Where do you begin?

You walk into a concert hall expecting a fine performance from a longtime professional.  The building is lovely, the event carrying the feeling of excitement–people from all over in attendance to see a legend, a songwriting virtuoso, and a man of such esteemed elegance that the prices on the seats float away with the rest of the worries of the night.  You sit, accompanied by a fan the likes of which cannot be measured, waiting for the show to begin.  You know the result will be good, and that you will enjoy songs you have liked, some you may not have liked before, and will walk away no less than pleased.

You walk into his garden.  You realize you walked in blindly.

From the opening song, he was no less than magical.  No, magic would say that there were some other power responsible.  What you witness is almost fifty years of art, skill, love, sex, meditation, agony, prayer, heart-wrenching living, and hard-won grace, encapsulated in a performance.  Every lyric was sung from the depths of memory, from the humor of “Dance Me To The End of Love” to the pain of “The Miracle” to the peace and humility of “If It Be Your Will”, which he didn’t actually sing.   He spoke poetry.  He sang.  He played guitar like a man my age.  He danced, knelt, and cradled his microphone like a child.

The artisan of a century was well accompanied.  An assembled crew of musicians from around the world, renowned each on their own, supported him, and in turn were supported by him.  In his grace he shared the spotlight in every way, eyes glued to them and hat off while they soloed, and singing to individual performers just to literally share the light with them.  His introductions were ebullient with praise, and their performances were overflowing with heart and style.   They lent their abilities to his masterworks, covering the spectrum–country, latin, ballad, and plenty of blues.   They performed like a band that had played all their lives together, sharing, falling into solid grooves, standing out individually, and coalescing to create a unified, polished performance that rates no less than spectacular.

Even above the man and the band, though, was the music.  New interpretations of older songs, made fresh for a live band, mixed with rock-solid performances of every classic you could desire (save one–”Joan of Arc”), and songs you may have never heard before, created a set list that had no rival.  With a performance that came in at 3 1/2 hours, including four encores that comprised a complete set in their own right, the audience was never left behind.  On the contrary, the concert hall was ringing with cheers, squeals, and catcalls that belonged to a performer 50 years his junior.  All the while, the man was humble, funny, light on talk, and heavy on songs that each rate as masterpieces.

To paraphrase Bono, Leonard Cohen throws away songs that other artists aspire their entire lives to write.

At the end of the night, I walked away renewed, revealed, and revived.  The Master made me think, made me feel the entire time, and reminded me, song after song, of some of the best moments of my musical career, where I really made beautiful music in the company of others.  If an artists makes you love music again, the way you did as a child and the way you should as an adult, then he has done his job splendidly.  You walk away from his concert knowing that this is the way all concerts should be given.  He has fallen and risen, he has stalled and striven, and he leaves you and the stage after placing his microphone down on the stage floor like an offering on a shrine, dancing.

Note: To appreciate this article, you should listen to the This American Life episode, “The Life of John Smith”.  Better yet, watch it via Netflix or whatever channel you choose.

When the roomie told me to watch this episode, I knew it would be moving, because of her rave reviews.  Now, she classically reacts stronger to stories, humor, or pretty much anything, than I do.  Hey, that’s just me.  But still, when I finally sat down to watch it, I didn’t know if I was prepared to be moved, to appreciate a human story.  When those 50 minutes were up, I was crying.  If you know me, you know how often that happens–never.  In fact, ask yourself if you’ve ever seen it.

John Smith, Age 46 has the same look in his eye as my dad.  Jovial, smart, wise, and desperate to make it all work, to make sure I didn’t do what he did, to make a connection.

John Smith, 2 months, with eons of expectations poured upon him by family that has been trapped in the same slick mud that their families were born into, with one goal: get out and do better, for us all.

John Smith, Age 70, as hard working, caring, driven, stubborn, and entrenched in his era as so many I’ve known.  As so many I’ve watched grow old.  Some become bastions, some disconnected, all walking the tightrope of harmony in a life that is more difficult and joyful than they ever expected.

I’ve stood over too many gravestones.

John Smith, Age 79: Just like Papa.  Talking to a man who could only blink his responses to us because the rest of his body was paralyzed.  Remembering the rough times with him.  Remembering the happy times.  Watching him sit at the head of the dinner table, grumpy, knowing that somewhere he cared.  Watching him slowly deteriorate, visit by visit.

There’s woe enough to go around.

John Smith, Age 36:  Living that expectation.  Filling the holes in himself.  Steering the ship, regardless of how steady he feels behind the wheel.

John Smith, Age 23:  How many of you have I known?  How many of you have I grown up with, or seen at family reunions?  What is it that breaks the chains off our tires when we’re in the snow?

We spend so much time as children, if we’re lucky, being told that we’re special.  We teach our children this, that we’re all special.  Yet the hidden sages of our day would say that this is the root of our society’s problems–how can each and every single person be special?  Doesn’t the definition of the term mean different from everything else in a group?  We’re all a bunch of people, just the same, thinking we’re all special.

I personally have always been told that I’m special, and at the same time recognized the uniqueness of every, and all their strengths.  The fact is, I’m just a Smith. It’s one of the most humbling experiences in the world to realize that you’re just like everybody else, and to accept that truth–you’re not a President-to-be, a CEO, an actor, whatever.  You are just a person, like all the other people around you. Your destiny isn’t greater or lesser than any other.  You’re simply a Smith.  And that, in and of itself, is story enough.

Today’s been a moneythought day.  As with many things I finally bother to write about, the thought has been percolating for a while now, but today has been particularly precise in its issues and revelations in regards to money.  I almost have the urge to do a This American Life episode about it, but I hear they have the issue well in hand.

The background: I don’t have money.  Didn’t come from money, grew up with a mandate to make money–live better than the parents.  My dad had money for a while, with a particularly good job, but times change.  I’ve had a chance to see how people with money live, and have thought about it plenty, especially as my slacker side fights with my driven side to make something.  What does it really mean to have money?  To make money?  To inherit it?  Win it?  How much of a space does it have to occupy?  And what can you do with only a little of it?

The latter I’ve gotten good at.  Big bills mean a small petty cash fund, but between the help of parents and sharp eyes on behalf of my roommate and myself, we’ve managed to put together a nice house.  I maintain my car, buy sharp looking clothes for cheap, and have learned how to maintain stuff.  I’m not the best, and sometimes I get pretty slack, but it works.  That said, I know that I won’t get the major lifestyle changes I want (like not having to worry about people or things breaking, retirement funds, etc) until I elevate my game.  These things circulate through my mind daily, hourly even.  Today had decided to give me some underlines, liner notes, and punctuations for those thoughts.

I start my morning by dropping the roommie off at work–or attempting to.  The main drag going to her office is five lanes–two for each direction of traffic, and one turn lane in the middle.  Getting to work requires a left turn off that lane.  I get into that lane relatively early, so as to bypass the long line of ongoing traffic that’s waiting on the light, when a Mercedes-driving gentleman pulls into the lane.  He’s trying to turn left himself, facing the OPPOSITE direction from me (normal), but has nowhere to turn (not normal).  What’s happened is that he’s jumped into the lane early himself to turn about 50 feet behind me.  We face off.  I can’t go anywhere–traffic is beginning to zip past  me, and the same is happening to him, but lighter.  So, in an effort to give myself some room to pull out or let him turn, I back up–unheard of in this street.  He races up on my bumper, and then shoos me on, wanting me to do more.  I’m dumbfounded.  Never mind all the hazards that go with this, let’s just give this “gentleman”, most likely a banker or doctor, based on where he’s going, a clear path to his destination and not make him pull around.  Inevitably I back up 10 feet more, and he races past my bumper, cuts across the lanes of traffic–not perpendicularly, mind you, but at a 45 degree angle across, to get to his destination.  Perhaps it was his own panic, agitation, or simply a self-interpreted right to occupy that lane for his purposes, but this person marked themselves as an asshole in my eyes.  This is the source of many rants about “rich people” by the lower classes.  Is it rightly so?

With this underlined, we take the next moment, a page I Stumbled upon, as a liner note.  I won’t go into the deep of it in this section–I’ll let you read for yourself and ponder.

Finally, for our exclamation of the times, we’ll take the shops at one of our biggest malls in the area.  It’s a particularly high class mall, expensive stores, and beautiful stonework and architecture, which is all a draw for me, the equivalent of a mall vagrant.  I visit my pal who works here and often work/type at a coffee shop inside that I like.  My pal wasn’t here today, so I went to the food court to the inevitable row of stores that sell chicken bits.  Call it Bourbon, Sesame, Cajun, or whatever, it’s all the same meat–choose your flavor and generic store title and go.  Here’s the problem–the stores know they’re generic, too, and they suffer for it.  In these days where shopping is tight and overpriced Chinese/Cajun/Etc food is, well, overpriced, these stores have to fight for each customer.  So, I go do the usual “take a sample” thing, enjoy it, and tell the staff at this first place that I’ll go next door and may be back.  For the first time ever, the entire crew—EVERY person in the line–gets up in arms. “WAIT!”  The lady by the register, obviously the manager, pulls me over to the side, and holds up a sign in her hand–fitting neatly in her palm–that says “Free Drink”, followed with her verbal statement of “for you only.”  Wow.  They’re going all out with the bennies here.  So, of course, I buy their food.

More stores are having to do this.  Having worked in sales/retail before, I know how this works–you save the bennies until you have to throw them, especially when there’s tight competition.  Hey, that’s the nature of competition.  But the times are lean, people, and regardless of what the general economic indicators are nationally, you know what you see.  Recession specials, free samples, happy hours—these are all hard marketing tactics that many places thought they were above for a long time.  Now, few companies are above it.  Corporations are finding that their bullet-proof vests have grown tattered without their noticing.  That said, you can imagine how the local businesses are faring–no matter how big they are.  One of the bigger, nicer restaurants locally shut down, and I didn’t notice it until the other day.  It was owned by a successful restaurateur, accomplished, with multiple restaurants of local renown to his name.  All of a sudden, this establishment–not his crown jewel, but not far off the center–is gone.  No one is immune.  I heard a similar story on the way in about a restaurant–a successful restaurant–in Berkeley, CA going down, not because they did anything wrong, but because of what they were–non-essential.

What does it all mean?  How does all this relate back, dear reader?  It’s a world of thought that can be explored at length, but the message, to me, is that these are the days where you have to be good. For me, in particular, it means that I have to strive more than ever to be phenomenal at whatever I do, because I have a long ladder to climb.  It’s going to require more than showing up on time and finishing my work a little ahead of schedule–it’s going to require bringing extra value to the table and having it be reliably there, day after day.  I have to be good. That also means that I have to trim the mental–and perhaps physical–fat.  There’s not much to trim economically.  Frankly, when the recession hit, it didn’t hit us hard on a day to day basis–we know how to live lean, and frankly, we don’t want a lot from our lifestyle.  We’ve learned to entertain ourselves with a minimum of funding, and aside from eating out on occasion and coffee, we’re good to go.  However, I’ve gotten mentally fat, letting discipline slide, not pushing my creativity, and not exercising crucial skills.  That has to stop.  To be the best, you’ve got to beat the best.

Most importantly, though, I have to focus on what I want.  I can be selfish, but in my goals, I tend to be pretty fair and open–I want to get out of debt, own a nice, reliable car, and have someplace I can stay (rent or own) that’s easy to maintain and nice to look at.  Beyond that, though, I have to very specifically focus on how–what is the specific career path I want to take?  What’s the end goal?  How do I get there?  Everything that fuels the career has to start bending to that path, or else Corporation Me (which is what every person is) will fail the same way those restaurants did.

I leave you, gentle reader, with this final lesson of life, taught to us by the previously mentioned favorite coffee shop in the mall.  One day two weeks ago I was working there while the manager, a beautiful older Italian woman, was manning (womaning?) the counter. A couple swung by, simply looking at the store, with Starbucks in hand.  The manager called them out and asked what they were drinking and whether they liked it or not.  They said their Frappucinos were pretty good.  The manager’s response? “Mine are better.  Wanna see?”  She promptly whipped up two equivalents and gave them to the couple, free of charge (which they didn’t completely realize until the drinks were in hand). The couple liked the new drinks better–they are now regular customers.

I’m lonely.

I’ve talked a lot about minutae for a long time.  I can talk you to death about the details of the mental and spiritual being, the aspects of characterization in drama, or, hell, even how to make a move set for a wrestler expressive for a character. I can overcomplicate the shit out of anything.  Sometimes, though, problems and deep internal issues boil down to simple facts—as straightforward as death and taxes.

I’m lonely.

Now, a few things. First, this ain’t whining. I’m not sounding off as some mating call or request for help.  This is, again, a statement of fact.  Second, I’ve lived with loneliness for a long time–at least romantic loneliness.  It’s been a while, and for the most part, that’s fine.  Third, I’m not alone–I have good friends and a solid family to back me up. I’m not on an island, by any stretch.  That doesn’t keep you from being lonely.

It’s about intimacy.

Not sex.  We all know that sex isn’t always intimate. We also know that intimacy can be had in plutonic relationships. It’s what makes best friends, lovers, and tight family.  The word “intimacy” tends to have a sexual charge–that’s not the use I’m applying here.  I’ve gone a long time without sharing intimate feelings with anyone.  Good talks, to be sure, but somehow the connect has missed with some people.  Anyone who knows me knows I’m a social person, and thrive on that shit. So, going without hurts.

The past few weeks I’ve seen a dearth of romance.  Old friends and new have found partners that truly compliment them, and are happy.  I know of at least two good romances in my circle, one of which I would actually call storybook—and bully for them.  I don’t envy them.  On the contrary, I’m happy to see that’s possible–and I think that’s what has the ache cranked up this week.  Opening up personally, having some gaming that has, frankly, been theraputic, and seeing that these sorts of romances are possible, has opened me up and simplified my emotional landscape, or perhaps my view of it.  It lets me see the facts.

I’m lonely.

It is what it is–I have no one to blame but me.  I’ve kept myself off the market and away from friends for a long time, and even when I’ve been with friends, I’ve been shielded. There are lots of reasons for this, but most of it boils down to me not trusting myself. I know I’ve got this pent-up emotion, so I don’t want to overwhelm anyone–either a counseling friend or potential date.  You can imagine.  Also, I don’t want to be a codependant, which I’ve been accused of.  Sorry, gang, but that way of life isn’t for me anymore. Still, I wasn’t all that sharp about it before—what about another time around?  Finally, there are just some parts of me that I don’t like. I’m lazy.  I’m gullible.  I’m inexperienced.  And frankly, depending on the timing, I can be a true to life gen-u-ine son of a bitch.  So, when you’re reaching down into the well of emotions to share some intimate emotional connect with a friend or, God forbid, a lover, do you want to come up with a steaming handful of anger, depression, and sadness?

I didn’t think you did.

So, the shields have been up.  Now I’m saying fuck it to the shields and trying to work stuff out on my own. Because the shield/withdrawl method doesn’t work (field of jokes here, people).  It’s interesting to unpack all this emotional baggage, and it’ll be better in the end, but right now it’s a pain in the ass.  I’m better company, and friends may note a greater level of percieved sincerity to my words and actions–it’s not like I was lying before, just a little restrained.  Healthy, but leading to moments of realization like this week.

I need people.  I need good, solid friends I can share with, and will share with me, who actually want to be around me and share those inside jokes and looks.  I need someone to not just be welcoming, but to show some interest.  I’ve been more fortunate with that in the past few weeks than I have in the past few years–score one for the me.  I need an option for romance that can be good. My take on romance is a little more sophisticated than it used to be–I can deal with a lot more levels and types of relationships than I used to.  However, you’ve got to actually start on it to test it out.

So, bottom line: I’m lonely, but I’m taking care of my shit.  For those already contributing, I thank you from the deepest part of my aorta.  You’re good people. I ask nothing from those around me–you live your lives.  If you’re living in an interesting situation that makes you happy, more power to you.  If you’re living a storybook romance you lived three lifetimes for, enjoy it–you more than deserve it.  One day that may be me.  Maybe not. I don’t know what’s in store, but I know what I need to do to make myself as open to those possibilities as possible–and right now that means separating the whites from the colors, the plaids from the stripes, and throwing out some of the jeans that are too small or pinched too much and made my blood pressure go up.

C’est la vie.

The scene: Parker & Otis, Durham NC.  A sunny morning, 65 degrees outside, on the front deck with my new computer.  There’s a blue plate full of eggs, bacon, cheese biscuits, and fruit, all for a good price. The mocha beside it is desperately needed to keep me awake, and it couldn’t be better–a smooth blend of chocolate, milk, and coffee shots. The wooden table and chairs I’m sitting at is against a brick wall of the remodeled cotton warehouse, and the refurbished wooden deck, made of recovered wooden planks from the factory and galvanized steel rails shaped into artistic designs, reflects the sunlight without glare.  Plants decorate one platform of the multi-tiered patio, with classical music playing in the background.  My fellow customers are businesspeople in their business casual, older wives meeting to chat, or Duke students eating and studying at the same time.

I’m not terribly worried about money, but worried enough to be on my toes.  I have a gracious roommate that is working hard at her three jobs-grad student, mom, and psychologist, and I’m working hard to cover the little details while she’s dedicating herself to improving her life.  I’ve just had an evening with good friends, watching anime, drinking beer, and chatting. My family is well, my car is running well, and the house is clean.

This is the good life.

Ugh.  So God-damned tired right now.  It seems like, no matter how long I sleep, I’m never rested.  But the fitfulness of my dreams may be a contributing factor. That, however, is for another post.

Those who know me have various insights into my spirituality.  Some think of me as hardcore Catholic, some as simply a Christian, some don’t think of me and faith in the same sentence, and some recognize that I have some beliefs, but nothing specific. Allow me to clarify.  I consider myself nominally Catholic, but considering that I can’t jive with some of the specific laws and tenants of the Catholic church, that’s as far as I’ll go with it.  My mom raised me Catholic, and that’s where my roots are.  However, my faith is a little more organic than that.  Or, perhaps, the clarification is this–it’s more knowledge than faith.

I recognize that may single me out as a crazy man, especially to the atheists in the audience.  When I was 14, I was in church, and I just knew.  I felt it.  My connect was real and living, and sacred.  I’ve lived with that connect since then.  It’s gotten me through some rough times and tested me.  Some of those tests I’ve failed.  Regardless, it’s my faith, and probably the most central aspect of my life–I would never want to do without it.

The way that I celebrate and service my faith, however, has evolved somewhat over the years.  I’ve never been a bible thumper, and never ruled out the beliefs of others.  On the contrary, I try to find aspects of other faiths that I can appreciate and even incorporate.  My thinking is a common one for some of the open minded people I’ve met–the various outreachings of Christianity are simply squabbling brothers fighting over the best time to eat an apple.  Now, to carry this idea out even further, the beliefs of our Jewish, Islamic, and Bhuddist brethren aren’t that far off, either–at least from what I understand, and have experienced.  If this is the case, why not appreciate God in whatever ways you can?

So, with that said, the ways in which I celebrate are a mix of Catholic, Bhuddist, and Islamic–not that you could tell by looking.  It’s a matter of mindfulness, practical application of law, and most importantly, recognizing the true laws of all of our faiths in the actual living of life.  To me, the law is written in our hearts.  It’s why we have human rights laws, and why people can travel around the world to remote cultures and still find the same tenants.  We simply have to live by them.  For me, however, I want a relationship with God.  That doesn’t mean God doing favors for me or me executing His orders constantly.  It means a relationship.

Now, understand, one of the best ways to do this is service–service to people. You’d be surprised how in-tune you get with the rest of the world when you actually work for it.  But what about the rest of the time?  I’m no Mother Teresa, so I’m not of service most of the time–frankly, I’ve fallen out of the practice.  So, what do you do with the rest of the time?  The classic answer of the Catholic church is prayer.  However, I’ve come to understand prayer as one of three things: a) Thank you, God; b) I’m sorry, God; c) Gimme something, God.  None of these are good enough, and frankly, it’s a limited vocabulary.

Yesterday I came to realize that the word for what I enjoy most is communion.  Of course, this word has conflicting meanings.  With Catholics, you do that with a cracker and some wine.  With Bhuddists, you meditate and think of the oneness of everything.  What is it for me?  I can hear my mom saying “you just need to go to church!”. Screw that.  I can’t spend my life in a church, and while I love it and there is a power in prayer at a sacred refuge, the real need and action is outside.  Communion should be something accessible every day.  I don’t want to go through a, b, and c every day of my life–sometimes I just want to say “hey”.  More importantly, I want to understand. I want to appreciate the nature of God.  I want to get a better idea of what that is.  I want to understand this world that I live in, and it’s trillions of facets, and I want to reach out to what I feel beyond that–call it Heaven, the spiritual world, or simply call it the shared mental and emotional world that we all create collectively.  I want to understand everything I can.  But I can’t do that through prayer alone.

So, I’m seeking to commune.  I may go to a park sometime this week, or just sit in my car and watch the traffic go by.  The point, however, is to reach out and touch base with God, and just try to get to know Him better.  No demands, no ass-kissing, and no begging for my eternal salvation.  Just a simple conversation, or even just enjoying the silence together.

After all, wouldn’t you enjoy that?

For those of you who don’t know my hobbies, I LOVE comics.  I picked up my first at age 7, and it was an immediate connect.  It was one of the first four issues of the GI Joe series, from Marvel and Hasbro.  Now, you may think this is something cute, like Archie or He-Man.  Sorry to disappoint–this was a little heavier.  Larry Hama was the writer for the comic–the same guy that wrote the description cards for the figures.  If you just looked at the figures when they first came out, you weren’t impressed.  Little men in olive drab with big or little guns, and Snake-Eyes (who didn’t look as ninja at the time–he was a LRRP)–big deal.  If you watched the cartoon, you got more story–but it wasn’t Larry Hama’s story.  The real story came out from the cards on the back, which gave primary and secondary specialties, weapon qualifications, and background on how they got into the service.  It was more real-life military information than most kids would ever get, and rightfully so–Larry was a Vietnam veteran who decided to write comics when he got home.  So, when Hasbro approached comics companies to write a book, they obviously went with their main man, who wove tales of military conflict, tinged with sci-fi at a level slightly above James Bond (at first), and deeply enriched with military savvy and genuine attempts to write drama.

GI Joe was my first time seeing a story told without any dialogue at all (#3), the fears of discovery while in an espionage situation (The Rip Cord/Zartan exchange), cold-blooded murder (Cobra Commander’s son shooting Cobra Commander), and the classic few-against-all invasion scenario (the invasion of the Pit, with four generals trying to survive against an army, Aliens-style). It was good.

My tastes evolved, but the standards of realistic drama mixed with fantasy held true.  When I started branching out from GI Joe (after Hama left and GI Joe jumped the shark), I found X-Men–right at the Morlock Massacre.  Sears would sell 30-50 issues of random Marvel comics at once for Christmas, for about $20.  I got one for Christmas, got some GI Joe, but also got The X-Men.  I was hooked immediately.  Kids are naive in many ways, but not as many as you think.  Especially in their chosen fields, they can smell bullshit a mile away.  When I read comics, I didn’t want smash-bang combat all the time unless it was smart. Superman?  Always appreciated what he stood for, but like so many others, not interested in reading it.  Fantastic Four, Avengers?  More of the same.  X-Men, though? There was a team, led by Chris Claremont, that was really putting in some effort. Dark, gritty, smart use of powers, and big themes that mattered–racism, personal freedom, duty and obligation, pain, loss, sacrifice, all mixed with the occasional foray into high adventure–how could I not be hooked?

Lots of people know the X-Men now, and it’s hard to appreciate what they were in light of all the shit that’s come out since (guys, let’s face it, Claremont’s writing is dated, and the 90’s felt like your favorite show’s filler season).  But at the time, X-Men was the edgiest, grittiest, most real comic you could find without hitting Morrison and Moore’s early, fantastic stuff. (And if you don’t know who these men are, look them up, and thank them for The Matrix, V For Vendetta, and Watchmen).  I followed X-Men regardless, and was glad to see Claremont return in 2000 to try to bring the team faithfully to its origins–which failed after he was yanked from the book.

He was replaced with that Morrison schmuck.  I won’t spend time here reciting the merits and flaws of the Morrison X-Men era–you can tap the Internet for the praises of that legendary arc (and you’ll be hard pressed to find criticism from anyone except me). I appreciated the sheer balls on this guy to try the shit he was trying.  I knew who he was–I had run across some of his stuff elsewhere and really enjoyed it, so I was game to see what he was going to do.  Years later, after he moved to other projects, I got interested in his history, especially when I heard that the Matrix was, unofficially and to his chagrin, based on his groundbreaking series The Invisibles.

The Invisibles is a ride, to say the least.  I won’t discuss it here, except to say that it’s a book that will open the neonate’s mind wider than most drug trips, and will take the initiated to new levels.  It’s definitely worth reading.  Is it good? That I leave to the reader.  I will warn you–this is not a typical comic.  It is graphic. In fact, this is one of the first series that warranted the title Graphic Novel.  It’s an experience, and one I encourage fans of the genre to at least try.  If you don’t like it, kick my ass later. Regardless, tell me what you think.

I’m always open to comics talk.  I think comics are important–more important than most people think.  Many books are written on this subject, but I do believe in this truth–this is our American mythology.  The greeks have their gods, and our previous generations had their heroes–the Lone Ranger, Buck Rogers, etc.  For the boomers and for the generations since, this is our mythology.  Appreciate it–it’s more part of you than you think.

So, in the words of one of the most important men of the industry–

EXCELSIOR!

Not a lot going on today.  Got the new puter tuned, got some housework done.  Yes, it is one of those boring posts.

But tomorrow?  Aside from whatever happens, we go back to poetry drafting, and discussing The Invisibles.

And I’m back.

For those of you who didn’t notice, I’ve been out of my own personal electronics for about 6 weeks now.  It’s been excrutiating.  Jenny’s been kind enough to lend me her laptop, but you know it’s never the same unless you have your own electronics.

So, I’m back, and I’ll be updating on a regular basis from here on out.  I’ve got plenty of videos to share, and enough going on, internally and externally, to talk about.

Welcome back, me.

I’m saving space for the videos I’ll post tomorrow.  Needless to say, it’s been a great three days.  Wonderful day of birth, followed by a ribald night out with the friends last night, and today was the boy’s birthday, where we went to Wet & Wild, handed over his bike, and for some bizarre reason, ended up buying Guitar Hero: World Tour!

Eye Of The Tiger.  Nuff Said.