Sorry for the sporadic posting these days - I've been Very Busy, as I've been writing like a fiend lately, and so disappearing into the laptop at night for hours on end. But since you've all been so patient, it's only fair to pull back the curtain on what I've been up to.
I'm now elbows-deep in writing the first chapter of a comic called Adeptus, the world of which will be familiar to all of you who've had the dubious pleasure of reading my scribblings these past few years. I feel pretty good about the story so far, which is assembling itself nicely after a couple of false starts. And Spyder's doing the art, which I feel even better about. There should be a preview (adapted from a story of mine that made the rounds a couple of years ago) becoming available in the not-too-distant future; details will be posted as I know 'em.
Similarly, about two and a half years ago, Maija and I cooked up an idea for a comic called The Residents that I quickly found I wasn't ready for; several incarnations of first scripts were embarked upon, none of which made me happy, and I reluctantly let go of it for a while. The story was fighting me (and I found myself getting in my own way), until I realized that it wanted to be nothing so much as a sort of dark and spooky occult superhero book (a bit like Doom Patrol spliced by mad science onto Gloomcookie) - and suddenly, pages I don't hate are shaping up for it. The whole project has been much less recalcitrant after convincing me of this, in fact, and so the first chapter of The Residents gets front-burnered again as soon as the first chapter of Adeptus is in the can. So there's that, too.
All of which may cause some brow-furrowing among those good folks who stuck with me of late through the first four acts of The Vasty Deep, and who may be reading all of this as a sign they should perhaps despair of ever knowing the end of it. I haven't left that one behind, I swear; the stuff that's already written is currently in several stages of revision, even while the back end gets pecked at by small increments. So you will indeed get to find out if all that smoke generated in November produced a flame of any heat - but the story so far may be a bit different by the time we get there. It's gradual, and some ways off yet, but your patience will be rewarded.
So that's my field report from word-processor-land. Hopefully, next time I'll be blogging about something other than my prodigious and virile ego...
May 06, 2004
April 26, 2004
No More Wire Hangers!
This is what democracy looks like.
And that's where I was most of yesterday, along with the missus and Caren and Niels and Matt, joining the evil feminist-homosexualist axis as we made a bright pink nuisance of ourselves on the streets of DC during the March for Women's Lives.
A conservative estimate puts the numbers at around 500,000. It may have been considerably more.
There was, of course, some opposition. But I was struck by how small (somewhere between a couple hundred and a thousand counter-protesters) it was - and, much like the asshats in the "Got AIDS Yet?" t-shirts who stood around on the corner for the Millennial March on Washington four years ago, how ultimately narrow and wrong-headed they seemed. The folk I was walking with - women, men, young, old, all races, all social strata - love life. They love families and children (many, many showed up with their own), and they understand the sacrifices - the hard choices - that have to be made to make the world better for everyone.
And, while I understand that the rhetoric on both sides of the abortion issue can get a bit intense, I have to say I have much more respect for the tactics of the pro-choice people. After all, I didn't see one poster yesterday with a photo of a mangled uterus from a botched DIY abortion. I'm tempted to say that might not be such a bad counterpoint, but I'd really rather let the opposition have a monopoly on the B-movie horror stuff. It's an ugly and unpleasant way to get one's point across. I'm more than willing to be disagreed with on any number of things I believe in, but if you can't do so without resorting to fetishized images of mutilation and gore - well, I'm also more than willing to let you.
UPDATE: Matt has posted a whole bunch of pictures. And in there are also reports from both Respectful of Otters and everythingsruined, for a couple of slightly more respectable bloggers' angles than mine.
And that's where I was most of yesterday, along with the missus and Caren and Niels and Matt, joining the evil feminist-homosexualist axis as we made a bright pink nuisance of ourselves on the streets of DC during the March for Women's Lives.
A conservative estimate puts the numbers at around 500,000. It may have been considerably more.
There was, of course, some opposition. But I was struck by how small (somewhere between a couple hundred and a thousand counter-protesters) it was - and, much like the asshats in the "Got AIDS Yet?" t-shirts who stood around on the corner for the Millennial March on Washington four years ago, how ultimately narrow and wrong-headed they seemed. The folk I was walking with - women, men, young, old, all races, all social strata - love life. They love families and children (many, many showed up with their own), and they understand the sacrifices - the hard choices - that have to be made to make the world better for everyone.
And, while I understand that the rhetoric on both sides of the abortion issue can get a bit intense, I have to say I have much more respect for the tactics of the pro-choice people. After all, I didn't see one poster yesterday with a photo of a mangled uterus from a botched DIY abortion. I'm tempted to say that might not be such a bad counterpoint, but I'd really rather let the opposition have a monopoly on the B-movie horror stuff. It's an ugly and unpleasant way to get one's point across. I'm more than willing to be disagreed with on any number of things I believe in, but if you can't do so without resorting to fetishized images of mutilation and gore - well, I'm also more than willing to let you.
UPDATE: Matt has posted a whole bunch of pictures. And in there are also reports from both Respectful of Otters and everythingsruined, for a couple of slightly more respectable bloggers' angles than mine.
April 24, 2004
All In a Day's Work
As Spyder relates, she's right now in the throes of 24-hour Comics Day. We all eagerly await her recounting of the insanity.
(I say this in the knowledge that this "insanity," in pure play-by-play terms, is probably as exciting as watching paint dry. This is true of all Art, despite its image in the popular imagination. The sad fact is that watching the creative process is boring as hell from anywhere but inside the head, and frequently from there too; we spend inordinate amounts of time on our asses with brow furrowed, putting one word [or picture] after another in the grim hope that it will all look like something eventually. I can imagine all too well tuning in to the thoughts of any 24-hour comics creator: "Next panel. Scribble scribble scribble. Next panel. Scribble scribble scribble. Next panel. Fuck. Oh, hell. Scribble scribble scribble. Next page. Panel 1...." And so on, and so on.)
Anyway, the concept of the 24-hour Comic - one of the madcap inventions of sequential-art deep thinker Scott McCloud - has been around a little while, but it's only recently taken on the status of an Event. I get the impression that some folks wonder at the reason such things as this and NaNoWriMo are scheduled Events, when they're the kind of projects a person could certainly just decide to do at any point. And this is true enough. But remember that we artistic types, by our nature, are a sedentary and antisocial lot, given to long stretches of time sitting around by ourselves and being brooding and complex. So it's good for us to take advantage of opportunities to both get a creative kick in the ass and to form communities around ideas like this, temporary as they may be. Plus it's just cool to know you're taking part in something larger than yourself, which is another thing it's easy to lose track of when you're all holed up in your studio by your lonesome.
So hurrah for 24-hour Comics Day. I'm a bit sad I couldn't take part this year (home improvement trumped improvement of the soul this weekend, I'm afraid - not that that isn't a worthy endeavor as well), but a big thumbs-up goes out to everyone who did. Finish or fail, it's a great thing to undertake; may neither your ink nor your imagination run dry.
(I say this in the knowledge that this "insanity," in pure play-by-play terms, is probably as exciting as watching paint dry. This is true of all Art, despite its image in the popular imagination. The sad fact is that watching the creative process is boring as hell from anywhere but inside the head, and frequently from there too; we spend inordinate amounts of time on our asses with brow furrowed, putting one word [or picture] after another in the grim hope that it will all look like something eventually. I can imagine all too well tuning in to the thoughts of any 24-hour comics creator: "Next panel. Scribble scribble scribble. Next panel. Scribble scribble scribble. Next panel. Fuck. Oh, hell. Scribble scribble scribble. Next page. Panel 1...." And so on, and so on.)
Anyway, the concept of the 24-hour Comic - one of the madcap inventions of sequential-art deep thinker Scott McCloud - has been around a little while, but it's only recently taken on the status of an Event. I get the impression that some folks wonder at the reason such things as this and NaNoWriMo are scheduled Events, when they're the kind of projects a person could certainly just decide to do at any point. And this is true enough. But remember that we artistic types, by our nature, are a sedentary and antisocial lot, given to long stretches of time sitting around by ourselves and being brooding and complex. So it's good for us to take advantage of opportunities to both get a creative kick in the ass and to form communities around ideas like this, temporary as they may be. Plus it's just cool to know you're taking part in something larger than yourself, which is another thing it's easy to lose track of when you're all holed up in your studio by your lonesome.
So hurrah for 24-hour Comics Day. I'm a bit sad I couldn't take part this year (home improvement trumped improvement of the soul this weekend, I'm afraid - not that that isn't a worthy endeavor as well), but a big thumbs-up goes out to everyone who did. Finish or fail, it's a great thing to undertake; may neither your ink nor your imagination run dry.
April 23, 2004
"Alas, Poor Ghost"
Today was (as likely as not) the 440th birthday of Will Shakespeare, who as most of you know by now has had some small impact on my life.
Yesterday's post noted the comparison I draw between Shakespeare and sacred texts, which is only a very slightly tongue-in-cheek way of putting the effect his work has had on me over the last fifteen years. But I also think the parallel holds between the person of Shakespeare and the prophets and teachers of various religions. What we know about the Bard of Avon, when it comes down to it, is infuriatingly sketchy, incomplete, controversial, and open to wild speculation - which is about the same place we are with Jesus, Mohammed, Siddhartha, Krishna, and just about everyone else who ever managed to leave behind the kind of spiritual ideas that elevate fringe cults to respectability.
And, like those other worthy gurus, what we mostly have of Shakespeare is his words - or, at least, the words that are generally attributed to him. I tend to steer clear of the Authorship Debate, largely because most anti-Stratfordian arguments are based on a weird kind of classist snobbery, but also because it distracts from what seems to me to be the real point - that the thirty-six (or thirty-seven or whatever) plays in the canon attributed to Shakespeare are a pinnacle of poetry and drama, and collectively say things about the human experience in a way that has not been equalled before or since.
Shakespeare the man is a cypher - each generation, each artistic movement has made of him what they want him to be, finding in the historical record a convenient blank slate rather than the chronicle of a person. He suits all agendas because he answers no questions. But Shakespeare the author is another thing entirely. William Burroughs said, as he came more and more to terms with his own mortality, "The Work is the mainsail to reach the Western Lands." What we have of Master Will is all Work, and if that has managed to suit all agendas as well since it was first performed, it's for the opposite reason: the text here seems to answer all questions, or at least address all matters of living and love and passion and death, and does so every time in an eloquent, concise, utterly convincing manner. And for everything it says, you can probably also find something in the plays that says, just as convincingly, the exact opposite thing. (Sounding familiar yet?)
The upshot of all of which is that it doesn't matter whether Shakespeare was Shakespeare or just, as they say, someone else of the same name. We may always have to resign ourselves to a kind of agnosticism on the matter of authorship, and I think that's okay. Shakespeare the author is an eidolon, a mirror we can look into and see whatever we need to see (which is why the major plays can stand a new interpretation every five years or so). Who he "really" was is beside the point, and of only passing relevance to what he has come to mean to our literature, our language, our culture. (The idea of a Bard is a Bard.)
So happy birthday to the Bard of Avon, the master playwright of Lord Strange's company and the Globe, the author of Twelfth Night and Titus Andronicus, of King John and King Lear, of Hamlet and Measure for Measure and Much Ado about Nothing - whoever you were. "Youth's a stuff will not endure," you once said, and you said it over again in a hundred ways as you explored your obsession with time and mortality - that most basic and pervasive of human concerns - and I've only become more your disciple each year the truth of it comes home more and more to me. Here's hoping you rest well in Elysium now, and perhaps look in from time to time on what some of us have made of what you left us, and think on it kindly.
Yesterday's post noted the comparison I draw between Shakespeare and sacred texts, which is only a very slightly tongue-in-cheek way of putting the effect his work has had on me over the last fifteen years. But I also think the parallel holds between the person of Shakespeare and the prophets and teachers of various religions. What we know about the Bard of Avon, when it comes down to it, is infuriatingly sketchy, incomplete, controversial, and open to wild speculation - which is about the same place we are with Jesus, Mohammed, Siddhartha, Krishna, and just about everyone else who ever managed to leave behind the kind of spiritual ideas that elevate fringe cults to respectability.
And, like those other worthy gurus, what we mostly have of Shakespeare is his words - or, at least, the words that are generally attributed to him. I tend to steer clear of the Authorship Debate, largely because most anti-Stratfordian arguments are based on a weird kind of classist snobbery, but also because it distracts from what seems to me to be the real point - that the thirty-six (or thirty-seven or whatever) plays in the canon attributed to Shakespeare are a pinnacle of poetry and drama, and collectively say things about the human experience in a way that has not been equalled before or since.
Shakespeare the man is a cypher - each generation, each artistic movement has made of him what they want him to be, finding in the historical record a convenient blank slate rather than the chronicle of a person. He suits all agendas because he answers no questions. But Shakespeare the author is another thing entirely. William Burroughs said, as he came more and more to terms with his own mortality, "The Work is the mainsail to reach the Western Lands." What we have of Master Will is all Work, and if that has managed to suit all agendas as well since it was first performed, it's for the opposite reason: the text here seems to answer all questions, or at least address all matters of living and love and passion and death, and does so every time in an eloquent, concise, utterly convincing manner. And for everything it says, you can probably also find something in the plays that says, just as convincingly, the exact opposite thing. (Sounding familiar yet?)
The upshot of all of which is that it doesn't matter whether Shakespeare was Shakespeare or just, as they say, someone else of the same name. We may always have to resign ourselves to a kind of agnosticism on the matter of authorship, and I think that's okay. Shakespeare the author is an eidolon, a mirror we can look into and see whatever we need to see (which is why the major plays can stand a new interpretation every five years or so). Who he "really" was is beside the point, and of only passing relevance to what he has come to mean to our literature, our language, our culture. (The idea of a Bard is a Bard.)
So happy birthday to the Bard of Avon, the master playwright of Lord Strange's company and the Globe, the author of Twelfth Night and Titus Andronicus, of King John and King Lear, of Hamlet and Measure for Measure and Much Ado about Nothing - whoever you were. "Youth's a stuff will not endure," you once said, and you said it over again in a hundred ways as you explored your obsession with time and mortality - that most basic and pervasive of human concerns - and I've only become more your disciple each year the truth of it comes home more and more to me. Here's hoping you rest well in Elysium now, and perhaps look in from time to time on what some of us have made of what you left us, and think on it kindly.
April 22, 2004
Credo and Meme
So I posted the following in the comments of Teresa Nielsen Hayden's "Things I Believe" post the other day, just about in time for the thread to be in its death throes. I reprint it here; comment, pass along, or roll your own. (Or just have fun playing spot-the-reference, if you're the same sort of pretentious pseudo-intellectual nerd that I am.)
Anyway:
I believe that there are more things in Heaven and earth than anyone's philosophy has yet accounted for.
I believe that stories are more valuable than dogmas. I believe that calling religion "mythology" elevates rather than denigrates it.
I believe that something unseen and numinous moves through people in the process of Art, and calling it "divinity" is as good a word as any. I believe that the work of William Shakespeare is probably all the evidence you need of a divinely-inspired text, and he had lots of stuff to say about women and Jews and Africans that was just plain nonsense, so treat holy writ with caution.
I believe that all beings are Buddha-beings and worthy of compassion. I believe that to live is to suffer, and that there is nothing to be done about this, and everything to be done. I believe that desire is the root of suffering, and this doesn't stop me from fiercely embracing all my own wants and lusts and passions anyway.
I believe that the idea of a god is a god. I believe that our own ability to draw connections between things imbues them with significance, and that our capacity for irrationality, contradiction and magickal thinking is not a design flaw. I believe that whether or not angels and demons exist is less important than understanding that the universe occasionally behaves as if they did.
I believe that the Force flows through everything, and that luminous things are we, not this crude matter.
And I also believe that to reject the world is to miss the point.
(I believe that contradicting one's self is an acceptable position, and that I am infinite and contain multitudes. And I believe that ambiguity is itself a kind of holy state.)
I believe that the deep human need to play dress-up and speak in poetry is a good a reason as any to participate in religion.
I believe that much of our nature becomes clear with the realization that a human being is a sort of big naked lemur that can drive a car, but that our biology is neither an imperative nor an excuse for behaving awfully to each other.
I believe that our culture isn't doing itself any favors with its preoccupation with messianic figures, but I'm as guilty of that fascination as anyone else, so there you go.
On the other hand, I believe there are a lot worse role models than Christ, and that the issue of his literal divinity is hugely unimportant in light of this; see "the idea of a god," above. And I believe that there are lots worse things to build your faith around than "God is love."
I believe, maybe more than anything, that it's often necessary to just let the Mystery be.
I believe that conversations are a hell of a lot more useful than creeds in bringing people together. And I believe thanks are in order to TNH for starting this one.
UPDATE: Never folk to blanch at a challenge of self-discovery, or perhaps exhibitionism, both Matt and Martha have now composed Things I Believe posts on their respective blogs. But of course, all y'all knew that already, because you've gone over there by now, right? Right?
Anyway:
I believe that there are more things in Heaven and earth than anyone's philosophy has yet accounted for.
I believe that stories are more valuable than dogmas. I believe that calling religion "mythology" elevates rather than denigrates it.
I believe that something unseen and numinous moves through people in the process of Art, and calling it "divinity" is as good a word as any. I believe that the work of William Shakespeare is probably all the evidence you need of a divinely-inspired text, and he had lots of stuff to say about women and Jews and Africans that was just plain nonsense, so treat holy writ with caution.
I believe that all beings are Buddha-beings and worthy of compassion. I believe that to live is to suffer, and that there is nothing to be done about this, and everything to be done. I believe that desire is the root of suffering, and this doesn't stop me from fiercely embracing all my own wants and lusts and passions anyway.
I believe that the idea of a god is a god. I believe that our own ability to draw connections between things imbues them with significance, and that our capacity for irrationality, contradiction and magickal thinking is not a design flaw. I believe that whether or not angels and demons exist is less important than understanding that the universe occasionally behaves as if they did.
I believe that the Force flows through everything, and that luminous things are we, not this crude matter.
And I also believe that to reject the world is to miss the point.
(I believe that contradicting one's self is an acceptable position, and that I am infinite and contain multitudes. And I believe that ambiguity is itself a kind of holy state.)
I believe that the deep human need to play dress-up and speak in poetry is a good a reason as any to participate in religion.
I believe that much of our nature becomes clear with the realization that a human being is a sort of big naked lemur that can drive a car, but that our biology is neither an imperative nor an excuse for behaving awfully to each other.
I believe that our culture isn't doing itself any favors with its preoccupation with messianic figures, but I'm as guilty of that fascination as anyone else, so there you go.
On the other hand, I believe there are a lot worse role models than Christ, and that the issue of his literal divinity is hugely unimportant in light of this; see "the idea of a god," above. And I believe that there are lots worse things to build your faith around than "God is love."
I believe, maybe more than anything, that it's often necessary to just let the Mystery be.
I believe that conversations are a hell of a lot more useful than creeds in bringing people together. And I believe thanks are in order to TNH for starting this one.
UPDATE: Never folk to blanch at a challenge of self-discovery, or perhaps exhibitionism, both Matt and Martha have now composed Things I Believe posts on their respective blogs. But of course, all y'all knew that already, because you've gone over there by now, right? Right?
April 19, 2004
Abuse and Neglect of the Elderly
I am such a lousy leetal brother - spent Saturday gallivanting around the Big City, and it totally slipped my mind that it was Tony's birthday. I suck. No cookie for me.
Everyone should be so fortunate to be as young as long as he's managed to be. And everyone should be as lucky as me to have had a mentor, role model, partner-in-crime, fellow-traveler and friend exposing them to cool stuff for thirty years and counting, and generally making their life a better and more interesting time. Thanks, Big T, and many happy returns.
(Anyway, he's, uh, forty-and-a-bit, so go wish him well.)
Also, while I'm making the rounds of the people I've failed to properly acknowledge, you should check out Maija's new site, fresh-minted Easter weekend. And if lots of mangaesque androgyny isn't enough to entice you there, note that if you tool around for long enough you can find a picture of her lovely self. Huzzah!
In that spirit, I go to write comics now, and possibly punish my sinful and unfilial flesh.
Everyone should be so fortunate to be as young as long as he's managed to be. And everyone should be as lucky as me to have had a mentor, role model, partner-in-crime, fellow-traveler and friend exposing them to cool stuff for thirty years and counting, and generally making their life a better and more interesting time. Thanks, Big T, and many happy returns.
(Anyway, he's, uh, forty-and-a-bit, so go wish him well.)
Also, while I'm making the rounds of the people I've failed to properly acknowledge, you should check out Maija's new site, fresh-minted Easter weekend. And if lots of mangaesque androgyny isn't enough to entice you there, note that if you tool around for long enough you can find a picture of her lovely self. Huzzah!
In that spirit, I go to write comics now, and possibly punish my sinful and unfilial flesh.
We Don't Live Like Other People, Item #549, 4/17/04
"Dude, I totally just got fucked up with your mom."
April 17, 2004
Me and Ray and the Big Red Guy, part 2
I'm writing this from the very heart of NYC, where Spyder and I are planning on catching a wee-hours showing of Hellboy tonight. (I did manage to catch it a couple of weeks ago, despite crutches, but it's more than worth returning to. Go see it, if you haven't yet.)
It occured to me at some point during my drive last night that the New Jersey turnpike may not be the best place to subject yourself to a listen of "Hey Ho the Nodding God Comes," but it was too late by then.
Note some new blog-linkage in the sidebar now, bringing the roll up to date with where most of my daily slack time is spent. I was absolutely delighted to see that R. Sean Borgstrom (she of Nobilis fame) now has a blog, and it's as quirky and odd and cool as you'd expect such a thing to be.
That's all for now. Time for breakfast, or whatever. (Is two diners in twelve hours excessive? No, I didn't think so either.)
It occured to me at some point during my drive last night that the New Jersey turnpike may not be the best place to subject yourself to a listen of "Hey Ho the Nodding God Comes," but it was too late by then.
Note some new blog-linkage in the sidebar now, bringing the roll up to date with where most of my daily slack time is spent. I was absolutely delighted to see that R. Sean Borgstrom (she of Nobilis fame) now has a blog, and it's as quirky and odd and cool as you'd expect such a thing to be.
That's all for now. Time for breakfast, or whatever. (Is two diners in twelve hours excessive? No, I didn't think so either.)
April 08, 2004
Formless Spawn Revisited
Update on the mutant frog story posted last week: Apparently, folks who know what they're talking about are saying this is not what it seems to be. The phenomenon in question isn't amphibian teratology, but a kinky frog threesome.
Personally, I find this only mildly less unsettling than the other option.
Fascinating stuff, though. I now get to add "amplexus" to my vocabularly of biological weirdness, and the phrase "anuran gang bangs that look like frog transporter accidents" got more than a few wicked giggles out of me.
(Link via Mock Turtle Soup.)
Personally, I find this only mildly less unsettling than the other option.
Fascinating stuff, though. I now get to add "amplexus" to my vocabularly of biological weirdness, and the phrase "anuran gang bangs that look like frog transporter accidents" got more than a few wicked giggles out of me.
(Link via Mock Turtle Soup.)
April 02, 2004
"Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun"
In honor of just-passed All Fools' Day, a motley fistful of unsettling and topsy-turvy images for you:
Andy has been playing with his time machine and dredged up in this post (scroll down) a picture from our disreputable drama-geek past. This was taken all of thirteen (!!) years ago, back when I still looked good in tights and before the beard was real. See how cool theatre is?
Meanwhile, Spyder imperils her immortal soul. I tremble to think of the promised Flash version.
Moving further afield into the realm of wiggins-inducing Forteana, Stacy sent me this article last month, concerning a weird-ass mutant frog in England. The word you're looking for is probably "squamous." Not to mention "eldritch," and of course "batrachian."
I remain among the mobility-impaired for now, and indeed for the forseeable future, since my follow-up to the doctor went something like "Yeah, sure looks sprained," with no real indication of how long I can expect to not be able to walk on it. Not happy. I'm hoping that watching Ron Perlman brutalizing the fuck out of monsters and Nazis this weekend (which I'm doing, gimp or no gimp) will do what ibuprofin and Ace bandages cannot.
Andy has been playing with his time machine and dredged up in this post (scroll down) a picture from our disreputable drama-geek past. This was taken all of thirteen (!!) years ago, back when I still looked good in tights and before the beard was real. See how cool theatre is?
Meanwhile, Spyder imperils her immortal soul. I tremble to think of the promised Flash version.
Moving further afield into the realm of wiggins-inducing Forteana, Stacy sent me this article last month, concerning a weird-ass mutant frog in England. The word you're looking for is probably "squamous." Not to mention "eldritch," and of course "batrachian."
I remain among the mobility-impaired for now, and indeed for the forseeable future, since my follow-up to the doctor went something like "Yeah, sure looks sprained," with no real indication of how long I can expect to not be able to walk on it. Not happy. I'm hoping that watching Ron Perlman brutalizing the fuck out of monsters and Nazis this weekend (which I'm doing, gimp or no gimp) will do what ibuprofin and Ace bandages cannot.
March 25, 2004
Yeth, Marthter
Update on the inconvenient injury front: I went back to the doctor yesterday and got put on crutches, and now have a big dumb-looking fiberglass splint, since apparently my dignity hadn't plunged enough already in the past week. Still doesn't look like a break, but the doc called it a third-degree sprain, and that can't be any good.
I've actually been back at work since Tuesday, which is about as much fun as you'd expect, as is hauling around my seventeen-stone ass on crutches, like Oliver Platt miscast as Long John Silver. The use of one's legs is a thing not to be taken lightly, kids. Worst of all, perhaps, I've been craving Chipotle like a fiend for about a week now, but there's just no way I'm doing the Cripple Pole-Vault for the three or four blocks it would take to get it, not when going down the hall for a piss is like an endurance run.
In light of all this, I had to cancel plans to go to NYC for the opening weekend of Hellboy, and so am a sad panda indeed. Not that I'm much fun to be around right now anyway, since I've been alternating between cranky and bitchy with occasional touches of sullen. Ah, well. At least spring can only get better from here.
Thanks to everyone for posting your well-wishes over the last few days. It means a lot. It's really nice to know that as much as this sucks, I've got the best friends in the world. Love you all.
I've actually been back at work since Tuesday, which is about as much fun as you'd expect, as is hauling around my seventeen-stone ass on crutches, like Oliver Platt miscast as Long John Silver. The use of one's legs is a thing not to be taken lightly, kids. Worst of all, perhaps, I've been craving Chipotle like a fiend for about a week now, but there's just no way I'm doing the Cripple Pole-Vault for the three or four blocks it would take to get it, not when going down the hall for a piss is like an endurance run.
In light of all this, I had to cancel plans to go to NYC for the opening weekend of Hellboy, and so am a sad panda indeed. Not that I'm much fun to be around right now anyway, since I've been alternating between cranky and bitchy with occasional touches of sullen. Ah, well. At least spring can only get better from here.
Thanks to everyone for posting your well-wishes over the last few days. It means a lot. It's really nice to know that as much as this sucks, I've got the best friends in the world. Love you all.
March 22, 2004
Lame Dork
So I got out of work on Friday and managed to, on the way to the car, twist my ankle something fierce, such that I've been pretty much laid up for the last three days. The professional medical opinion so far is that it's a sprain and not a break, at least according to initial x-rays, but I've still been out of commission and on ice anyway. The lying around watching DVDs is nice, kind of; the hobbling around with a cane and not really being able to go anywhere is not. And feeling guilty about Stacy having to take care of me isn't much fun either, despite her being relentlessly sweet and cheerful about it. So, on the whole, a thumbs-down.
So that's why I've been even less diligent about my correspondence than usual. A longer, better update is soon to come; in the meantime, check out some of the new sidebar links. (And many thanks to Rivka for dropping by the other night; we mustelidae should stick together.)
So that's why I've been even less diligent about my correspondence than usual. A longer, better update is soon to come; in the meantime, check out some of the new sidebar links. (And many thanks to Rivka for dropping by the other night; we mustelidae should stick together.)
March 19, 2004
March 05, 2004
It Is Time, Only Time
Happy Birthday today to David Tibet, the Very Voice of Current 93.
He seems to be celebrating the occasion by transforming himself into Vincent Schiavelli, which is probably fitting enough. Or it could be that he's begun to channel the late Tiny Tim, who he befriended in Tiny's latter years, and who can be heard on "How The Great Satanic Glory Faded" saying "The Devil is an angel. The Devil is a beautiful angel... He compares to Sharon Stone..." over the telephone to David. It's a funny old world.
If I could have one wish
as in the fairytales
I would unmake my past
and rise like Lazarus
and stand in sunlight
and banish all the dark
that locked my face away
and say to you again
oh that
that was only time
Anyway, many happy returns, Mr. Tibet. The world is richer and stranger with you in it; long life and good health to you.
He seems to be celebrating the occasion by transforming himself into Vincent Schiavelli, which is probably fitting enough. Or it could be that he's begun to channel the late Tiny Tim, who he befriended in Tiny's latter years, and who can be heard on "How The Great Satanic Glory Faded" saying "The Devil is an angel. The Devil is a beautiful angel... He compares to Sharon Stone..." over the telephone to David. It's a funny old world.
If I could have one wish
as in the fairytales
I would unmake my past
and rise like Lazarus
and stand in sunlight
and banish all the dark
that locked my face away
and say to you again
oh that
that was only time
Anyway, many happy returns, Mr. Tibet. The world is richer and stranger with you in it; long life and good health to you.
March 04, 2004
"On the throne of many hues, immortal Aphrodite"
As I write this, the Marthas are going to City Hall in NYC to apply for a marriage license, joining (at last count) 50 other same-sex couples in a show of solidarity.
Our fingers are crossed, and our thoughts go with them.
UPDATE: Well, it looks like they got turned down, which is about what everyone expected. Still, chin up, guys. This is not the end; it's not even a step backwards. The supposed laws that are keeping this from going forward are looking flimsier every day, so don't you dare let this back you down. Love and good sense will prevail.
Our fingers are crossed, and our thoughts go with them.
UPDATE: Well, it looks like they got turned down, which is about what everyone expected. Still, chin up, guys. This is not the end; it's not even a step backwards. The supposed laws that are keeping this from going forward are looking flimsier every day, so don't you dare let this back you down. Love and good sense will prevail.
February 26, 2004
Aiya!
When frickin' China has its shit together about sex more than we do, it's a real measure of how fucked-up everything is.
Link via the indispensible Boing Boing.
Link via the indispensible Boing Boing.
February 23, 2004
She Scores
Today is Spyder's birthday. She's twenty today, for those keeping track; well-wishers should go on over to her blog and give appropriate encouragement on having graduated from brooding and angsty teen to brooding and angsty youth, or something. Anyway, happy birthday, meu amiga, and here's hoping you get lots of whatever you want.
Today is also the birthday of gentleman diarist Samuel Pepys, who enthusiastically chronicled the major events of his day such as the Great Fire of 1666 as well as his own perambulations and shagging of servants and such, making him sort of the granddaddy of blogging. (I note that he's buried in St. Olave's, presumably the same place where Current 93 and Antony and the Johnsons performed a couple of years ago, which is quite enough connect-the-weirdness for me on the 23rd of the month.) There are no reliable sources on his relation to the marshmallow candy that bears his name, though.
In any case, if you want to celebrate 364 years of angsty personal diaries, or two decades of Spyder, today's the day.
EDIT to add: Jesus, Eris and Crowley, did anyone else notice the time this posted? I did NOT do that on purpose, I swear.
Today is also the birthday of gentleman diarist Samuel Pepys, who enthusiastically chronicled the major events of his day such as the Great Fire of 1666 as well as his own perambulations and shagging of servants and such, making him sort of the granddaddy of blogging. (I note that he's buried in St. Olave's, presumably the same place where Current 93 and Antony and the Johnsons performed a couple of years ago, which is quite enough connect-the-weirdness for me on the 23rd of the month.) There are no reliable sources on his relation to the marshmallow candy that bears his name, though.
In any case, if you want to celebrate 364 years of angsty personal diaries, or two decades of Spyder, today's the day.
EDIT to add: Jesus, Eris and Crowley, did anyone else notice the time this posted? I did NOT do that on purpose, I swear.
February 19, 2004
One-Sixteen
This one's for Good Martha, who's been feeling a bit down. I'm hoping this cheers you up, courtesy of Patrick Nielsen Hayden (with a little help from Billy the Bard).
No promises that you won't cry, though.
No promises that you won't cry, though.
February 13, 2004
Triskadekaphilia
In honor of Friday the Thirteenth, a witch's dozen of fun and interesting things I learned this week:
1. Patrick and Bernice came to visit over the weekend, inspiring us to go down into Baltimore for one of our first real city-exploring excursions since making the move. We wound up eating at a place called Crabby Dick's, where we made two discoveries: first, that they serve a crabcake sandwich that meets with Stacy's approval, which is no mean feat; and second, that jokes about crab balls take a lot longer to get old than you think.
2. Also, Patrick has now got me addicted to Hefeweissen. I'm almost positive this is part of the Dark Romany Plot, wherein good beer is left lying around the gaje's house, tempting him to drink it and thus leaving him open to sinister energies, or maybe just so the caravan can come by and take all his comics and stuff while he's passed out. Or, um, something. Anyway, it will probably work.
3. Speaking of Romany, or, well, Romanians, Andrei Codrescu's NPR commentaries are a sure way to get me to have one of their famous Driveway Moments, as I did the other night when he did this piece on the rising popularity of Mesh Music, which sounds like it's very much my thing.
4. Jim Macdonald - writer, instructor, sf personality and all-around nice guy - has a forum where he talks about writing, and on which he says many fine and wise things. I don't always agree with his opinions on style, but he's always worth paying attention to. (He was certainly nicer to me than he needed to be a couple of months ago when I was being brooding and complex about my fear of rejection on the comment threads of Making Light, which meant quite a lot, considering how hanging around with all those Clever Famous Folk over there intimidates the fuck out of me.)
5. On a related note, I need a rich benefactor. And an extra week of vacation.
6. Department of Well, Duh, Moron: If you're a big lazy slob, and you haven't excercized in a long time, and then you do - it hurts. A lot.
7. What with the definition of marriage, and the ensuing idiotic debate thereon, being in the news these days, Stacy sent me this excellent article, which brings up a number of points I'd been wondering about myself.
8. I got my long-awaited copy of Tom Ligotti and Brandon Trenz's Crampton from Middle Pillar yesterday. I haven't sat down to read the whole thing yet, but after a skim-through, I'll tell you this: it's damn weird seeing the word "motherfucker" in a Ligotti work. I can't wait to hear the CD.
9. Maija has returned to the Blogosphere! Rejoice!
10. I've long been of the opinion that "reality TV" is an oxymoron; in a less charitable mood, I'm inclined to shorten that evaluation by three letters. Nonetheless, Stacy's written up a convincing rec for the current incarnation of The Surreal Life, on the merits of a couple of highly unlikely cast members. Go read.
11. Some people have a lot of goddamn time on their hands.
12. Not content with riding the coattails of the Viking Kittens' success, the Spongmonkeys of Rathergood's Moon Song fame can now be seen on network TV, pimping toasted subs for Quizno's. Among other things, this is making the experience of television more surreal than ever. (I did go right out the next day and get a Quizno's sub, though. Draw from that what conclusions you will.)
13. Finally, I looked at my inbox this week and despaired at how many folks I owe email to. If you're one of those people, I have not forgotten you. Try not to feel neglected, in the meantime, or at least be assured you can probably guilt me into buying you ice cream at some point. Ice cream forgives a great many things, right? Right?
1. Patrick and Bernice came to visit over the weekend, inspiring us to go down into Baltimore for one of our first real city-exploring excursions since making the move. We wound up eating at a place called Crabby Dick's, where we made two discoveries: first, that they serve a crabcake sandwich that meets with Stacy's approval, which is no mean feat; and second, that jokes about crab balls take a lot longer to get old than you think.
2. Also, Patrick has now got me addicted to Hefeweissen. I'm almost positive this is part of the Dark Romany Plot, wherein good beer is left lying around the gaje's house, tempting him to drink it and thus leaving him open to sinister energies, or maybe just so the caravan can come by and take all his comics and stuff while he's passed out. Or, um, something. Anyway, it will probably work.
3. Speaking of Romany, or, well, Romanians, Andrei Codrescu's NPR commentaries are a sure way to get me to have one of their famous Driveway Moments, as I did the other night when he did this piece on the rising popularity of Mesh Music, which sounds like it's very much my thing.
4. Jim Macdonald - writer, instructor, sf personality and all-around nice guy - has a forum where he talks about writing, and on which he says many fine and wise things. I don't always agree with his opinions on style, but he's always worth paying attention to. (He was certainly nicer to me than he needed to be a couple of months ago when I was being brooding and complex about my fear of rejection on the comment threads of Making Light, which meant quite a lot, considering how hanging around with all those Clever Famous Folk over there intimidates the fuck out of me.)
5. On a related note, I need a rich benefactor. And an extra week of vacation.
6. Department of Well, Duh, Moron: If you're a big lazy slob, and you haven't excercized in a long time, and then you do - it hurts. A lot.
7. What with the definition of marriage, and the ensuing idiotic debate thereon, being in the news these days, Stacy sent me this excellent article, which brings up a number of points I'd been wondering about myself.
8. I got my long-awaited copy of Tom Ligotti and Brandon Trenz's Crampton from Middle Pillar yesterday. I haven't sat down to read the whole thing yet, but after a skim-through, I'll tell you this: it's damn weird seeing the word "motherfucker" in a Ligotti work. I can't wait to hear the CD.
9. Maija has returned to the Blogosphere! Rejoice!
10. I've long been of the opinion that "reality TV" is an oxymoron; in a less charitable mood, I'm inclined to shorten that evaluation by three letters. Nonetheless, Stacy's written up a convincing rec for the current incarnation of The Surreal Life, on the merits of a couple of highly unlikely cast members. Go read.
11. Some people have a lot of goddamn time on their hands.
12. Not content with riding the coattails of the Viking Kittens' success, the Spongmonkeys of Rathergood's Moon Song fame can now be seen on network TV, pimping toasted subs for Quizno's. Among other things, this is making the experience of television more surreal than ever. (I did go right out the next day and get a Quizno's sub, though. Draw from that what conclusions you will.)
13. Finally, I looked at my inbox this week and despaired at how many folks I owe email to. If you're one of those people, I have not forgotten you. Try not to feel neglected, in the meantime, or at least be assured you can probably guilt me into buying you ice cream at some point. Ice cream forgives a great many things, right? Right?
February 06, 2004
Two Magick Serpents
Courtesy of Languagehat, a nice little dose of geek joy: Michael Everson's attempt at a translation Of Merlin's Charm of Making in the film Excalibur.
(Go on and just try to read that without hearing Nicol Williamson's voice echoing in your head. Yeah, I can't do it either.)
Also, there's a really nice (and spot-on) review of the remastered reissue of Current 93's Thunder Perfect Mind here. A great summary of the album, and why it's maybe the best intro to the C93 catalogue for the Apocalyptic Folk neophyte. Reviewer Brandon Stosuy's obviously a fan, not only because he's read England's Hidden Reverse, but also because he says things like describing "They Return to Their Earth" as "a 50s prom performed by a Celtic troupe, Tibet presiding over a room of nervous, angelic teens." (I don't know what the hell he means by that, but I love the image, which also pretty well sums up my reaction to David Tibet's lyrics about 90% of the time. So there you go.)
(Go on and just try to read that without hearing Nicol Williamson's voice echoing in your head. Yeah, I can't do it either.)
Also, there's a really nice (and spot-on) review of the remastered reissue of Current 93's Thunder Perfect Mind here. A great summary of the album, and why it's maybe the best intro to the C93 catalogue for the Apocalyptic Folk neophyte. Reviewer Brandon Stosuy's obviously a fan, not only because he's read England's Hidden Reverse, but also because he says things like describing "They Return to Their Earth" as "a 50s prom performed by a Celtic troupe, Tibet presiding over a room of nervous, angelic teens." (I don't know what the hell he means by that, but I love the image, which also pretty well sums up my reaction to David Tibet's lyrics about 90% of the time. So there you go.)
February 05, 2004
Here to Go
William S. Burroughs would be ninety today.
Of all the surreal, outrageous, wise and funny words he left behind him when he departed for the Western Lands in 1997 - and he's always worth paying attention to - I think my favorite may be his reaction to being inducted into the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters in 1983: "These people, twenty years ago, they were saying I belonged in jail. Now they're saying I belong in their club. I didn't listen to them then, and I don't listen to them now."
Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. Go out and do something subversive in the name of Uncle Bill today.
Of all the surreal, outrageous, wise and funny words he left behind him when he departed for the Western Lands in 1997 - and he's always worth paying attention to - I think my favorite may be his reaction to being inducted into the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters in 1983: "These people, twenty years ago, they were saying I belonged in jail. Now they're saying I belong in their club. I didn't listen to them then, and I don't listen to them now."
Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. Go out and do something subversive in the name of Uncle Bill today.
February 03, 2004
"...And I Have Great Need to Blaspheme"
For the second day in a row, I have been tempted - sorely tempted - to ask my office mate if perhaps there's some other track on that gospel CD that he might enjoy listening to. As it is, it's only by great force of will, and a distinctive and colorful internal sountrack, that I don't have "I pray for you, you pray for me" running through my head constantly now.
Y'know, I'm a great admirer of Jesus, but some of His fans give me the willies.
A cruel man would've put "How the Great Satanic Glory Faded" on repeat before he went to lunch. Fortunately for everyone, I am not a cruel man.
Y'know, I'm a great admirer of Jesus, but some of His fans give me the willies.
A cruel man would've put "How the Great Satanic Glory Faded" on repeat before he went to lunch. Fortunately for everyone, I am not a cruel man.
February 02, 2004
Punching Judy
Once again, Katha Pollitt is dead-on, in a Nation article about the media's dumbass treatment of Dr. Judith Steinberg (AKA, if you're a neocon/Neanderthal/Dave Sim, "Mrs. Howard Dean").
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