Carrie Fisher

I was born in love with Carrie Fisher.

Ok, not exactly.  I didn’t know who she was for several years.  But one of my earliest memories is of seeing Star Wars in the theater and sharing Luke Skywalker’s immediate infatuation with the tiny blue image of Princess Leia pleading for help from Obi Wan Kenobi.  I think I was three.

My love for Carrie Fisher was not simply for Princess Leia.  Though this role did dominate my childhood, I did see her in other roles.  And my love was not at all dirty.  I’d like to say that I was too young to harbor dirty thoughts, and at three, when I saw Star Wars, I certainly was.  At six when I saw Empire Strikes Back I was probably still too young to entertain any salacious imaginings.  But by the time I was 9, when I saw Return of the Jedi, I was certainly old enough to know that under a girl’s shirt were boobs and that I probably wanted to see them, though anything dirtier was still several years down the road.  Still, my love for Carrie Fisher was not dirty.  She was bangin’ in the Jabba the Hutt slave outfit to be sure, but it was not sexualized to me.  It could not be because my love was pure.

In first grade I had a Star Wars Trapper Keeper folder.  I did not have a Trapper Keeper because they were expensive, but I insisted on the folder.  On one side of the folder was Luke Skywalker.  On the other side was Princess Leia in the celebratory gown she wore after the destruction of the Death Star.  I remember sleeping with that folder.  I’d keep it Luke side up until my mother turned the light off, then I’d switch it to Leia and I’d imagine my bed was the Millennium Falcon and we were fighting the Empire.  I remember trying to kiss the Leia lips, but it was impossible to know if I was successful.  I had never kissed a girl and it was dark and the folder gave me nothing.  She was flat and unresponsive.  I wasn’t to the folder what the folder was to me.  But that was ok.  Her just being there was enough.

I also remember going to Lionel Play World (now Toys R Us) after seeing the Empire Strikes Back.  My brother and I were allowed to each buy one action figure.  I desperately wanted to buy the Princess Leia in the Hoth outfit.  Patrick got some guy, probably Luke in his Bespin outfit.  When I was asked who I wanted I got cold feet.  I had been holding the Princess Leia toy and I think my father knew I wanted her, but when asked I chickened out and got someone else.  I don’t even remember who because I immediately regretted everything for all time.  I don’t know why I did it.  I think it was the knowing look in my father’s eye.  That look that said, “That’s my boy!  Go for the pretty girl.”  That knowing look that actually didn’t know anything about what I really wanted at that moment.  I wanted the Leia figure, but not because it was a pretty girl.  It was because that character, Leia, was an integral part of the Star Wars universe.  She was the indomitable good.  She was the incorruptible defiance in the face of oppression.  Luke was a pure hero.  Han was an opportunistic hero.  But heroes come and go.  Leia was forever.  Leia was the institution.  Leia didn’t need to join the rebellion.  She was the rebellion.  But I could never have understood that at such a young age and I certainly couldn’t explain it to my father.

I know that I am not the most die-hard fan of Carrie Fisher that ever lived.  I have never read any of her books, though I have always intended to.  I always listen intently when my wife reads excerpts from Wishful Drinking, or when my daughter reads her tweets.  But I was shaken on Christmas Eve when I learned she had suffered a heart attack.  I had to take a moment to collect myself.  And I was truly dismayed yesterday to learn that she had died.  She was my childhood girlfriend, though she never knew it.  It was an innocent and pure love.  The love of a woman who was struggling righteously against the ills of a galaxy that oppresses and tries to impose its will on others.  And while Carrie Fisher was not Princess Leia, my understanding of her life – limited though it may be – suggests this image was not really that far from the truth.  I will miss her.

The Indignant Triers

The Indignant Triers or "the it." 

The Indignant Triers are the rebellious youth in Awk.  Most of the original members of "the it" are common patrons of the Coffee Haus and were present when the local minstrel Irwin Irwin gave his famous copout speech.  He played all of his well-loved tunes about being unique and different and finding a place in the world in spite of your differences.  Then after his show he used his last moments at the microphone to explain to the youth in attendance that getting out of Awk was impossible and shouldn’t be tried because it will never be accomplished.  He said that the people of Awk should accept their place in the world and work in the mines and fields like good citizens.  Then he suggested everyone buy his album.  The crowd was silent until a boy named Oswald Lucien began to boo so hard that Irwin Irwin was startled and dropped his guitar.  Then he said, “How dare you tell us to quit trying to escape?  To quit is to die.  You’re telling us to give up and die.  You should be telling us to keep trying regardless of the odds.  To search for escape is to be Awkward.  We should never quit trying!” After Oswald spoke the kids in attendance began to chant, “Never quit trying!  Never quit trying!” They continued to chant until the owner of the Coffee Haus was forced to close for the night. By the end of the week a handful of the town youth had created "the it," a social group of support where they encourage each other to ignore the pull of acquiescence and to indignantly try to escape the bonds of Awk.  Oswald is considered the founder of the group, though most members disagree about what he looks like or whether he’s ever been to a meeting.  He is rarely seen around Awk, and only by The IT.  Many adults doubt his existence, but the children believe.  They refer to him as “the Reverend.” At least once a week members of The IT venture into the awkwards as a group in an effort to find an escape from Awk. 

Mr Jennifer

Jim Jennifer aka Mr. Jennifer or Bloodless Jen. Visitors to town assume Bloodless Jennifer is a ghost story about some dead girl; akin to Bloody Mary. But Mr. Jennifer is no girl. He acquired the epithet Bloodless from his extremely white complexion. There are rumors about town that Mr. Jennifer is the cause of the many mysterious and unsolved deaths of late, but Mr. Jennifer is not to blame. Jim's sole claim to fame is that he is an amateur garbage collector. Where he takes the garbage he collects none know. 

G. Digger

G. Digger. Digger probably has a real name, but no one remembers it. He's been the town grave digger since before everyone else in town was. While the Awk citizens do seem to have more misfortune than other towns their size, there simply isn't enough grave digging to do to keep Digger in a full time job or to keep him entertained. He just loves to dig. If you have a project that needs a digger, Digger is your man. Especially if the hole you need is about 6'X6'X3'. He won't tell a soul what you fill it with. He's also available for digging things up and relocating them. If you have need of such a task.

History

"Those who do not learn from their history are doomed to repeat it."
                         -George Santayana

This quote by the poet and philosopher George Santayana is probably true.  But the problem as I see it is that people misunderstand the lesson; especially on a macro scale.

What do I mean?  Well, it is true that those societies and countries who do not learn from their history are doomed to repeat it.  But many people believe that the lesson here is to learn your history so that you are not doomed to repeat it.  But that is, unfortunately, not the case.  The fact is you're damned to repeat your history regardless.

I have my degree in History from the University of Georgia, 1998.  I have studied my history.  I have learned lessons from the past.  And when I see society making stupid as shit choices I raise my voice in protest.  I vote against the tide.  But guess what?  You cannot change the tide and you cannot control a frothy mouthed crowd.

When the IT financial bubble of the late 90s was growing financial advisers all around were giving warning.  Those warnings went unheeded and we had a small recession and suddenly there were thousands of computer programmers without jobs.  When the housing bubble of the early 2000s was growing financial advisers all around were giving warning.  Those warnings went unheeded and we had a very large recession, the likes of which we had not seen since the Great Depression.  And thousands of families, mine included, lost their homes.  And for the last 8 years financial advisers have been saying, "Maybe we should do something about this 0% interest rate."  But no one seems to be listening.

All through history historians have stood at the sidelines giving warning and being treated as the old-fuddy-duddy-coot.

"Hey..." he or she would say.  "Hey, guys?  I think we might have already tried this."
And the crowd would rumble and ignore the old coot.
"You guys remember, right?" s/he would shout.  "You remember how we kinda started a war?"
And the crowd would rumble and ignore the old coot.
"You remember that we kinda killed like... tens of thousands of innocent people?"
And the crowd would rumble and ignore the old coot.
"You remember that we lost thousands of our sons and daughters?  You remember that we ended the war worse off than when we started?"
And the crowd would rumble and ignore the old coot.

So yes, if you do not learn from your history you are doomed to repeat it.  AND if you do learn from your history you are doomed to repeat it.  So I think the very sad lesson George Santayana was teaching is, "Don't learn your history because you're doomed to repeat it.  But if you don't know you are repeating it you'll only be an ass.  You won't also feel like one."

Tom Swell

Tom Swell. The Awk town motto: If you're lucky you'll grow out of it" is based on the myth of Tom Swell, the only person ever to leave Awk alive. In the 40s Tom caught a bad case of proportional everythingoma, a rare disease in which every part of your body has cancer and begins to grow at an alarming, but proportional rate. He grew and grew until he was taller than the town tower. He did not die from the cancer, though, he died from his inability to feed his ever growing body. After a year of growing he passed out from malnutrition and hit his head on the stone of freedom just outside of town. He instantly died. However, since his head and part of his torso were beyond the city limits, most of the people of Awk view this as an amazing and successful escape. 

Awk

So I've created this new town. It's called Awk. Here is the sign as you enter the town:

The town of Awk, located in Upper Arik, is where most of my drawn characters reside.  Anyone headed for Awk, or already in Awk, is considered Awkward.  These awkward citizens however, would urge you to find a different place to settle.  Not because they don't like you, but because there is no record or evidence of anyone ever leaving Awk.

I'm not 100% happy with the sign.  I did it in a hurry because my list of characters was growing faster and faster.  I wanted to begin putting them on the internet, but I also wanted readers/viewers to have some context as to where these people lived.  So, I may update the sign in the future, but it is low-pri.

Step

Why is it that some tea bags sink immediately into the hot water while others float on the top, slowly soaking in the water before the take the plunge?

Why is it that this step here:

 – and not any of the ones above it or below it – made me sad?

I’ve heard people say, “I can’t complain.”

I’m jealous of these people.

Unless, of course, they mean that they have plenty to complain about, but they cannot bring themselves to do it because of some kind of psycho-emotional block.  Or because a secret society like Quitters Inc from the 1985 movie Cat’s Eye is listening in on their every word and if they complain Quitters Inc will cut off their wife’s pinky.  Or they live in Russia where if you complain about the wrong thing you die.  I’m not jealous of those people.  I’m jealous of the ones whose life balance tips so far into the side of AWESOME that they have nothing to complain about.

I can complain.  I don’t much because it doesn’t do much good.

Ok, I complain here on this blog all the time.  But that’s because you’re me.  You and I are.  And we are the only one’s reading this blog.

But I don’t complain much outside of this blog.  About once a month or so I let it go on some poor soul.  A friend or my wife.  And they offer kind words of hope and support.  But it all seems like air.  As I’m sure my monthly break downs sound to them.  Periodic rants of how terrible a thing is and promises to leave said thing grow emptier with each passing day that those promises are unkept and those terrible things are not abandoned.  So I have no one but myself to blame that those periodic words of kindness and support seem so meaningless.  Invisible flowers thrown to an imaginary matador.

I went down to my office building’s snack bar.  On the way down I passed the above referenced step.  I looked at it for about a minute, trying to decide why that step made me sad.  Probably because since I vowed to quit this job – years ago – I’ve passed this step almost as many times as I’ve passed days.  Days I could have left this job and sought greener pastures.  Days I could have been doing anything but this job.

Maybe that’s it.  Or maybe it’s because for a split second I thought of making a vow to myself.  Right then and there.  I was going to vow that this would be my last time crossing that step.  And from that moment on I would never cross that step again.  But immediately the coward in me said, “You can’t do it.”  And, “You aren’t ready.”  And finally, “You’ll just be back here tomorrow and you’ll take the elevator.  Or maybe the other staircase.  But eventually you’ll be stepping over this step again.”  And I lost my fleeting resolve.  

And a hair fell out.  And another turned grey.  And I walked down the rest of the stairs that don't make me quite as sad as the one above.

K-Pop

I’m sure it happens to every generation.  Their parents don’t understand – or won’t understand – the things that they are “in to.”  So the kids get frustrated and rebel, embracing more holistically that which the parents don’t understand.  And subsequently they promise to never be so out of touch with their children, but they are anyway.

I was lucky.  My parents were fairly liberal.  They never questioned my or my siblings' music.  They rarely questioned our fashion sense.  Our hair was ours to style.  Pretty much anything to do with culture they let us have our own way.  But then again, unlike my siblings, I was pretty slow to notice anything cultural.  I was so entrenched in video games and comic books that I didn’t notice the culture or counter culture all around me.  I didn’t care about my clothes.  In seventh grade my teacher teased me for wearing bell bottoms.  It was 1987.  I didn’t even comb my hair – no exaggeration – until my sophomore year. And I didn’t discover New Wave music until 1994; arguably ten years after the genre's halcyon days.

Still, I had the occasional parental bout and I had more than a few friends who clashed with their parents.  So I promised I was going to be understanding.  I was never going to be one of those parents who said, “That music is too loud,” or “That movie made no sense,” or “Those clothes are ridiculous.”  I’ve done pretty well so far.

So, long story short, my daughter has gotten into K-Pop.  In case you do not know, K-Pop is an abbreviation for Korean Pop music.  I’ve been made to listen to at least three different bands.  How many songs I could not guess.  I have to admit that the dancing and the music and singing are certainly professional.  It is all appealing to the eyes and ears.

But the lyrics.  Ah the lyrics.

I don’t speak Korean.  Though Korean is the second most spoken language in Georgia, my home state, it has never been one of my top languages to learn.  Now I find that I may be forced to learn the language or I’m going to wind up being one of those parents who – very honestly – says, “I can’t understand a darn thing they’re sayin’!”

Joey's Message

I fell asleep on the bus yesterday.  This is not an unusual occurrence, in fact, typically I try catch about a half hour of sleep each day.  It is, however, unique considering the inordinate amount of caffeine I had consumed at work that day.  I couldn’t stop tapping my foot.  I worried that the tapping might annoy the other bus riders, but when I looked around they all had their headphones inserted deep into their ear sockets.

I tried to close my eyes and force sleep, but the bright sunlight outside turned my dark eyelids a bright array of red, pink and purple.  I closed my eyes tighter, took a deep breath then released.  The colors of my eyelids darkened and pulsed like a rainbow choir.  My skin began to vibrate, out of time with the bus’s vibrations.  Out of time with my heart beat.  The vibrations were cosmic.  They were coming from beyond the earth.  It was the universe sending me a primordial message.

My eyes popped open.  I dried the drool from the corner of my mouth.  What had I been dreaming?  I looked around.  Everyone was plugged in to their own world.  My foot was tapping.

I dug through my bag and found my headphones.  I plugged them into my head and opened the YouTube app on my phone.  I pulled up Queen.  I listened to a song or two, but my thirst for new was not sated.  I pulled up the White Stripes and listened to most of an album, but I needed something else.  I played a round of Candy Crush.  Then I opened YouTube back up and found Joey Ramone’s album “Don’t Worry About Me,” released just after he died of lymphoma.  I started listening to it.  “What a Wonderful World” started playing and I could hear the rainbow choir in the background.  Red and purple flashed in my eyelids and my skin began to receive more vibrations.  Then everything faded.

Framed and matted in darkness I sat in a small, softly lit, green and mint-green room.  A distant sounding music played over the speakers.  I was sitting in a chair, but Joey Ramone was sitting on the edge of the table with this feet in another chair.  He was hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped.  He was situated perpendicular to me, but his head was turned in my direction.  I looked deep into his red shades and said, “I won’t disappoint you.”

I woke up under Spaghetti Junction.  The bus was moving along at a smooth clip, but something was wrong.  My connection to the universe was broken.  My antenna is rusty from disuse.  I tried to go back to sleep, but my foot would not stop tapping.  I started the album over, but that didn't help.  My eyes would not stay closed and my skin would not receive the vibrations.  I was in a spiritual dead zone.

What had Joey asked of me?  What had I promised?  The universe had only sent me a piece of the message.  I want to do the right thing.  I don’t want to disappoint Joey.  But I don’t know what to do.  Or maybe I do know what to do.  Maybe I’ve always known, but I’m afraid.

You're a Hairy, Wizard.

Things are not…

Things are…

Sigh.

So yesterday I got my hair cut.

Background:  When I was 22 I went to a barber who could not speak English well.  She had barely said three words I could understand until and they were these: “You go bald.”  At this point she had been cutting my hair for about ten minutes, so I was confused as to why she suddenly thought I was going bald.  At first I thought she had clipped a tuft of hair too short, but no.  She was rooting around in my roots as though she was a hair pathologist and she said it again.  “You go bald!”

This is not something that I think warrants a building wide proclamation.  I tried to quiet her down by assuring her that my “part” in the back had always been larger than normal.  I said it in a tone that I thought was appropriate for two strangers sharing the temporarily intimate relationship of barber to barbed.  I was hoping she would match my volume.

“No!  You go bald!”

“I’m not going bald,” I said, slightly louder.  But I was.  When I saw my wedding pictures after we returned from our honeymoon I realized two things that depressed the crap out of me.  I was 40 pounds over-weight and I was definitely (going) bald.  No fair.  23 years old.

There were signs.  Genetically, I mean.  They say men inherit their hair from their mothers, but that is bull shit.  My mother has a lion’s mane.  One of my uncles on her side is going bald, but he’s in his sixties.  So I reject that pseudo-science.  My father, however, has wispy thin hair.  You know that hair that babies are born with?  That’s what my father has.  My grandmother’s was even thinner.  That said, my father still has all of his, wispy or not.  His is also not gray.

When I was one and twenty,
I heard a wise man say,
Grow your beard out, it will look cool,
And hippie chicks will think you’re totes rad.

(I changed some of the words to that A. E. Housman poem, but I'm pretty sure this is gist of it.)

At 21 I grew my beard out.  It was a deep red with a blonde mustache.  No lie.  When I was thirty I grew it out again and found that all of that autumn color had turned an early winter.  Also my sideburns were showing some gray, which was fine because I kept them cut pretty short.  A Gray-beard at 30.

Which brings us to yesterday.  I’m getting my hair cut and the barber is using the electric razor to cut the sides really short.  Then it happened.  I don’t know whence the tuft of hair came – except that it wasn’t from the bald spot on the back of my head – but a small tuft of white-WHITE hair fell into my lap.  Then another.  My early winter is turning into a deep winter snow! 

I’m apparently a wizard.  I just didn’t know it until now.  I need to get a pointy hat.

Cut Off

To the person in the white truck who cut me off as I tried to turn left across a dangerous road... I apologize. You were just taking advantage of a rare opening in the traffic on your side. You could not have known that an opening on my side was right behind you. And, even though I felt like I had the right-of-way, it was probably just as much your opportunity as it was mine. 

So, please forgive me for flipping you the bird. I haven't gotten much sleep lately. Also my diet is at an all time low. 5 hours a night and Little Debbie's have an adverse effect on the rational mind. While my skin is "maturing" beyond the control of Neutrogena my maturity level has found the fountain of youth. I'm just glad I distracted my daughter and she did not see my ill-advised sign language. 

But I shouldn't make excuses. My actions are my own and there is no excuse for my finger tantrum. Please, if you see him, don't tell Jesus. This is, by no means, the lowest level I have dipped to, but I have no idea at this point how many single straws my camel is carrying. It has to be quite a load. 

I will try to do better in the future. I hope my actions did not spoil your day. 

Trucks and, to a Lesser Degree, Buses

There are occasions where I am inspired to write poetry.  Usually in the darker parts of the year when the sun crawls out of bed just long enough to count as a day, then retires to the south before the out of school are out of work.  For we who are solar powered it can be a soul dragging period.  So I write poetry.  And sometimes I write poetry to make myself laugh.

In truth, I cannot remember if the following poem was written when I was in a dark or light place.  Either way, poetry magazine rejected it.

Trucks and, to a Lesser Degree, Buses

I hate trucks.

Next to the sky scraper,

Tall and majestic,

With its sleek granite sides,

Reaching for heaven

And pulling my eyes with it

Into the skies,

I almost find peace.

The awful noise

Of the truck

And its gagging

Anti-air

Yanks me from my reverent

Wonderment

At our feats of engineering.

And I think,

We have so far to go.

I hate trucks.

Buses are scarcely better.

Headphones cannot defend

Against their noise.

Like conservative radio

It seeps in

And ruins everything.

The screaming behemoths!

And they always pass

At the most poignant,

Significant part of the song.

I could rewind it,

But the moment is lost.

Submission Declined

So, update:

I submitted my first short to Frederator Studios for consideration as an Internet short animation.  It was declined.  I have to say, I agree with every reason they rejected it.  In fact, as I was reading it I kept thinking to myself, “STUPID! Why did you do that?”  lol

It is what it is.  A failure is a wonderful learning experience.  Unlike just about anyone else in any other medium who has denied my work – and I’ve been denied by some of the very best in many mediums – Frederator actually took the time to tell me why they were denying me.  That’s what’s called Constructive Criticism.  I’m looking at you, Poetry Magazine.

Years ago the webzine Ideomancer also gave me really good advice for a short story I submitted.  Back then I was an idiot and refused to take the editor’s advice and alter my story.  Who knows what could have happened if I had.  But aside from that editor and the people/person at Frederator who reviewed my idea, most places give you nothing.  Some don’t even give you a rejection.

What Frederator gave me was not just one thing, but many things I need to consider.  It’s much more than I could post here without going way into detail about the idea I suggested.  I may do it in the future as a “How Not To” guide.  But for now I’m gonna ruminate on their advice and see if I can work up another of my ideas into a story that is more in line with what Frederator is looking for.

Sigh.  I’m gonna go cry in a corner for about 15 minutes.  Then I’ll grow up and start fresh.

Here’s a pic of a goblin stippling project I’m working on.  I’ll drown my sorrows in lots of dots.

Hungry for a Career Change

There is no way to make my job interesting.  I take statistical information – demographic, educational, employment and financial – that our customers don’t want to give and I format them in ways that my bosses don’t understand to produce reports they won’t agree with and then will turn around misrepresent to their federal counterparts who also don’t understand the numbers, but then turn around and use to tell the country that everything is fine and awful at the same time.  By the end of the grapevine the data the people hear about is so far away from how it began that we could tell a person about themselves and they probably wouldn’t know it.

Ok, that’s an exaggeration.  The data doesn’t really change.  But the way it is interpreted does.  I once had the department Public Relations guy come to me about a report and ask, “Can I use these numbers, where it says we only put 15 people to work, and say that this program is failing and that is why we are closing it?”

“Well, the program is failing because the Commissioner sent out a memo that the field is no longer allowed to spend any time on the program."

“Yes, but I won’t be saying that.  Can I say that these numbers show the program isn’t working?”

“Why doesn’t the Commissioner just say he doesn’t want to continue funding the very successful program his predecessor from a different political party started?  Why doesn’t he just tell people the program they loved and that helped them to get jobs has been discontinued?  Why doesn’t the Commissioner just admit that he’s a douche bag?”

Ok, I didn’t say the last section.  And the program wasn't that successful.  But it was moderately successful.  And I did tell the PR guy he couldn’t say that our numbers meant the program was failing.  At least, not from any data that I would be giving him.

This is not the fault of the program.  I am not a fatalist type who would tell you that the system is broken and should be revamped or privatized.  And I’m certainly not for closing down the government.  I think our system is invaluable to the people.  I just think the people don’t really know all of the things that the government does for them and so they don’t have faith that it can do anything right.  This is the government’s number 1 failure.

See?  Dull.  Dull as shit, no matter what I do.  I couldn’t make this exciting if I were to have naked women set it on fire.

Also, I hate it.  Not because it’s dull, but because… well, a ton of reasons.  But mostly because it just isn’t me.  And also because it's dull. 

I think my bosses sense this.  They say things like, “What would we do without you?” and “Only you have the brains to figure this stuff out!”  But it’s all flattery.  The truth is, when I took a leave of absence a few years ago to nurse my wife back to health, they did just fine without me.  They hated it, but they did fine.  And I think they got a taste of what it would be like without me.  A person can eat dog food and live.  It would be a miserable existence, but they can do it.

I don’t want to eat dog food anymore.  I want to eat people food.  I want to eat at a five star restaurant to see if it really is that much better than a two star restaurant.  I skeptical.  I want to eat the stuff they make on the Food Network.  Ooh, especially those wonderful desserts and weirdly flavored ice creams.  And succulent meats that make you say words like " succulent" and "savory" and “unctuous.”

Ok, I got a little off track there.  My metaphor turned literal.  It happens.

But you get the picture.  I want a better job.  With better pay.  So I can afford better food!