend but managed to sink back into his bedtime pattern last night. He and I had more time together than normal. Your Sister ran errands and finished Christmas craftwork while I watched him, and I took him to the store Sunday to give her a baby-free hour. I got frustrated with him; he was unsettled from the head cold and all our comforting tricks were failing. But I started to regard him as a miniature version of Your Sister (granted, as an outie instead of an innie), and that got me through. He seems to have gotten through the worst of it.

Picture of the Day
I've almost finished backing up my Christmas gifts.

Christmas Shopping

I scrambled through the mall, desperate to find a gift for Your Sister. I had no clue. I considered jewelry and used the constant TV ads that appeared during football games as her barometer. She wasn't having it. Said it's needless. Said she'd never get to wear it around the deputy. The first jewelery I bought her was a pair of diamond earrings. She traded them in for a wristwatch. She hadn't asked for jewelry since her last-second request for a Valentine's Day ring a few years back. She probably wants a trinket, but the commercials turn her off to the whole industry. So that's out.

I considered a Kindle/Nook, but it doesn't seem like that great a deal. The tech is eye-catching initially, but they're small and limited, and you're still paying double digits for books. There's no savings, and the machine is more fragile than a paperback and more expensive to replace. I very much like the idea of it, and I think she does too. However, I think she'd see it as a luxury. Maybe after a couple more advancements, they'll be irresistible. Besides, we didn't throw down a pile of money on bookshelves for nothing. And the final argument against buying a Kindle: Amazon gives away the software free for laptops.

I left the mall empty handed. I hoped to find the new John Mellencamp CD for her, but the mall's only record store didn't have it. I knew than that Amazon would be my lord and savior, and after about five minutes of freeform scanning, I found the gift.

It's the collected O'Brian books about Jack Aubrey, including the unfinished 21st novel. Also she'll get this:

It's an illustrations of ships from that time period. And I found that CD to give her too. Amazon saved my fish-pill-popping bacon.

Speaking of the Omega 3 pills, they make my stomach unhappy. Your Sister received a similarly solid report from the doctor yesterday. Our stats are parallel, small wonder given that we eat almost the exact same things. Her cholesterol is fine, and she will be taking none of my fish pills. Here RDW (red blood cell distribution width) was a little low, but that's not surprising. She's always cold and quick to get lightheaded. The doctor suggested that it's normal for her and possibly no cause for alarm. Considering all the junk food we eat, our overall cholesterols are strong.

Moving Picture of the Day
The first trailer for Thor, Marvel's next comic movie. Captain America follows soon after, and those will set up Avengers, with characters from the Iron Man and Hulk films.

This plot is not canon. Yes, Thor was banished from Asgard for hubris, but he was trapped in the body of a doctor with a limp working out of New York. Still, seeing big-budget Asgardian production design is cool and cool some more.

Take Your Medicine

Oh, sure. I could have bought the cheaper Omega 3 pill that gives me only 300 mg of magic fish essence. But the slightly more expensive pills give me 460 mg of Omega 3. Decision made. Bottle opened. Eyes widened.

These pills could derail a train. They are large-calibre bullets of oil.

The bottle suggests three pills a day, but the doctor says two will do. She shall be heeded. I've had three so far with no signs of gills yet.

It remains shockingly cold, and more things are to tumble from the sky tonight. My online weather source gave up on forecasting what we'll get and replaced "snow" or "rain" with "precipitation."

Your Sister today for her physical with the same doctor I just saw. We'll compare blood work when I get home.

I sent off my submission for the 2011 convention collector cards, but I'm skeptical that it will be used. Despite assurances that they would contact me in October to follow up on an August request for card art, I was told just last week that they had filled up all their card needs. It was suggested I could send in my submission, and they would use it if room magically appeared. This greatly displeases me. If a card is not produced, I'll make my own and distribute them where their cards are. Also, I can use the card art to make fliers. Your Sister started reading my script for the new hero comic. I'm curious how it reads in script form.

Picture of the Day
Yes, it's that cold.

Checking Things

This is some cold cold right here.

We tested the road conditions Monday afternoon. Your Sister needed to deposit a check, and she was feeling the pinch of cabin fever. I was in the workshop almost all day, working on office stuff through a virtual desktop. The ice was the worst on the road connecting us to the main road; the shade prevents the sun from burning away anything. But it's been scraped and sanded, and we made it down and back with no trouble in her newish Nissan, the SUV. It was a cookie-and-beer run, and I discovered my hometown microbrewery label in our grocery store. Huzzahs erupted.

I had my physical this morning, my first in more than six years. I peed, I coughed, I exhaled during the prostate check, and I wore a terrycloth skirt for the whole thing. We ran through my blood work from last Tuesday, and the only hiccup is my good cholesterol is too low, and the doctor suggested I take Omega 3 supplements. My total cholesterol is 179, a solid number despite my diet of junk and crap and fluff. Also, she told me to keep running. Everything else was solid. She said I have good genes. 

Picture of the Day

Doesn't everyone have their physical in an operating theatre?

Double Drained

I'm on the call/mail list for the local charity group that organizes blood drives, and I made an appointment for this weekend. Almost as soon as I sat down with my waiting number, I was asked what my blood type was, and a shining light appeared in the eyes of the organizer when I told him O positive. Would you consider a double donation, he asked. I've done it before, and I know it takes much longer than the usual pint. I said it depended on the time involved and was assured it would be maybe an hour. Twenty seconds later, that was an hour and fifteen minutes. I called Your Sister to see if she could spare me for two hours, and she groggily said yes. OK, I told them, hook me up.

Unlike with previous donations, I had two "yes" answers on the pre-pint checklist. I always tell them I had a heart murmur in middle school, but I had to tell them this time that, yes, I had come in contact with someone else's blood because my wife gave birth. They blew those off, and I suspect I could tell them that not only have I, say, had sex with someone who lived in Africa, I could have dug a hole in Somalia and actually had sex with the continent of Africa, and they wouldn't care. These drives have quotas, and they eye my big-veined supply of warm blood as a walking snickerdoodle.

But the apheresis machine was wonky, and they announced I'd have to wait. I wasn't keen on that, and I said so. Also, if I'm going to be hooked up to that contraption, I'd like to know what's wrong with it. Nothing major, they said. It was a problem with the displays. It had to reboot. The drive organizer backed me up here and told them I couldn't linger. I had a limited window to bleed, and I had to get to steppin.' Within 15 minutes, the machine was back up, and I was in the chair and draining. They gave me the aluminum blanket to stay warm (trivia: this is the same type of foil used to insulate the Apollo lunar module) and Tums for my tingling lips, a symptom of calcium deprivation.

I noted that the floor trembled when someone walked by, and the nurse instead suggested I was shivering. I doubt that. Still, the saline replacement for the plasma was chilled and obvious as it hit my arm. Once they had their fill, and I ate their cookies and juice before getting Starbucks for Your Sister and me.

Rumors moved through town that the Sunday snowfall was gonna come early. We zoomed to the grocery store, and there was everybody. The rumors panned out, and we got almost five inches before Sunday. Your Sister felt some cabin fever (and probably some misanthropy) and volunteered to clear the driveway. I hovered over junior. Within a half-hour, she had caught the eye of a passing freelance snowplow, and he happily scrapped our driveway clear. That left Your Sister with less to do, and she helped the neighbors shovel their pavement. They told her they were tired of clearing their steep drive, and they were selling the house. It's a nice place, but that driveway does look like a beast to shovel.

We gave the boy his first sweet potato, and he seemed to like it. I mean, he puts everything in his mouth, so I can't see him getting indignant over foodstuffs. He returned from Your Parents' Friday, and Your Mom seemed more cheerful than she's been maybe since they came back from the last trip. Maybe Your Dad talked to her.

My Mom is feeling Dad's absence again, and I wonder if she's becoming inured to the anti-depressant. It's also the holidays and she's no longer working. I want her to get out of the house, and we suggested she hang out with Your Sister and the boy every once in a while. She's keen on coming up for a holiday meal and visit with whomever can make it.

We're asking a high-school friend of mine to do our first portraits as a trio. She lives fairly close by, and we'll feed her in addition to paying her photography rate.

I'm working from home today and will spend some downtime proofing the comic script so Your Sister can read it. I think she'll dig it.

Oh, I bought a set of markers and took another pass at the holiday cards I'm sending out. Even with the snow, they should be received before Christmas.

I Like to Do Drawrings.

I'm doing two drawings this year for some online folks.

One online acquaintance, whom I've since met at conventions, sends out handdrawn cards each year to a small group of friends. I've gotten three, including this year's. It's a big gesture. He needs some reciprocal love.

He sent this. It's Sergeant Slaughter fighting Destro, a GI Joe character. Sarge is a real-life wrestler who, in a stroke of complete fucking genius, was brought into the GI Joe universe and toy line. His finishing move is the Cobra Clutch, a sleeper hold, and he's applying to a member of Cobra. There's so much right about this drawing.


In response, I'm sending him this. I assume he likes Hawkman. Who doesn't like Hawkman?


I only have three color markers. I can offer him no flesh tones. This is, by the way, the best Hawkman I've ever drawn.

I'm sending an online Secret Santa winner this drawing:


I quickly drew them both yesterday as I watched the sidekick. Your Sister was off attending a teacher workshop. She'll meet up with a college buddy today while Your Parents watch the boy.

He had a horrible night, and we suspect the Christmas lights kept him awake. They're a low intensity blue, and we hoped they'd replace the nightlight. But his vision may not be able to filter them the way we can. Once we unplugged them, he slept. Lesson learned. His howling was so bad, we suspected teething. It's still early for that, although My Mom says I teethed (tothed? toothed?) at three months.

Going Ahead With Things

Achievement unlocked.

I feel like James Bond. I didn't even know about the cards until I saw yours.

The insulated curtains are up in the nursery, and the room feels much better.

As it stands now, My Mom will come up for a holiday dinner, and Your Parents won't. When Your Sister suggested it to them, Your Mom told her to not plan anything and let things just happen. She said she would give me their Christmas presents to us tomorrow when I drop off the deputy. That sounds like they are avoiding any family get-together in the wake of the July 4, Veteran's Day, and Thanksgiving assemblies. Can't say I blame them. OK, I could blame them to some degree, but, really, why? They only hurt themselves by boycotting or grumbling through such events. When I talked to My Mom last night, she asked specifically what was going on with Your Parents in Alabama. I suspect they will, in fact, come by when they remember the deputy will be a quarter of the way further into his first year.

We're thinking of getting a new stereo system to replace the fratboy boom system I hastily bought after my separation. Actually, I now remember I got that for Christmas from my parents as the separation began. They were inclined to replace everything taken by the missus to both comfort me and spite her. Either way, the current system requires its own stand. I'd like to get rid of that and get a smaller system to fit in the bookshelves. We'd then burn all the CDs to our laptops and move them to a docked iPod. I'd also like to get a second drawing table so I can work on the next comics in the house proper.

I'm drawing comic Christmas cards for some online friends. I also contacted the convention folks to remind them they once asked if I'd make a collector card to promote next year's show. The card is made, and I'd like to get that piece out in public view.

The deputy has learned how to blow raspberries. Now he can make that noise from both ends.

Hello, Winter

The Friday doctor's appointment was good news/bad news.

The dandy: The doctor said that if he's shown even incremental improvement, that's a sign that he'll completely grow out of this by the time he's one year old. His rule contends that "90% of the patients get 90% better 90% of the time. " He'll stay on the Prevacid and return in six months.

The stinky: All that took 30 seconds and a $60 co-pay. Seems like we could have done this over the phone for free.

It's true that his snoring is a tenth of what it once was, and I wonder if the Prevacid is for our assurance more than his health. After more than a week of sleeping on his back, we've heard no regression, suggesting the reflux is under control. What has interrupted his sleep is the cold snap. It's f'ing freezing. Literally. We've ordered insulated curtains for his room. As I type, there's snow blowing like crazy in Asheville. I stayed home Monday and put up the Christmas tree. Your Sister bought the boy's first stocking. He can fit in it.

We piled into the car again and drove to a nearby Christmas street market in Flat Rock. It was nice. Small, but nice. The sleet probably affected the turnout, leaving more edibles for us. Your Sister specifically went for the advertised mushroom soup only to be told by that vendor that he couldn't get it together in time. Her grievous wound was salved with Starbucks.

The deputy and the cat now have wrestling characters in my new video game. They are tag team champions, and their entrance music is "No Sleep Til Brooklyn." I love this game.

I dropped by my new GP today for my pre-physical bloodwork. I was told I would replenish the three vials' worth by tonight, and this would not affect my ability to donate a pint Saturday. I assume they would call immediately if the vials turned out to be filled with buffalo sauce.

We'd like to have family over around Christmas and New Year's for a meal. Are you available?

Picture of the Day
Build your own Falcon.

Forward Progress

The first draft of my third convention comic script is done.

I write as long as the momentum allows, set the script aside, and return later in the day to see if it will bellow a lingering ember. Often that does happen.

This morning's work was not what I expected. I didn't know what the final image/thought of the story would be. I've provided the big moments of the superheroine origin but not an obvious exit. I figured I'd need to hammer out some dents and prune weak dialogue before building a new scaffolding. To my surprise, I only needed to apply one final sentence to button the script. I mentally skipped what could have been a page of talking and dropped the capstone in place.

I'm as relieved as I am delighted. Now I can print it and get to polishing. I still need to determine how many pages I can feasibly draw and afford between now and May.

Almost Obligatory Baby Information
Despite the doctor's advice, Your Sister gets a mite concerned when the boy doesn't have a bowel movement. He reminded us that some babies can go three weeks without it. He hadn't befouled a diaper since the weekend, and she set her mind to fixing that when I brought him back from Your Parents' house last night. Protracted stomach massage ensued, and she seemed as physically relieved as he when he was placed naked on the changing station and extruding what appeared to be a few pounds of batter. Within a half hour, he had drunk 8 oz. of milk and was sacked out in the crib. We see the otolaryngologist Friday afternoon.

Dramatic Confession from My Innermost Dungeon of Shame of the Day
I had to look that word up.

Picture of the Day
To celebrate my comic work, I shall mosh with my crocs.

Baby Learning

I compared the sidekick to a videogame a few months back. I was referring to the template of a self-contained series of tests a player will encounter. Used to be, video games were simple button-mashers; the only trick was timing the correct button press. But as technology and competition expanded, the gaming universe developed a puzzle subsystem now seen in almost every current major game. This is what parenting is like.

Particularly, I could compare him to a customizable role-playing character. As we develop specific skills (solid food, sitting up, etc), he becomes distinct from other babies as he develops on the same general timeline. By giving him certain tools and tasks, we're molding him. But that means we have to respond to his responses. We're in a feedback loop, and that forces us to out-think him.

Take his new sleep position. We took him out of the bassinet last week, and he's slept in the crib ever since. I'm relieved with this; that crib needed more business. He proved he could sleep flat on his back with the travel bed, but he's accustomed to curling up in deep sleep because of the bassinet frame. As we moved him to the crib, he still curls up and his subsequent leg movement will often jerk him awake. I'm not shocked by this. He has the leg muscles of a gymnast. That muscle jerk keeps him from sleeping and us from eating supper. We would have to scoop him up again and hold him until he reached a deep enough sleep to last through the next put-down attempt. Recently, I tried simply holding down his legs after putting him down, and it worked. He crashes quickly. I told Your Sister about it, and she got the same results on her nights to put him down.

A few weeks back, I started setting him upright to build the sitting muscles. I'll keep him this way for ten minutes at a time. Just last night, he put his right hand flat beside him, locked the elbow, and stayed upright for a few seconds. He's evolving. Your Sister was amazed. By the end of the year, just after his six-month birthday, he might be sitting by himself.

He doesn't have the dexterity to mimic the sign language, but we suspect his acute arm movements are his tried at it. Not that there's any mystery when he's hungry. He began keening and lowing right before the hunger cries start. It gives us time to warm up bottled milk. He's teaching us.

Picture of the Day
We've become fans of the The Walking Dead. This season has only six episodes, and it ends this Sunday. This is a behind-the-scenes shot of the very first scene, and it influenced my comic script (first real draft almost done). Specifically, it gives us the tone of the series and some zombie violence early on before moving toward the slower establishing scenes. It hooks us. I needed that for my comic, and that helped unlock the other parts of the script between the major moments I had in mind.

Reading and Chewing

I've shaken up my weekly routine a bit by eating actual meals for lunch. I previously avoided all restaurants during my lunch break for a number of reasons, but mostly I didn't want to be That Guy Who Eats Alone. It's sad. I've always found it sad to see, and I didn't want to multiply that feeling by being That Guy.

I used to at at my office. When the office eating policy changed, I took to window shopping to kill my lunch break, and I'd snack to maintain my blood sugar. Recently though, I decided it was no sin to sit down and eat a meal, and I've ventured into a few of the local eateries: Golden Palace (great for lunch), Firehouse Subs (overpriced), Burger King (heavy on the stomach), and others. Whenever I went to a restaurant, I took a book. Otherwise, I hit a store or two and grab Starbucks and bananas for lunch. I think that helped me lose weight, and it is a filling meal. I eventually worked up curiosity about the sports bar and went in a few weeks back with a West Wing scriptbook.

Yesterday was my third trip into the sportsbar across the street, and I had a new book, The Wordy Shipmates, an extended essay on the Pilgrims. I've probably created a reputation as That Weird Book Guy because, come on, who takes a book to a sports bar? But the lunch prices are good, and I'm filled up, and it's well lighted. There are banks of TV screens showing mostly sports highlights, and I can only watch so much of that without hearing the channel. And instead of staring at the walls, I want to read. Yesterday, I made a shocking discovery: A man reading a book in a sportsbar lures waitresses. I'm sure, were I a hump, I could exploit this. I'm surprised by it, but the sight must be such a rarity that people slow down to interact with it like a car crash on the freeway.

One of the recurring comments during the Thanksgiving assembly was how much a baby instills within a new parent (me) an expanded scope of love and purpose. So far, I'm not feeling it. My resolve to care for the sidekick remains intact, and yes, I'm willing to punt other kids who bother him. But that alleged supernova glow of harmony doesn't broadcast through me. I'm still the same me as before, but now I have a small roommate who can't walk. I suppose I'm the kind of parent who doesn't romanticize the infant stages. I prefer someone who can talk and walk, someone who can convey a personality. I can work with that. I can grow attached to that. Now? He's a larva in clever onsies.

Picture of the Day
I found this yesterday.

Socks and Sabers

I've enjoyed my months of wearing Converse without socks, but now that time must end. The sharp, cold air is too stark, even for my short walks from the car to the office or the mall. Add to that the strong probability of rainstorms, and these simple canvas shoes won't cut it. I must dust off my socks. I must smother my feet and say goodbye to the Converse until spring's sunlight again warms the earth. Converse with socks, so suggest? I'd need to buy a size larger to accommodate the socks. Also, that combination doesn't look right. Converse are practically boat shoes. Socks are unnecessary.

I bought three new pairs at Target, and the flustered clerk only rang up two of them. I debated saying something, but the register aisles were crammed. I didn't want to add to the wait times of those behind me, and, hey, free socks.

I've been paralyzed in writing the new hero comic. My brain churns with plot strands and scenes, but formatting it on paper freezes me. concerns of issue length and format stymie me, and I need to simply write everything down as it flows and whittle it to an affordable size later on. This is what I must do. Yes. Now to do it. I know what happens in the story but not how the comic will depict it. I'm wary of starting with four pages of conversation -- and as I type this, I think I figured out how to avoid that.

The deputy seems to have forgotten how to sleep all night, and I wonder if the change to crib sleeping put him off his schedule.

Picture of the Very Cold, Rainy Day
Empire director Irvin Kershner died this weekend. This image is from Ain't It Cool News.


Watching Empire this weekend, by sheer confidence, I noted a new subtext to the Vader/Luke fight created by the prequels. We know from an earlier Empire scene that Vader would rather turn Luke than kill him. But Vader reveals to Luke that he wants to team up to overthrow the Emperor. I suggest that that's half the new story.

I think Vader wants Luke to turn to prove to himself that he wasn't weak when he turned on the Jedi and caused Padme's death. If Luke can turn, anyone can, and Vader would be no worse than anyone else. I propose he yearns to settle this in hopes of redeeming himself, but Luke wants Vader to join him and redeem himself via a Skywalker family intervention. They both want the same thing -- Vader's peace of mind -- but Vader sees himself as so corrupted and low that he fights Luke's sales pitch of the good side of the Force. We get that in Return, but it's delivered in such simple terms that it lacks heft.

Also, I wonder if age plays a part in the Empire fight. As they begin, Vader exclusively wields his saber with one hand, and it's a theatrical move: Luke is fresh from Jedi boot camp with Yoda and Ben and is fighting to save his friends. He has initiative and vigor. Vader plays the part of a grizzled gladiator who is in no way threatened by this. The stance gives him a swagger I missed the first four dozen times I saw the film. Vader has been cleansing the galaxy of Jedi and rebels for decades; he shouldn't be threatened by a dirt farmer even if he is carrying Vader's old weapon.

Maybe we do need to show the films in episodic order to the deputy. I intended to go by release date before I considered all this.

Recovering

I did a strip for my friend's Comics From Space webcomic, and it went live this morning. There will be a batch of guest strips, and mine is the first.

I was flattered to be asked and immediately set down what I thought was the perfect idea for a joke involving those characters. Within two weeks, the joke was used by a Conan O'Brien ad. After much cursing and cat kicking, I summoned up another gag and sent the strip in ridiculously early to avoid a similar joke theft. That's probably why my strip is the first to see daylight.

My voice is low and rumbly today, making me sound hungover. Your Sister and I ended the weekend by watching The Walking Dead, a new series based on a zombie comic. It's hitting her hard, spooking and exhausting her within a hour. We have to watch more TV afterward before we dare go to bed.

Moving Picture of the Day
60 Minutes gave the first extended preview of the new Spider-Man musical last night. The backstage story threatens to eclipse the stage work: Bono and The Edge wrote their first musical, and director Julie Taymor's reputation as Broadway's most dynamic creator helped this show stay alive despite financial collapse. Also, the two original leads actors left during production delays. The show is alleged to cost about $65 million, making it the biggest show in the history of the Great White Way, and it will have to summon the loyalty enjoyed by Wicked to break even. It's a giant enterprise, but it looks amazing. There's no way this could tour though; it's too technically demanding.

I'm very curious about it, of course.