THOUGHT BYTES FOR 2005 (Pt. 5)

Still Coming Back from the Dead –

I’m still recovering from months of deep depression. It’s difficult not to slip back into it, but having too much on my plate is helping to keep my demons down for the moment.

I’m enjoying a run of good luck right now, and even though there are the occasional “catches” that go along with any good thing, overall I’m pleased with what’s dropped into my lap.

In comparison with my other bouts, this was rather short, but feels like it lasted much longer than it did. I feel like I’ve been asleep for months and just getting by on winks and nods. Now that I’m awake, I feel so far behind in my work and I’m anxious to catch up to everything, including my blog site.

But, I’m happy that no matter how bad, Immortal Coils was never left unattended. The penciler, Carlos Rafael, is working on the last chapter and doing some incredible stuff for the book’s climax. These scenes are crucial because it’s all pay-off. While there’s action throughout the story, there’s a lot of character development that goes along with it. I’m a big finisher in my stories. I love big endings with a lot of explosions and action. The ending is so important because it’s what most people remember. You can have a great movie that moves everyone, but if the ending sucks, then that’s all they remember. But, if you have a terrible movie with a great ending, then you’ve got a blockbuster on your hands.

I went to see SW: Episode Three finally, and I wasn’t that impressed. Everything leading up to the third act was okay. I thought the pacing was a little off, moving way to fast to properly explain the character motivations, but it still kept me intrigued to see how things would develop. Everything was great until the film’s climax where Yoda and Palpatine square off as Obi Wan and Anakin confront each other. What bothered me, after setting up such a deep emotional catalyst for the events that lea dup to the climax, the fighting ended up being emotionless. In the end, you just have characters swinging lightsabers around. While the fighting style is remarkable, it’s without substance, and that leads to my opinion that, while Episode Three was flashier, the fight between Luke and Vader in both Episodes Five and Six were far superior. They were slower, less action packed, but fueled by emotion that gave them power far beyond the choreography.

And, ending the movie on such a mediocre note… There could have been so much more to it than what Lucas gave us. In Batman Begins, you have an ending that isn’t action packed, the tempo is slower, and it’s all building up to a sequel, but leaves you on a high. You leave the movie on an upbeat instead of just feeling blah about the whole thing.

Immortal Coils ends with a huge action sequence and alludes to more books to come. Hopefully, readers will like it and there will be more books. But I felt it important that if they didn’t and there weren’t anymore, that I give them an eye full before I said my goodbyes and thank you’s. The more final pages roll in, the less nervous I’m becoming about the whole thing. Carlos is putting a lot into these pages, and through them I can see my story coming to life. There is a story. That was one of my biggest concerns, whether I had an actual story or not. I was afraid that, because I wrote the characters with a pre-existing history, it felt too incomplete. It’s important the reader know these characters have a history. They weren’t just born on page one, they’ve been around for years. Things that have happened in their lives we know nothing about. Every character has a story with a beginning, middle, and end; we’re seeing Lazarus, Verus, and The Speaker in the middle of their stories. If I’ve done my job, people will want to know more. They’ll want to know the beginnings, endings, and all the crap in-between.

Something Unnatural –

I bought a rap cd for the first time in five years.

I’m not sure why I did it; I was having a bad day Saturday. My son woke me up screaming for his mother who was doing dishes and I was pissed that she’d let him scream like that while I’m trying to sleep (I always fall asleep in front of the television on weekends). I was cranky and spat out: “Will someone stop him from crying!”

My wife yelled back: “Why don’t you do it?”

That pretty much got us off on the wrong foot. The rest of the day, until I left that evening for an engagement, everyone was mad at somebody. My wife and I were mad at each other. My daughter was mad at her mother. And my son was mad at the remote control that continuosly escapes his grasp. I was getting annoyed with my daughter who insisted on carrying around a wad of paper from a Toys R Us catalogue. I kept looking at it like it, waiting for my daughter to ask for something and the anticipation was killing me. My daughter is at an age where she asks for everything with no concern about earning it. She just wants it, and she wants it now. We’re trying to teach her the importance of earning things, but sometimes we’re just fed up with her always saying: “I want…”

I hate being mad at my wife. I hate being mad at my kids when I’m not really mad at them, but transferring my anger onto them. It’s happened to me on countless occasions and I won’t repeat the cycle. I knew I needed something to get me out of the funk I was in, something I could buy. So I went to Circuit City without even telling my wife where I was going. She followed with my son in her arms asking: “Where are you going?” I was giving attitude by not answering, but I made sure she followed. Inside, I looked around, but knew I wanted some music. I saw The Game’s debut cd Documentary and grabbed it. I also picked up Maroon 5’s cd, Songs About Jane.

I knew I would like Maroon 5 because I loved the singles I’d seen and heard on MTV. Four out of twelve is pretty good odds, so I felt confident about buying the cd instead of waiting to get it burned. But I wasn’t sure about The Game. I’m not into rap, no matter how MTV inundates me with it via their several channels. I especially haven’t been into gangsta rap since high school and a brief stint in 2000 when I bought several Wu-Tang and Ice T releases. But, something about this caught my eye, and my ear, and I was feeling especially niggarish that day. Thirty dollars for two cd’s – I felt raped. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve bought music. $13.99 is better than the $20 it used to cost for a cd, but it’s still too much when you used to paying $9.99 for music that’s already out of date. I didn’t buy Timberlake’s Justified until everyone had gotten over it. Now, I get looks like: “YOU bought Justin Timberlake?” But a year ago, no one would have bat an eye.

So, I get in the car and pop in the cd. It was good. REAL good. I played it all night as I drove from LA to Highland Park and back again. I even made my friend, The Actor, listen to it. He doesn’t like rap, and I’d turn it off normally, but this time I forced him to listen. It was that good. What really felt good was feeling black for the first time in a while. Even though I’ve never set foot in Compton, I was bobbing my head to bass and throwing up Westside finger signs behind tinted windows, smoking Marlboro’s new miniature cigarettes, pretending they were Black and Milds. I listened to The Game’s lyrics wondering how much was bullshit, but I’d wager very little is fiction.

There are times I wish I’d gone into rap. Some of my very first writing adventures were creating rap songs about my classmates in Orange County. I was the only black kid in the whole of St. Hedwig’s student body. When Crush Groove and Beat Street came out, all eyes turned to me for a taste of the “urban underbelly of LA” these kids had never seen. I remember writing a rap song about my class, going student to student, and it was so well liked they used it during a presentation that I missed on purpose because I was too embarrassed to go on stage. Then, like now, I feared it would suck and no one would like it. Better I just ditch than face that kind of embarrassment. But, the kids told me how successful it was, and the teacher was happy, but disappointed that I failed to attend. I hate when teachers give you that smile, but their eyes are meaner than shit. You think they’re mad, but you’re not sure; you feel like you’re on thin ice for the entire day after that.

Writing rap songs turned to poetry and love stories when I found they were more attractive to females. And, when I moved back to LA, I left the hip-hop scene all together to spite my “brothas & sistas” who’d turned on me; calling me an Oreo because I liked denim jackets, K-Swiss sneakers, and said: “Awesome, dude.” But every now and again, I get the feeling back and wonder if I could have done it. It’s the same feeling I get when I listen to rock music and fantasize about being a musician.

I’m on my way to work and pop in the Maroon 5 cd. Wow, that was really good and I’m happy I didn’t wait for the burn. I noticed a cool fusion of R&B, Jazz, and Blues with Pop Rock that was infectious. Before long, I was mouthing inaudible lyrics, pretending to be their lead singer and filling my head with situations where I would astonish people with my gifts. Several times I’ve thought about taking up guitar lessons, but it never goes anywhere. Then, I thought about writing music, but that subsided thanks to the negative or unimpressed responses I’ve gotten from friends I know who play instruments and claim to love music. The last time I was bitten with this impulse, my wife and I were heavily into Korn, Rage Against the Machine, Deftones, etc. and I found myself surrounded by musicians. The Actor plays guitar and drums. Bloody Pencil plays bass. And the two of them knew other musicians who could fill out a band. I could write the music and maybe, if I took some voice lessons, I could sing. I’m not a bad singer. I’ve sarinated my wife on occasion while listening to Phantom of the Opera. And, I’ve successfully sung my children to sleep when momma’s touch didn’t do the trick. So, I’m not bad and it’s not unreal to think I could be a singer. I dreamed of being on stage and letting the music take me, not a care in the world, just swimming in currents of deep bass and electric guitar riffs with sprinkles of snare drums and symbols. But when I told my little group about my dream, they laughed. They began pouncing all over my dream, my love for what we now call “modern rock”, unknowingly trashing my own musical preferences in the process.

One thing I learned from that experience is not to listen to the “do-nothings.” Those people who talk a lot of crap about how other people suck at things, but they don’t exercise their gifts at all. Like myself, I have my opinions about writers, but I always pay respect to them because they’ve done what I have yet to do. And, maybe that I’m working towards that goal give me some leeway, but not much. Not until I accomplish something. But there are others who have tremendous gifts, do nothing with them, and feel they can trash someone else’s success. Like, Actor hates David Koepp, thinking he’s a hack writer, and yet Actor hasn’t sold one script while Koepp’s name is attached to some of the biggest blockbusters in the last five years. So, here I was, saying I liked Korn, surround by “critics” who thought they sucked based on what? Their vast experiences in the music business, or years on the stage? No, solely on what they liked and what they thought was good music; a love of bands that either no longer existed or travel the circuit playing small bars for the Star 98.7 crowd. And that’s cool, I’m into old groups and 80’s music, but I don’t let that love blind me to the new things going on today. One cool thing about music and art is its immortality and longevity. Not just through reproduction, but in how it inspires the next generation. When I finally heard Metallica, I loved them. But, to this day, I’m marked as someone who likes “new” Metallica and not the original Metallica. And why? Because they cut their hair, or claims they’ve slowed down over the years? Isn’t it enough they’re still around and retain their popularity amidst a generation garage trios from Bakersfield?

Anyway, the experience taught me a lesson about being too critical when it comes to celebrities and other things. I may not like what they do, and I have my thoughts and opinions, but at the end I have respect for what they’ve done. And that’s more than a lot of other people who think just because a band has a number in their name they suck. Who’d a thought Jackson 5 and U2 could fool so many for so long.


Buried Alive –

Four projects.

Four stories.

Four scripts.

How did I go from having no direction to having too much to get done in too little time? I have four stories; all ripe with potential, but only two are closest to being published, so I should focus on those two, but my heart is not really in them.

One is a screenplay: I had this idea one day that I shared with Actor, thinking that he’d stomp it like a lot of ideas I pass his way. But this time, he ate it up. His enthusiasm was infectious and I began thinking more and more about it, asking if he would help me co-write the screenplay. From there, things started to happen. Actor has people lined up to look at the script and the idea alone has raised some eyebrows. I swear, if I could make serious money just coming up with ideas, I would. I know there are people who do just that, but getting those jobs are harder than shit. I’m still trying to attain my Valhalla of working graveyard shift.

So, I have this script to write, but the only time I ever feel like working on it is when I’m with Actor. And, since he’s always gone on a vacation or movie shoot, I’m left alone to push and pull myself from beginning to end on the script. But, when we are together, we crank, and that’s cool. Writing a screenplay is hard. Writing a slasher movie screenplay is fucking murder. How hard is it to write about a guy who goes around slashing people to bits? Not hard at all. But, if you want to do it well, it’s a motherfucker. The one thing that keeps becoming increasingly difficult is staying focused on the premise and not getting lost in the body count. It’s easy to get so into the 187 of it all that you lose site of the concept. Keeping everything together is what I’m trying to do, and it’s very difficult.

The other project is a comic book. I can never go too long without doing a comic story. It’s a reflex; first I see an idea as a movie, then a comic. So, an opportunity arose where I could get a publisher to look at a pitch by going through a friend. There are drawbacks, but they’re minimal and I pushed forward. This story is a science fiction story, my first. It’s not just some hokey comic concept, this is as based on science fact as you can get without losing imagination and I feel strongly that it’s worthy of novelization. But, when I try to write it, I come up blank. I see an end result in my head, what I want and where I’m going, but how I get there is troubling. This, compiled by misunderstandings on the business end, has taken away my interest in the story.

Meanwhile, the other two are all thought out. One is in plot outline and ready to go. The other I’m plotting now and I’m really excited about doing. But, neither one has a bite. Neither one is gaining interest.

Life’s an unfunny bitch with ass-backwards humor.

But, I’m counting my blessings. I could have nothing going on right now, other than my own stuff with no interested parties. Instead, I have two out of four with good chances at going somewhere. Now, if I could just get some interest in to the other two, I could do some serious damage in the next year.

Repeated Exhaustion –

People make mistakes, and it’s more likely they’ll repeat them several times before they learn otherwise. For instance: I have a bad habit of asking the wrong people for advice. And, even though I tell myself I’ll never do it again, I always do because I think this time will be different.

But it’s never different. Seldom are things ever different from anything else. Things repeat themselves because we continue to involve ourselves with the same people. And, if reincarnation is real, then those associations are eternal. Meaning, those same mistakes are doomed to repeat themselves in a continuous “Do Unto Others” loop for eternity.

Sometimes, having people in your life is too complicated and not worth whatever happiness they bring.


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BEGINNINGS

As much as I love movies now, many of my friends would find it hard to believe that my fascination with cinema began later than most. The first movie I ever saw was Grease back in 1978 at a drive-in with my mother and brother. Seeing that movie when I was six had lingering repercussions, so I never really was interested in them afterwards. Unfortunately, I missed out on a lot of movies that made a great deal to my generation and others. Films responsible for laying the foundations for so many writers and directors I admire today. I would catch the occasional “event”, like Popeye in 1980, and American Werewolf in London in 1981, back when an adult could still take his kid to a rated R movie. And I did see Superman 2 in 1980 and Return of the Jedi in 1983. But, it wasn’t until the summer of 1984 that things changed. I saw two movies that summer, which was unusual for me. They were Gremlins and the unforgettable Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

Temple of Doom blew me away. I’d never experienced anything like it, where I completely gave myself over and invested in a character; it had never happened to me before. What really connected was the possibility that I could be Indiana Jones someday. I had no shot at being a Jedi or a Superman. But an archeologist? That was doable. The thought laid a foundation for several fallacies I would entertain until I turned eighteen. I thought all archeologists had adventures like that, and maybe studying hard in school was worth it, if you get to travel, carry a gun, and win the sexy blonde with the big boobs. To this day, I think Kate Capshaw is one of the sexiest women in Hollywood. After Temple, I went to every movie I could, looking to relive that experience, but most came up short. I was looking for that virgin high. I’d sit in the front row, a little boy in front of a huge screen, waiting to be engulfed in high adventure. That’s when I experienced another element of incredible filmmaking, the ability to make you feel and identify with a character so you’re not just watching them, you become them.

Back to the Future was released in the summer of 1985 starring Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd, but to me they will forever be known as Marty McFly and Doc Brown. That summer, my mother and I were living in Orange County after spending several years in Hawthorne. Despite our good fortune, things were rough. My mother was a compulsive shopper who infested fancy malls and expensive stores every weekend, but still found the time to harass my father, accusing him of not paying child support, and sending him to court for what seemed like forever. His reaction was to disappear, leaving me without a father. Except on Christmas and my birthdays, when I’d go for a visit and come back fully loaded with a wish list of toys. The gap made it possible for my mother to fill my head with horror stories about him that lasted for years and made my time living with him unbearable for both of us. Luckily, I’ve come to understand his decision, as dealing with her as an adult has proven that the heart grows fonder with distance. I also learned my parents were never married. Believe it or not, this can be traumatic for a child. Especially, after he learns the definition of a bastard. So, when I went to see Back to the Future, instead do being amazed by the adventure, I connected with Marty emotionally. I knew what it felt like to be stuck in an disfunctional and unbearable family dynamic. I wished I had a Doc Brown who built a time machine so I could go back to whenever and change things. I would befriend my father and help him court my mother so they’d fall in love and get married. The end result would be a loving family where my siblings and I were actually related, instead of step-this and half-that. Marty McFly shared my fears of failure, because I was having a hard time in school. And what we didn’t share, I aspired towards, like Marty's courage. To know you're the underdog and still jump in swinging. At the end, when the Delorian flew at the screen and the To Be Continued came up, I was ecstatic. I wanted more. I wanted to know what happened next. Because, somehow, I felt we were alike, and if he could make it, so could I. If he found love, so would I. If he fixed his family life, then perhaps I could to.

That time traveling fantasy stayed with me… for twenty years! I still fantasize about it, although it’s gone through several changes as I’ve grown older. But it’s still there. And Back to the Future has remained my #1 favorite movie all this time. #2 would be The Crow, followed by the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Top Gun , and The Matrix, in no specific order. Once I get past #3, the importance of which movie I like more begins to wane and it just becomes a blur of films I like and could watch over and over again.

But last night, Back to the Future went head-to-head with Batman Begins , and lost.

Despite being a comic book fan, my love of Batman has come and gone over the years, just as the character’s appeal has risen and fallen with various creative teams and publishing agendas. Same for Spider-Man; I’ve always liked him, but my favorite he isn't. But, if something big happens, you can bet I’ll be there to see what’s going on. Batman is like that for me. Until 1989, my most dominant memories of the character were from the television show. I knew there was a difference between that and the comics, but I just couldn’t take him seriously. Maybe being a “Marvel-head” was part of the reason. Marvel always felt so new and up to date, where DC was always campy and goody-goody. But in 1989, I went batty just like everyone else.

I saw Batman at the Hollywood Mann Chinese at 1am. I was with a few friends, and we went early that afternoon, trekking to Hollywood. I was there to see Batman; the others were more into going to Hollywood because it’s Hollywood. All the tickets for earlier shows were gone, except for 1am, so I took it. We walked around all day, even got picked for as members of a studio audience for a pilot. When the sun went down and midnight came closer, we waited in a line that stretched around the block. Finally, we were let in and the first thing we saw was the bat emblem beaming on the screen curtains like the signal light. Everyone screamed, and I was lost in the excitement. I’m one of the few comic fans who like Tim Burton’s adaptation of the character, but what made that moment and the movie so great was the experience. The people dressed in Batman and Joker outfits. Everyone was wearing a Batman t-shirt. People were standing in line, reading graphic novels and playing with Batman action figures. I’d never seen anything like that before. And when the movie started, the cheering was so loud it was hard to hear the movie. I’ve tried to relive the experience since, just like with Temple of Doom, but nothing ever came close. Not even the sequels, and they got progressively worse.

The movie did what DC probably hoped it would do. It changed people’s mind about the character. I didn’t become a die-hard fan, but I did buy the comics for the first time. If not for the movie, I would never have read Son of the Demon, Arkham Asylum, Batman: Year One, and The Killing Joke. But my fandom remained closely tied to the movies. Something I’ve noticed with others to. There was one coworker I had who was a Superman nut, but only from the movies. No matter how hard I tried to tell him there was little difference between them, he was adamant about only liking Christopher Reeve’s Superman. That seemed stupid at the time, but then I was aware I’m the same way. I am more interested in Superman and Batman from the movies than the comics. And as the comics became more like the movies, I began liking the characters more, but still never bought thir books on the consistent basis.

This is important because I want you to understand that I’m not some Batman freak who loves anything with a silhouetted bat on it. My wife is though. So, when I write that Batman Begins is one of the best comic book movies ever made, I want you to know it’s a sincere and objective opinion. I would go so far to write that you could put it side-by-side with Superman and have them share the #1 favorite movie spot in the hearts of comic fandom.

What makes Begins so great is it follows the same rule Richard Donner did: Verisimilitude. You walk out believing that a mulbillionaire would dress like a bat and risk his life to save others. More important, why he would dress like a bat of all things, instead of just going around like Charles Bronson in Death Wish. What this movie accomplished, that none of its predecessors even attempted, was it made you feel for the characters. You feel for Gordon, the only good cop in a bad city. You feel for Bruce Wayne, so driven by anger and guilt that he tries to understand it by becoming what he hates and fears. You even feel for Alfred. Yes, Alfred. Normally just a bit player in the Batman world, Alfred steps up in this movie, and it’s about time. I just recently asked myself why would a person like Alfred stay with Bruce for so long? This movie explains it beautifully. And like Alfred, you want to stick with Bruce to the very end. When Bruce asks: “You still haven’t given up on me, Alfred?” You can feel yourself mouthing the words as Alfred replies: “Never.” Batman isn't just one man, he's a joining of Alfred, Bruce and Thomas Wayne. He's an avatar made of their hopes, dreams, courage, and determination to make Gotham a better place. A perfect place.

This movie probably affected me so because I wasn’t around for Superman. I missed it. And when Superman 2 came out, it was amazing, but it wasn’t the same. Even watching it on television, I was too young to care. I didn’t get into comics until I was in my teens. Before then, I had a life: books, movies, and television were just distractions getting in the way of riding my bike or rolling down a hill for no reason. It wasn’t until high school that I had time to sit and watch in amazement. Most fans of Superman remember seeing it in a theater. My first time was laying on my bed, watching channel 13 play both movies back-to-back on a Saturday night. So, Batman Begins is my Superman. It was my first time seeing someone take a fictional character and make them live and breathe in the everyday world. For the first time, I understand the character and why he exists. It’s not just some explanation spat out on the way to the next action scene. I could feel the emotion and will power behind it. I understand the character now. Not as he is in the comics or the cartoons, but perhaps as Bob Kane saw him and always intended him to be. The "criminals are a supersticious and cowardly lot" was always a little thin for me when it came to why Bruce chooses the bat totem. No matter how supersticious someone is, it never made sense why someone would fear a bat. Especially, one that was obviously a guy in a suit. But Nolon and Goyer finally explain it. It's not about what Batman looks like, but how he operates. It's about making the criminals afraid. Making them fear what they normally wouldn't. Batman attacks like Michael Myers, picking away at criminals from the shadows. Breaking down their confidence and sense of what's real until he finally pounces on them with martial skill.

One of the coolest things about the movie was the touch of nostalgia by using almost the same plot structure as the first movie. But, where Tim went right, Nolon and Goyer go left and around the block. The most important change was letting go the idea that Bruce has to be mentally damaged or quirky to dress in a bat suit and fight crime. The incarnations of heroes are always representative of whatever generation is in the spotlight. In 1989, we were all fucked up and so were our heroes. In 2005, we’re a little smarter. A little stronger. I even sense that we believe in ourselves a bit more now than we did then. We believe the impossible can be achieved. We survived the new millennia. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere (any time soon). And ss our belief in higher powers fade, our self-confidence is increasing. All of these things are personified in Bale’s Bruce Wayne. Our, or perhaps I should write, YOUR Bruce Wayne; YOUR Batman. He’s not a man pushed so far he cracks and it just happens to work out for the good. He’s a man who conquers his fears. He's dedicated to making a difference in the world one life at a time, not because he's angry or driven by guilt, but because he actually gives a damn. And though these elements have been present over the years in books and television, it sometimes gets hard to see through the haze of seasonal crossover events. But for two hours and fourteen minutes, you get pure Batman shot in your veins.

Back to the Future spoke to me. It made my dream of changing my life something I could see somewhere other than in my head. And, it will always be special to me. But, as that was true for the boy, now I’m a man. Yeah, I’m a man. I tried to avoid it, but failed miserably. And as such, I fail all the time. My fear of failure has never left me, it only grew to include my family. Now, I’m not just afraid that I'll fail myself, but I fear I’ll let them down. What Future did for me as a child, Batman Begins connects with me as a father and a husband. From the moment I heard Thomas Wayne tell his son: “Why do we fall, Bruce? So, we learn how to pick ourselves up.” From that moment, it had me. But, when Bruce, as Batman, says: "It's not who I am on the inside, but what I do that defines me." That was the sinker. I thought, not just of myself, but my father. I thought about how, no matter who my dad may be inside, and it's not pretty, his actions have always defined him. He's a good man who tries his best to do the right thing. And no matter how I might think of myself, my actions are what will matter to my wife and kids. Someone who strives every day to better himself. Someone who never gives up, no matter how bleek things looked.

If your in LA, and going to see Batman Begins, look for a fat guy who’s way too excited, wearing a Batman t-shirt, reading the movie novel, and probably slurping a coke from some promotional cup from a fast food restaurant, that’ll be me.

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TURNING ON A DIME PT. 2

And, just like that, things can change…

Last Friday, life was good.

Today, it sucks royally, but I’m not sad.

Annoyed.
Pissed.
Rudely awakened to a life that’s nothing more than God’s little comedy.

But, I’m not sad.

Saturday was a really good day. My family and I went to the supermarket and had a lot of fun. Seriously. Shopping for groceries can be fun sometimes, especially when the whole family is there and I’m looking for ways to amuse myself as my wife takes ten minutes to decide if we really need two rolls of paper towels for 5$ or can we get buy with just one at regular price. My daughter and I sing songs and play games, until my little boy wakes up, and then it’s off to the races. My wife and I switch places; I take the stroller reigns and speed walk around the store to keep him quiet. Then, we went to get the family van washed. The mundane can become terribly exciting when looking through the eyes of a child. My daughter was fascinated by the car wash, and quickly made reference to the Whale Wash in Shark’s Tale. My daughter stared at the attendant who added the finishing touches, as my wife and I had a moment to talk like we used to. Not about kids or bills, but getting to know you type stuff that usually occurs on a first dates. Back in the car, I was hit by the compulsion to keep driving instead do heading home. The feeling of a perfect day was still fresh. The kids were in the back, smiling at me in the rear view. My wife was at my side, caressing my arm, a habit she’s never lost in the ten years we’ve been together. Damn, life was good.

I dropped them off and headed to Pasadena where I helped a friend and his new wife move some stuff into their new place. A great new place. If you’re gonna move, make it count, and they did, moving into a house with a huge front and back yard, well away from the LA crap. When I returned home, a treated myself to a pastrami burrito and fell asleep in my new chair that’s the size of a loveseat.

Then, Sunday happened.

My daughter’s teacher told us that yesterday was Kids Day, so we took our kids to the zoo. My wife was stressing out as she always did, so I calmed her down, and then my mother called, and I could feel her fishing for an invite, so I did. After a lot of set-up, we finally made it to the LA Zoo. I never really liked Zoos, and yesterday reminded me of why I don’t like Zoos. The first thing we saw was an alligator and I immediately noticed there was a large bolt laying on it’s back. Then, I saw that it was missing some claws from its two front legs. It looked pathetic. This massive reptile, just lying motionless, might as well have been dead. I watched my daughter who was fascinated to see an animal up close, and then I looked around at the older kids and teenagers who were screaming at it to do something. “Do what?” I asked myself. “What do you expect it to do? Walk from one end of it’s cage and back again, just for your amusement?” The same questions repeated themselves as we went to other exhibits and I heard more and more people screaming at the animals to do something.

We, humans, have done a lot of fucked up thing, but probably one of the worst, the top three, would be what we’ve done to animals. As always, we think we’re helping, but we’re not. What we’re doing is interrupting the natural order. We’re forcing animals that are the essence of nature, creatures so bonded with life they’re charged with it, and we’re sticking them in a cage. We call it “captivity”, but what it is, is slavery. We feed them, provide shelter, and in return we want them to perform for us. We expect these “dumb animals” to not tell the difference between their home and a cage lined with dying grass and fake rocks. I was happy that my children saw real animals, but I was sad that they had to see them like that. Better I spend thousands on an African safari. Sure, I could get my ass chewed off by a lion, but what better way to truly understand and experience wildlife than finding out why you should leave animals the fuck alone.

Going with my mother was a pain. Like most grandmothers, she has this obsession with food, and tried to feed my daughter from the moment we walk through the entrance. My daughter told her repeatedly that she wasn’t hungry, bit no one listened. And I watched as my mother spent over twenty dollars on food that my daughter had no intention on eating because she wanted to see chimpanzees. When the whole thing was over, we piled into the van and I was looking forward to another pleasant family moment as we took the streets back to LA. But, when I started the motor, I noticed the car was making a weird sound and shook harder than normal. When we dropped my mother off, she checked the engine, which was a little emasculating, that my mother knows cars better than I do. But, not so much that it felt worse than seeing a crowd of women taking particular notice of an elephant’s penis earlier that day. I thought I was at some bestial Chippendale’s, watching women stare and comment uncontrollably. They made jokes, but looked way too hard and too long.

But, she gave it a look, and in classic fashion began to grill me like I had done something wrong. She asked when I last had the fluids checked, and that was Saturday. But, then she asked if I got out of the car to watch the station attendant. When I said I hadn’t, she lectured me on how I can’t take people at their word. But I really got pissed when I Said I hadn’t done anything that a lot of people do, remaining in their cars while the attendant checks things out, and she said I was wrong. That’s when I lost it. So, I drove the kids home, pissed as all hell, with a nice day ruined. Then, when I got home, my mother called to ask why I was mad, and why I’m so quick to get angry with her. “What is this anger you have inside you? Where does it come from?” So I told her that I don’t like when she blames me for doing normal things, expecting me to go the extra mile for no reason. But she said she didn’t blame me, so I told her that if she didn’t, the way she spoke to me implied it. But, she cut me off and we started talking at the same time. I let her finish, tried to explain, and again, she did nothing wrong. So I told her that was why I get angry with her and she hung-up the phone. She wanted the answer to a question. I gave it to her, but she didn’t want to hear it. Then, why ask?

That led to this morning, when I was late for work because I took the van to a mechanic who quoted me $500 to replace a water pump. And, of course, in replacing that part, they have to replace the timing belt, thermostat, coolant, and a bunch of other stuff. No way I could ay for that, and I don’t think I should, not all of it. My mother owns the van, it’s hers, but she “gave” it to me. Now, here’s the thing: I never asked for it. She just gave it to me when gas prices were skyrocketing and she couldn’t afford gas. Now, I’m stuck with a ‘97 van that’s constantly having problems.

And, to make matters worse, Michael Jackson gets off molesting another child and I gotta listen to a certain coworker go on and on about how she knew Michael was innocent. What’s annoying is, she based this on seeing him grow up over the years. More infuriating, she ignores Michael’s fame and fortune to being factors that resulted in his acquittal. People like her are the reason I keep quiet. They go on and on about how smart they are, and then they refuse to accept the simplest logical conclusions. They think just because they know everything there is to know about their job, that they’re intelligent. Something like that goes back to school. Just because you get A’s and graduate college, the world says you’re intelligent. And just because your boss pats you on the back for being a good monkey, you believe your superior. Now, you multiply these people and stick twelve of them on a fucking jury and that’s how O.J. and Michael can commit crimes and walk away clean. The million dollar defense attorneys know this, they count on it, and it works without fail. Even now, I’m forced to listen to my coworker go on and on about how she knows Michael is crazy, but not a molester. Well, if he’s crazy, how do you know what the fuck he’s done? He’s crazy. Unpredictable. If a man 40 yrs. Old, crazy, and sleeps with children, odds are he’s a fucking pedophile. But, no he’s not, because we watched him grow up. We know him, and he’s incapable of that. Maybe the black Michael was incapable, but the crazy white version is as big a cracker as anyone and capable of any sexually perverse crime imagined.

So, that’s my day in a nutshell. The downward spiral begins anew, flushing me further down until this weekend, when I have to take my dad for dinner. Not a terrible thing, but nerve racking. Talking to my dad is like talking to God. I can never think of what to say because every topic I can think of becomes insanely stupid to mention. And the last thing I want to do is talk politics or real estate, subjects he’s well versed, because I’d only say something stupid. I’ll probably watch the news all week, just for ideas I can use.

Not everything ends smoothly, so I’ll just stop here.

JPG.

TURNING ON A DIME

Just when life can totally put you in the shitter, something happens to change everything.

Anyone who’s read my last few entries knows I’ve been feeling pretty bad the last few months. But, a week ago I got some news that has me rejuvenated. I can’t mention anything here because it’s all still a gamble. When everything’s over, I could be wallowing in crap again or find myself knee deep in a new kind of shit I never anticipated. But, I’m happy just the same. And that happiness has rejuvenated me. It’s got nothing to do with my book. I’m always happy about that. No. The difference between my book and the offer I’m entertaining now, what makes one better than the other, is timing. Lazarus is moving forward, but slowly. Everything that can get in the way IS getting in the way. This new opportunity, if it works, would allow me to move faster and get the fuck out the hospital sooner. That’s why I’m so excited. Plus, it gives Laz a great push forward to have my name on another book.

My change in mood has sparked my creativity again. I’m having ideas left, right, and center. Not to mention already having some work to do. The screenplay is finally underway. All in one week, I get an offer I can’t refuse, and my screenplay partner decides it’s time to get some work done. So, we discussed the first 25% and I wrote up an outline. The colorist finished the first twenty-four pages for Laz, and with some minor changes, they’ll rock. Probably the biggest change is my penciler is almost done with the entire book. It’s been going on eight months since this whole thing began, and it’s hard to believe it’s almost over. Once I sign off on the last pages, it done. I feel like Peter Jackson on the last day of shooting Lord of the Rings, trying to hold on just a little bit longer, but knowing the end must come. But, for me, it’s about being afraid to take the next step. The closer I get to having a complete book the more nervous I’m becoming, but I’m excited to. I started this year with one book in the works. And now, if I play my cards right, I may have two. How cool is that? Usually, when I have a string of bad luck or just being depressed, it means there’s some good luck coming down the road. That, or I’ve already had some good luck and now I have to pay for it. I’m hoping all that shit I just waded through was preparing me for this moment.

My wife is still bugging me about not having seen Episode 3, and at this point I don’t really care. Sure, I’d like to see it, but now that all the hoopla has died down, I feel like I can just wait for the DVD. What I won’t wait for is Batman Begins. I’ve been looking forward to that movie since I read Chris Nolan was attached. I immediately knew it was going someplace Blade touched on, but no other comic movie had visited before. Something truly dramatic and character driven. After that, I’ll see Fantastic Four to make my daughter happy because she’s been ranting about it for days now, but I won’t like it. And that’s gotta be the hardest part of being a movie fanatic like myself, paying to see a movie you know will suck, but you do it for someone else.

Part of the reason I’m so hyped for Batman is I’m working on my own vigilante character right now. I’m way behind schedule, mostly because I’ve been too focused on finding an artist for character design work instead of writing the damn story. I’ve written down scenes in spurts, but I haven’t sat down and actually cranked on it. But all that changes real soon. One obstacle is the beginning; I have no idea how to start this damn thing. Even if I “vomit” the first draft, the beginning has me stuck. One of my most nagging problems is trying to separate the time when I write, from when I edit. I keep doing both; instead of having an idea and just rolling with it, I measure how good the idea is and hold everything back until I fix it. In this case, I had an idea on how I could begin, but it was too much like Lazarus, and I want to do the exact opposite. I hate writing two stories the exact same way. But, instead of just using it so I can move past it, I keep holding on, trying to find the perfect start and it’s not coming to me. It makes me remember one of my fave movies, Throw Momma From the Train. I love that movie. I think I saw that film before I even knew I wanted to be a writer, but even then it spoke to me: “A writer writes. Always!” And right now I can hear Billy Crystal in my head repeating over and over: “That’s the beauty of writing…perfect beginnings, perfect words.” So I can’t let go and stop trying to find that perfect beginning, the one that sets the pace for everything. I’m looking for an artist because I can’t see the characters in my head. Well, I can see them as they normally look, but this is a super hero story, I need to see them in costume. And that, I can’t do right now, so I’m trying to find someone who can help me. Boy, is that becoming a pain in the ass. The first thing that makes dealing with illustrators a major pain in the ass is they have a hard time following directions. I think that’s why a lot of them have an ego and will go off on a tangent at the drop of a hat. Telling you what you want, instead of giving you what you want. I placed an ad on Digital Webbing’s job search page, and I was very specific about what I want. I even went so far as to imply that anyone who doesn’t meet my qualifications should not even bother sending in their samples, they’ll be immediately rejected. And still, none of the illustrators that responded suit my needs in any way. Sure, they’re all great artists. But if I’m looking for an “urban graffiti hip-hop animation style” and include names like Scottie Young, Humberto Ramos, and Jason Pearson, then why are pencilers who draw like Jim Lee, John Byrne, or something way more classical answering the ad? I’ve had to go through one artist after the other looking, hoping, and praying the right one will pop-up. How hard can it be? I see graffiti artists every day. They’re everywhere: on street corners, in alleys, in hip-hop magazines, airbrushing jackets, designing t-shirts, everywhere. All I want is someone with a specific knowledge of comics and character design, why is that so hard to find?

Finding someone isn’t just the hardest part. Finding someone professional is next to impossible. I’ve had some artists who were very good and fit what I’m looking for, not a lot, but enough. I talk to them, we set things up, and then they disappear. One artist was all set to do some work, we agreed on a price and everything was go. He told me he was hyped for the work, couldn’t wait to get started, etc. He shined me on and then dropped me when something “better” came along, which usually means it paid more. Oh, don’t get me started about that. $130 for two character designs, and that wasn’t enough fucking money. Hey, I’m not complaining about comic book illustrators and sequential artists who’ve worked in the biz and have a name. I know that if you approach them, 50% of what you pay for is the name alone. The other 50% is the assurance you have that whatever you get will rock hard. I’m writing about the no-names. I'm writing about those who haven’t done dick but want $250 per illustration. For the work I needed, tattoo designs, that’s $500 on top of the $600 I gotta pay to get inked. What makes it worse is I take the time to describe my designs in detail. Granted, the artist still has work to do. He has to turn my words into something you can see, and I take into account that what I have in mind could not work. But, $125, $175, $200 for a fucking pencil drawing? I don’t give a damn how detailed it is, unless your fucking Darrow, there’s no rational for charging that much to draw a fucking angel and a demon. Especially from someone you know doesn’t have that kind of money. I met one artist, cool cat, he did some work for me and he just came right out and told me he has two sets of prices. Those for the company man and those for the guy who just need something. If he’s doing a job for a big business, then he jacks up the prices because he knows they can cover. But, there’s no way he expects some small one-man operation to have that kid of dosh. Wish all artists were like him.

So, I’m still looking. Gave up trying to deal with amateurs and now I’m going to the pros for help. If I have to pay more for the professionalism, then that’s what I’ll have to do. But, in the meantime, I have to get stepping on this story before it goes stale and someone puts it out before me. Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.

Later.

JPG.

STUCK

I stare at a blank page, looking for words to appear. But nothing happens. I can hear their voices. Characters screaming for recognition. Begging me to write the first words that will become their testament. But my pencil doesn’t move.

That’s how it’s been for the last few days. Nothing. A reflection of how I feel inside. A couple of weeks ago, I became uncomfortably secure knowing, or believing, that depression is my natural state of being, and happiness was something I didn’t experience all that often. And I liked it. I could feel it building walls around me, becoming my sanctuary. It’s not a bad way to be, it’s actually quite soothing. In essence, you’re dead. Nothing really affects you. Nothing gets through; you just go about your day with life’s volume turned all the way down. You spend hours staring at a computer or television. You kill time playing video games where you kill people. Or you go for a walk and watch everyone else living life. You’re the invisible man, walking between the cracks in other people’s awareness. That’s the scary thing, actually. You begin to notice just how little people pay attention to things, especially other people. You begin understanding how serial killers find their victims. How someone could kill their entire family and no one notice, not even when the carcasses stink up the entire neighborhood in the middle of a summer heat wave. How little people care. And that ignorance and lack of compassion fuels you to continue diving deeper in inside yourself until you’re so far gone you can’t find your way back.

Of course, the one problem with this is having a family. It’s hard to die or be sad about anything when a five year old is jumping on you because she wants to play house or something. And your wife, she sees you, sits next to you, puts her head on your shoulder, and give you that look that makes you feel like a God among men. She’s the only one who can make you feel that way, like you’re not a slug sizzling under a mound of salt. It’s hard to hate yourself when you’re surrounded by love. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long, and soon enough you’re right back where you belong. At work, and in hell. Where no one gives a damn and you can wallow in peace.

Everyone has a dream, but few have the strength and determination to follow it. Those that do may never achieve their goals, because the chase is more exciting than the achievement. It’s taken ten years for me to get here. Ten years of fears and self-doubts. Ten years of screaming, crying, and disappointment. But after ten long years, I’m finally within arms length of publishing my first book. And I’m not so happy about it. Because, once it’s over, what’s next? Where do I go from here? Oh yes, write another book. Easier said than done. And where will I get the money to produce another book? I can’t go to my father with my hand out again. And for all I know, I’m probably exhausting whatever inheritance I may have had. The more I move forward, the more I look back at those four boys who all would go their separate ways. I remember how we came together, first as Gothic Studios and then as DMS. I remember the first year after I got married, I had no job and working temp was so consistent that I could take a week off between assignments. I was making more money than I had previously, and every new job upped the ante. My wife was working late afternoon to evenings, so I had all day to hang with my other unemployed friend, The Actor. We’d hang out at his place, watching television and talking about our big plan in comics that would make us rich. At the time, Actor was an illustrator and we were working together in Gothic Studios. He had a vampire story and I worked with Bloody Pencil, another member of the studio. We would all meet on Saturdays, but during the week, when the others were working, Actor and I would drive around LA or just chill, talk, and dream. I miss that time. I miss the time I had just a couple of years ago, when I worked in the clinic as a Scheduler. All I did was answer phones and schedule patients. I came in a 7:30am and left at 4pm, and I loved it. But, I didn’t know it at the time.

How did I end up here? Well, in hindsight, it’s pretty stupid. It’s a parable I could tell my kids one day when I’m preaching against the evils of greed, or not appreciating what you have until it’s gone. I live my life by certain rules. And the reason why I have rules is because whenever I go against them, I’m screwed. Well, one of those rules would have protected me, had I listened.

For years now, I’ve been caught in a conundrum. That being, I’m a writer trying to establish myself at a time when I have a family to support. If I were smarter, I would have established myself first, and then had a family. But as my GPA and poor grammar will prove, I’m not that smart. So, I had to work the grind, support the family, and try to make a career for myself. One rule I had that would make all this possible was simply not to get too involved in whatever work I was doing. Keep my job simple. Stick to being a peon. Sure, I wouldn’t get a lot of money, but anyone in the working world knows that longevity is a moneymaker. I could stick to doing my job, something not too complicated or stressful, and the money would flow in the long run. The point was, with less responsibility, I’d have less stress, and more ability to do what I had to, which is writing. That worked well for a number of years, until I one day I started to care. I started to care about my job. I started to car about my coworkers. I started to care whether my work was being appreciated. And, I started to care about the money. This happened around the same time my daughter was born and followed by my weight loss. I started to see myself as having value. Too much value, and it was soon afterwards that I started to complain about how things were running in the clinic. I started voicing my opinions and making suggestions to the manager. Soon, I became a blip on someone’s radar. And, when a position opened up, one that was higher in status and salary, my name was mentioned.

All I saw were dollar signs.

More money, and the possibility for even more money later on. And, something very important happened. Something I’d forgotten until yesterday, when I met with employee counselor to ask for help and I recounted the story. I’d forgotten that I had met with my old boss about the promotion, and she was selling this new job to me, about how great it would be, a “real opportunity for growth”. I remember she mentioned my writing at one point, because I’d always made it known that this was a pit stop for me, and she said she knew I was pushing to get my writing out there, but that I had to start considering something else. Basically, I had to stop fucking around with this writing bullshit and find a fucking career. And she was handing one right in my lap, no degree required. And for some insane reason, I agreed with her. I wouldn’t give up writing, but for the first time I entertained the thought of having a safety net. A second career opportunity that could payoff in two years vs. the seven or eight years I’d burnt with DMS and still had nothing to show. Sure, I wasn’t qualified. Sure, I was breaking my own rule. But I didn’t care. I’d gotten cocky. Everyone was still patting me on the back for losing all that weight, so I thought I could do anything. I was wrong. The first thing to make me uneasy was signing away my paychecks in the case I get fired. See, here, if we get laid off the hospital continues to pay us based on the number of years we’ve been employed. So, if you worked for five years and get laid off, you get five “free” paychecks. But, since this new job is funded on grant money, I had to give that up. I’m not the only one who had to do it, but I still feel stupid for giving up that safety net. I remember when I signed it; something in my gut told me I was making a mistake.

Why is it we only pay attention to that little voice after we get in trouble?

Next, I knew I was in trouble when I went to my first team meeting and had no idea what was going on. And I still don’t have a clue, because I know very little about medical terminology, and that was a requirement. One that was overlooked, so I could get in. Then, there was the training, or lack thereof. My boss held herself in such high esteem as the “master trainer”, that I felt certain I could do the job after her training courses. In fact, she told me it would happen. I would become a “Super CRA” and pharmaceutical companies would knock down my door and throw money my way. Well, if you were to string all the training days together, it wouldn’t even equal a week. My new boss left another trainee and I twiddling our thumbs, so I spent most the time writing my book. Before I was ready, or even close to ready, I was assigned protocols. Then, word starts to leak to me, about my old job being eliminated and how other more qualified applicants were overlooked. And some of them are my coworkers, and they know they’re more qualified than I am, but were told they weren’t qualified enough. The whole thing stunk and they knew it. Worse, I knew it. And my knowing that they knew made me withdrew into my cubicle for the next two years. I still don’t go outside, unless it’s to smoke. I avoid people at all cost, and since then, I’ve been plagued by paranoia on a level that even scares me. Always wondering if someone is talking behind my back, and wondering what they’re saying about me.

And that’s how I ended up here. Now, I’m stuck. It seems every time I find a way out, I’m stuck right back where I started. Right fucking here. I tried to transfer out, something that was more like my last job. But, the powers sat on their assess until new management took over. And then, that manager left, and now we have no supervision and I was ordered to assist a coworker with her protocols that are harder than the ones I had before, in a program I have no knowledge of. And no one cares. No one cares that I don’t know what I’m doing. No one cares that I’m unhappy. No one even asked me what I want to do. I’ve been trying to transfer out of this department, but the week I was to meet with my old boss, I got the stomach flu. I missed the meeting and she hasn’t written me back to reschedule, even though I’ve written her twice. Two months ago, I started applying for other jobs here, trying to get out of the division and start fresh, but no luck there. My applications haven’t moved. And the head of HR who’s looking into the delay just had a death in the family, so she’s out until next week. And who knows if any of those jobs will come through. Not to mention contending with my own fears that lightening will strike twice, and I’ll be in a situation I could have avoided by just staying put.

I wish I were back working with my father in his restaurant, doing what I hated to do, and being a host and cashier. What I really wanted was to hang in the kitchen washing dishes, so I could listen to the cook and bus boys talking shit.

I wish I were back at L. Medical Center, filing charts all day long.

I wish I were still temping, bouncing from one job to the next. It never mattered how I worked because I was never there long enough. And no one wanted to train me because it was too time consuming to put forth the effort. So, I’d get paid twelve dollars an hour to cut paper or answer phones. I was making fourteen an hour when I came to the hospital as a temp, and had to take a decrease when they hired me, all because I had a kid to support. My Daughter. She wasn’t even a year old.

I wish I were back in the clinic, answering phones and scheduling patients. At four every day, as the last of the patients rolled through, things would loosen up and we’d start having some fun, cracking jokes and having intense conversation. God, I miss that job. I never thought I would. I hated it so much when I was there. But I miss it now.

I wish…

I wish I were at home with my wife and kids. I spent two days with them, and even though I was sick with the stomach flu, it was great being there. I don’t care if I write or not, I just want to be near them.

I can wish for a lot of thing, but they won’t happen.

So to save myself that feeling of despair, I shut myself down and cut myself off. I do what I have to and interact a little, but that’s all. That’s no way to live, but it’s better than the alternative. Feeling afraid every day, in pain, regretful, angry, irritated and annoyed. The paranoia is the worst thing. Always feeling like I’m being watched or talked about. The employee counselor suggested that I might be suffering from an imbalance brought on by aging. She wants me to have a complete physical and mental check-up. Great. I go to my employee rep. looking for a solution to my crappy job and she suggests I’m crazy.

Another eight hours is about to fly by and I haven’t done a damn thing. I’m not working. I’m not writing. I just exist. Or rather, I’m trying not to exist.

So I keep staring at the blank age in front of me, holding the pencil in one hand, and moving the lead across the page haphazardly. And what came out is what you've spent the last few minutes reading, which begs me to ask if you're any more pathetic for reading this than I am for writing it. But this isn't what I want to write. It doesn't sedate the voices in my head that are screaming for release. But this is what happens when I get writer's block. It's not about having no ideas. It's about being so obbssessed with myself that I can't focus on the lives of characters I need to create. And that obssession becomes depression. And that depression is all consuming. And that is when I most feel like God.

This is my life, and I’m dying between the commercial breaks.

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