blog2

Doesn't Do Us Any Good.
Monday, November 30

Somewhere there's this field, I've spoken of it before. It has a constant overcast, and the grass never grows higher than two inches. On the fringes of it, hills roll and bank and in the areas one cannot play easily, the grass is just a little bit taller and the wind can be seen waving through it. On this field, the world never gets dark and there's always a constant breeze, the game is over when your body gives up and your muscles give in. It's unbelievable. When you finally decide, on what to play, all your friends show up (all the ones you can stand anyway) and they all want to play the same thing. They've brought their play-clothes and they know they're going to get dirty. So you flesh out the rules, you hammer out the details and everyone agrees that they stop playing the moment someone stops having any fun. Today, on this particularly beautiful and enchanted day, the gang has decided that they are to horseplay. En masse, all as one, until the last body is swung, everyone starts pushing for fun. You are slammed on the ground, you see the clammer of feet and huffs as your friends look to do the same. Kickstarted, an engine, the heart in your chest tells the brain in your head to relay a message to the muscles in your arms and legs to stand you up. So you climb to your feet, anchor bolts through your heals, and you take a running start at anything with its back to you. Your arms clamp like a vice around his shoulders, your moment redirects and your ankles pivot forcing him to travel through space with you and into the air. He's being spun and flipped for the first time today, but not the last time today. You're the juggernaut, a Hindu animal god on all fours and blood wiped as warpaint down your face, snorting and heaving through these meaty obstacles. Just bodies, hurling through space.

The grass turns to dirt, trampled and churned like beef through a grinder. If the world were to heat up, this place would smell like hamburger and charcoal. Take a look at your hands, they're dirty for the first time in years. Take a look at your legs, they're bruised for the first time in years. Take a look at your friends, they're alive for the first time in years. They do not hurt, neither do you, and it's a good thing. The gasoline in your chest is exploding and all you want to do is charge your fists and slam them into the ground and cause an earthquake. It's the greatest feeling in the world.

Time goes on, ignoring the lot of you, the world watches on, admiring the lot of you and swelling with the power you build like batteries of aggression. The power of a thousand erupting suns. Skin smacks against skin, bodies rain down to the Earth meeting each other for the first time, every time.

Until, that shock ripples through your system. The exhausting whir of machines dying, the power vented into the atmosphere to release the tension from the soil and the charge from the sky. You are tornadoes. You are volcanoes. You are, the collapse of ancient Rome and the pyroclastic cloud of death that plumed from ground zero. An end to a glorious beginning. The bodies finally come to rest and the principle of motion is tested in its fullest.

Piled against each other, hugging the dirt like magnets.

Everyone watches the sky, proud of this moment. Triumph without loss. Victory without defeat. Grinning at the sky, and knowing that they are the only living creatures on this planet.

That's when it starts to rain. Pouring, rain. The dirt turns to mud. Besides all the noise, the silence can be heard for miles.

Leave Me And Die.
Thursday, November 26

Fuckin' this is it, bookmark this bitch now because you're never seeing it again. Well, in the spirit of all the people I think are awesome who making actual lists of shit they care about, here is mine. Remember, in the future, I will blatantly fucking lie about any mushyness that goes on here.

I am "thankful" for:

Emily, my girlfriend, without whom I would probably be burned out or dead.
Movies.
A world where showing the world what you dream of at night is a career.
Futurama being amazing for so long and never letting me down. It's gotten me through a lot of harsh shit.
Silver Surfer keeping my infatuation in tow. Even if everything falls apart, I'll still be that six year old boy dreaming about flying through space.
Ms. Marvel being an awesome woman, it's nice getting to know one because I come from a world where there are so few.
Cashew chicken, holy shit, cashew chicken.
My screenplays. After the loss, I'm almost forty pages back with the zombies and Sub Rosa still lives.
Titan Maximum.
Giant tv's and blu-ray, the rereleased animated Disney classics are perfect and I feel like I'm discovering hidden treasure whenever I buy them.
Modest Mouse, of course. I'm always listening.
Comics in general, I know when I always come back to them there's something awesome waiting for me. I want to have a giant wall of Suydam covers in my "man room" when I'm older and have a house.
Movie theaters.
Kevin Smith. I saw him twice this year and split my balls laughing both times. I'm in a SModcast!
White Castle and Ninja Turtle ice cream, two things I will go great distances to find.
Hot cheesesteaks at two in the morning in the bitter cold.
Parkour. I'm losing weight so I can do you better.
Windows 7 for showing me that there might be hope...
Hoggifer.
Chinchillas.
My lovings.
The Criterion Collection.
Twitter making me want to be funny again.
Jason Inge for showing me the truth.
Christian Hutt for being a nut, so I seem less like one when we hang out.
Danny McBride.
mc chris for being my hero, fuck dude, you don't even know.
Standby tickets.
The cardio cinema at Gold's Gym. I can't imagine how fat I'd be now without it.
The internet, may you always amuse me.
Seanbaby.
Zombies.
Ethan Suplee, Jon Favreau, Kevin Smith and Criterion for retweeting/replying to me personally.
The architects and engineers that have dedicated themselves to teaching us the truth.
The iPhone.
The Impossible Project for manufacturing brand new instant integral film.
Halloween, October in general.
Memories of being a kid.

It'd Be Back.
Monday, November 23

It's hard to even think about, fathom, or discern. There are places behind the thin glowing veils of the internet where another type of people play. I've been reading up on The Operations and Project905. I need to be a part of this. They're like superheroes, Hardy Boys, chaotics racing about in the middle of the night to the fields and rooftops of anywhere. Clues, packages, cyphers, win, danger, fear, aliases, suspiria and the knowledge that you're this amazing person who had the guts to seek out these amazing things knowing the risk, but doing it regardless because of the thrill and power there was to be won. A chance to explore a world we can see every inch of thanks to fucking Google Earth and see the sides of it a damn layout can't provide. A chance to experience it's myths and mysteries, let it lead you into the cold flooded lower-levels of a complex long since abandoned, long ago purposed. I want to be a seeker. Where are these people? IRC will lead me. Like the ferrymen over the river of souls, those lost and collected. I'll pay him his toll and he'll cart me through the channels until I find these people, or until he scuttles the boat and I'm forced to pursue the orphaned footsteps and warm rocks of the treaders at dusk. Every hour is magic hour and night lasts forever.

I want to solve their puzzles, use the resources I've gathered in this life and the magic my peers have given me to sift through the fragments and arrange them in a way that makes sense to me. A beaten chest, wet jeans, a jacket and a pocketknife. A good flashlight, too. No puzzle can be solved without a good one of those.

Maestros, seek me out. Your seeker. Lead me into the trenches, show me the bricks, give me the jewel wrapped in old rags, kilned in a statue and buried in clay.

We all need this.

Hearts Down.
Saturday, November 21

I want to start by saying that I'm sorry and that it will never happen again.

Ha. You just got lied to. Like that?

Somehow along the way I stumbled into some fucked-up-inside-out world full of paranoia and murder. It's like a hidden Mario Bros. level where the goombas are colored in negatives and at any point in the level a missile could just fly in and nuke away your precious effort in World 9-1. I'm not quite sure what is stopping me from posting the link to it here, but part of me doesn't want to be called a lunatic or a conspiracy theorist. Buttfuck, I actually spent a couple of minutes deciding as to whether or not I wanted to put "conspiracy theorist" in quotations and whether or not that makes me look like a tool. Well, dammit, it happened anyway. THAT'S THE FUTURE GENTLEMEN. So, I want to post this link but I'm afraid that at some point in the future this post could come back to haunt me and destroy my credibility as an awesome motherfucker and I do not want that to happen. Not that I'm afraid that I won't be an awesome motherfucker, I'll always be awesome, MOTHERFUCKER.

There was a bit of a hiatus on the comic books recently. My interest kinda took a dive after Secret Invasion finished out. I think I've mentioned my feelings about that here before, but pretty much it felt like: "Oh shit! It's the Skrull queen and she's going to titty-slap us to death with her alien technomagic. COVER YOUR DICK!" - BLAM! - "Sweet! Norman Osbourne blew her head off at the last second. Phew." SPONSORED BY PEPSI. Now they're uterus-deep in Dark Reign and Secret Invasion (something they had hyped for eons and supposedly planned for years) feels like an afterthought and just a ploy to get us to read Dark Reign. What the fucking who gives a shit about Dark Reign. "Norman Osbourne is a bad dude? PLEASE DON'T SAY HE'S A BAD DUDE. I WILL LITERALLY PISS SHIT INTO MY OWN DIAPER IF YOU'RE HONESTLY TELLING ME THAT NORMAN "THE GREEN GOBLIN" OSBOURNE TURNS OUT TO BE A BAD DUDE." What up, Marvel? Is there something far more interesting with this Dark Reign shit? 'Cause if there is, you're sure not acting like it. And you need to act like every fucking thing you write is the bee's knees if you want to pimp funny books you giant bastard. "Hey! Franklin Richard learns how to ride a bike and sees his mom (The Invisible Woman) naked in the shower on accident! WHAT WILL WE COME UP WITH NEXT?! I'M TRIPPING SO FUCKING BAD THAT I'M EATING MY KEYBOARD AS I WRITE THIASTAS083OA":WTA0AAAA.AA..AAA-=9399999"

I did though get back into Ms. Marvel. Her and the silver-gilded one are the only two heroes who consistently hold up for me. I really want to write for Ms. Marvel, bring some kind of cosmic shit back into her life. Possibly save Shadowcat who's stuck in that fucking bullet, or even a Silver Surfer team-up. If I could be known for writing anything, I want it to be for Surfer comics. That's not true, I want to be known for all the things I write, but definitely one of my priorities is Surfer. Then, I'll retire with a pizzeria. And if that's not the American dream, then I don't know what is.