Saturday, May 31, 2003

Just back from Jolie's Jack & Jill thing, which was as much fun as a BBQ in the rain could possibly have been. Drank my first beer in weeks and hung out with a jacked-up seven-year-old named Jacob and smoked many cigarettes and had a brief chat with Chris Gregory's dad, which was just uncomfortable. I haven't talked to Chris for, literally, years. Not since before he went nutty religious and headed for the west coast. But now I'm gonna be living not so far from him (Kent being just a little ride from Seattle), so I guess if I'm gonna get in touch with him, now would be the time.

We'll see. I have a hard enough time maintaining the constant relationships, never mind the weird ones that went south years ago.

Which reminds me; gotta call Al and Jen.

Right, out. Little drunk and need to...

Shit, I dunno. I'm just going.

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$170.00 + tax and I've got a new windshield. Gotta do it. The cracks I made at the bottom when I installed the wiper motor are coming into conjunction with the cracks I made at the top when I was whacking it to get the wipers moving before I replaced the motor, and I'm just waiting for playing-card size pieces of glass to fall in my lap when I accelerate down the highway. And there's a part of me that's looking forward to that, but not when it rains. If it rains, then it'll rain in my face, and I don't have wipers on my motherfucking glasses, which means that I'll crash and die, and the time for me to get excited about crashing and dying is looooooooooooooong past.


So, yeah, luckily last week was a good week, paycheck-wise, which means I've got the bread to go buy new glass. Not 'till Monday morning, though, which means I've gotta take the run down to Long Island today with a windshield that's on the hovering cusp of blowing into my face.



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Friday, May 30, 2003

Just back. Not so bad as I'd feared, but the Whatstheirname brothers fucked up easy plot shit left and right. You shouldn't write a script that places a higher priority on spacing out your action sequences than developing a storyline that's got more to it than the fantasies you had as an 11-year-old.

And, man, if what's going on 'tween Keanu and Carrie is what passes for a relationship in the minds of these boys, then it's no real wonder there's this high-profile divorce going on. You can't fake love and passion, apparently, even if one of you's a passable actor.

Right, out. The chase scene on the freeway was cool, although a bit overwrought.

But you know all this shit already, don't you?

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I dunno if anyone's paying attention, but if they are, I'm out for the night. Going to see Reloaded (yeah, yeah, weeks behind the curve, as with everything else), but I'm sure I'll post something at some point this evening. I've heard terrible things 'bout the flick, so it'll probably have something to do with that. Yahoo.

God. I hope they don't show Keanu's ass.

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Thursday, May 29, 2003

Okay, here's the revised deal:
Gonna, D & I, do a roundrobin thing where he starts with an image and sends it to me. I'll post it, then within 48 hours I'll write a vignette that relates to it. Intended to be about the Brass City, so who knows where/who'll it'll entail. The fucking place is so huge, y'know?


NO DISCUSSION. Whatever's posted leads to the next piece of the work. D & Me aren't allowed to discuss it in anything but the most surface way. "Hey, cool pic." Along those lines.

8 WEEKS. Artificial time limits, or the thing'll just be a wank that goes on forever without any kind of value. 8 pics, 8 vignettes, 1 story. Hopefully.

That's pretty much it. I think I can make a separate page to post the thing on. If not, then it stays on the main page and there's a lot of scrolling involved. If it's looking good within the first few episodes, I'll go around and see if I can get folks to link to it, spread the joy. If it's crappy, well, then, shit. I'll just cry or drink or something.

That's all I can think of right now. Hope it's worthwhile. Stay tuned.

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Just testing the new stuff. Kowloon Walled City, shortly before they tore it down. Part of the inspiration for the Brass City, although mine was assembled by corporations and felled by gangs, while the Walled City was built by the underground and flattened by the government. Maybe not exactly polar opposites, but, hey, this is art, not fucking science.

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In much more plebian news, the biceps are looking pretty okay these days. Gimme another six months and I'll be fucking action hero...

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Jesus. How stupid is the FCC? Check out this and this. Like I'll keep saying: THEY'RE LYING TO YOU.

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The cops just don't fucking get it. When you've got a job, you've got a job, no matter what . Couriers should get free passes to do just about any damned stupid thing in their cars.

They should get their own lanes on the highway, too. And have permits to machinegun any non-couriers who try to use them. Or at least exact some sort of tribute from them.


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MY MANTRA: "The Cross Bronx is slammed all the way from the GWB to Co-Op City with a police accident investigation closing down the lanes to 80/90, forcing all Upperdeck traffic onto 46...watch out on the Whitestone for construction in the right lane, you'll have better luck on the Throg's Neck...there's an illegal truck on the FDR southbound, guess nobody told him his wasn't allowed there, and traffic's backed up all the way from the 20's to 42nd street...watch out on the LIE eastbound where an accident is taking out two lanes...it's Murphy's Law on the Connecticut Turnpike this afternoon, with a tractor-trailer jackknifing Northbound at exit 24 in Fairfield just as a cleared accident was starting to ease up traffic Southbound at exit 25...backups go all the way down to exit 16 in Norwalk..."

My prayer cycle runs every ten minutes and in between I listen to the liberal fops talking trash about Jr. and doing in-depth stories about 3-card Monte dealers living the hard life in the slums of Mogadishu and the practioners of the long-lost art of playing music that needs to be explained for 20 minutes before it's used to twist up your eardrums like old tinfoil.

This is not meditative, at all.

This is an attempt to distill the macro from the micro, as the liberal fops have taken micro to an extreme that I have a difficult time believing began as deliberate. Also, I have to wonder why the effete intellectuals who run and listen to the liberal fops assume that Brit news is somehow more correct than American news, just because the Brits have accents and talk trash about everyone but the Brits.

Personally, I'm assuming they both answer to the same class of person (if not the exact same person), and that none of it should be trusted.

You know that. Act upon it. Read between the lines. Realize that ALL OF THEM ARE LYING TO YOU. They don't love you, they don't need you, they don't care about you. They want your dollars and your silent consent. They already own the planet. They just want you to understand it.

Don't throw bombs, children, but be prepared to.

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Wednesday, May 28, 2003

And Back
Okay, new deal, for anybody who might've stumbled aross this, or for like the two people I've told about it.

Starting like Monday, Tuesday, D's gonna drop a drawing a week on me, and I'm giving myself two days to come up with some kind of coherent story to go with it. Most of them'll probably center on the Brass City (at D's desire; he's so damned happy that I'm calling the blog Brass City Static), and since that's such a big, unexplored world there should be pretty much fucking endless stories to tell.

I've asked D to come up with new people, but I'm figuring that he'll want to revisit Boop and Tycho and Alabaster and the rest, at least occasionally. And that's cool. I miss those guys.

Here's a Boop scene that never went anywhere, just to get shit started:

Boop, ah, Jesus, Boop. You wretched little girl, dirty fingers with ragged nails scrabbling for produce off the edge of a Pakistani’s convenience store display, oranges, apples, tomatoes, mangos pinched in a fast walkby, dropped into the grimy depths of the pocket of your torn London Fog tweed. Boop, fuck, your hair, hacked off with a rusting pocketknife, half-witted attempt to emulate seen-on-the-street fashion, delirious with malnutrition, starvation hallucinations in front of a cracked mirror in a forgotten bathroom in the bottom depths of Riverside Station.

Your hands, honey, your sweet young hands. Cracked with cold, scarred, knuckle-abraded. Hands with palms as rough as a construction worker’s, black lines of grime trapped under the nails, chapped, raw, pale.

Almost too much to look at already, but Oh God, your face, Boop. Smooth baby cheeks shiny with grease, the fine grime of street life smudged into the angles of your jaw, defining your fine, almost avian bone structure, darkening and shadowing as you clench your teeth against fast cold wind in the nighttime or the cheery jeers of passing young bucks. Your big black anime eyes bloodshot ‘cause you can’t sleep easy on the street, crusted in the corners ‘cause you just don’t care anymore. Nobody to keep clean for.

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Okay, back
Wretched attempt at fitness. 600-some-odd calories and not quite two-and-a-half miles. Fucking pathetic. I should have my legs taken from me for lack of interest, although I've got that big thigh muscle kicking (what's the name of that one that goes along the outside front?), and that's always cool.

Now, if only there was something to be done about the ass.

Been reading Thomas Friedman's Longitudes and Attitudes and I'm not sure if I should be impressed with his insights into the Muslim world and the underlying cultural differences that so completely divide the Middle East and the West, or if I should despise him for the smug way he points out just how well he can see them and how everybody should just listen to him. Dunno. Lemme finish it and I'll have a better idea. Kid's got a champion 'stache, if nothing else. Check the link.

Just woolgathering tonight, I think. I've got some homework that I'm not doing and some cleaning that I'm purposely ignoring and this is, I think, all that's going to pass for writing tonight. It's the fucking job, I'm starting to think. It's about as unstimulating as a job can be, really. Getting lost on Long Island was the most engaging part of my day, and all that really did was show me that five out of six gas stations in Garden City DON'T CARRY FUCKING MAPS. Explain that to me, if you can. Do these jackasses not realize that there are essentials that every gas station needs to have beyond a rack of Frito-Lay and a cooler full of Pepsi? And, of course, the one gas station that DID carry maps was on the corner of the street I was looking for. Bought a map anyway, a street index for Nassau County. No way I'm getting lost out there again. Those fucking roads are a nightmare and everyone drives a goddamned SUV. I feel like I'm staring at axles instead of back windows when I'm stuck in a line of traffic in front of yet another mall.

Oh cool. Junkyard Wars is on. Racecars tonight. Warren would be so angry, with me here watching tv instead of jacking the stereo and popping pills and writing about goth bisex fucking and mutilated bodies, but, well, fuck him. All that's in the CD player right now is the Buzzcocks and the latest Deacons mix and I'm too fucking sore to go hunt down something better to put in there. Besides, Me and Rich and the rest of the kids screaming out the beginning of 'Brooklyntown' wakes me right the fuck up in the mornings, and I can't be certain that anything else would do that.

Man, I could so very much smoke many cigarettes right now. I still can't believe I was silly enough to quit. Writing without smoking is like...

Shit. It's just wrong, is all.

Out. Maybe I'll catch up later.

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And, jeez, yeah, from now on Jen will be referred to as either Buttons or Punkinbutt, depending on mood. This is at her request.

Never tell yer girl about yer blog unless you feel the need to have change thrust upon you.

See how long the above line lasts.

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Oh yeah, yesterday, saw a Live Bait Vending Machine outside some shack up by Bethel. I love this fucking planet.

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Just a quickie 'fore I jump on the treadmill:

Today, coming back to CT over the Throg's Neck, a thunderstorm crossing over the Bronx, nothing in front of me but gray haze, the bridge's landing, tollbooths, the blastscape of the fifth borough lost in amorphous fog, my wagon and a thousand angry semis plunging forward into a swirl of the nothing at the bottom of the northward arc, speeding up, grinning, blowing airhorns and riding hard, thinking oblivion and hoping for fantasy.


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Tuesday, May 27, 2003

Still up, and thinkin'
So, yeah, still up. Jen won't be home from school for another hour or so, so I'm up, watching, kinda, Lupin III and finishing up making notes for a pal's story.
Keep going back to Warren Ellis' stuff, the web stuff and the books, trying to see if I can suss out the mechanics of the writing, of the art of the word, y'know? The shit's mightily elusive. The little pukes like this are easy; first draft off the top of my head. But the actual stories, the narratives that you can give even the slightest bit of of a fuck about, those are rough. I've got, still, one of a half or so issues of what should be a damned fine comic, and I'm hung up. Not on plot points. I've got those falling out of my ass. No, I'm hung up on why the hell I should care about any of these little people I've made up. 'Cause I do, to some degree, but I haven't got the slightest idea why. And if I don't know, nobody else will know why THEY should, and in the end, it's all gonna suck, 'cause ain't nobody gonna care about anyone and in the end it'll just be guns and blood and the occasional bit of t&a, and hell's bells, y'all, if yer lookin' for violence and porn, the web's got your name all over it, doesn't it?
Right, I'm out. Sleep good.

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Blah. Thank God I don't pay taxes anymore. I'd hate to be funding this silliness.

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Welcome to my Tuesday, children
Yeah, okay, so I'm here, closing in on 9:00 and it's been one more day of driving and driving and watching the cracks in my windshield getting longer and more erratic and I'm wondering just how long it's going to be before all the cracks get together and spiderweb the whole damned windshield and I can't resist the urge to put my fist into it, just so that I can think, in my latter years, "Yeah, when I was a kid I punched out the windshield of a blue Mercury station wagon."

And that'll be funny as all hell until I actually do it and misjudge either my punching strength or the remaining integrity of the windshield and end up with my fist dangling through a hole in the glass and little hacksaw, jigsaw bits of old windshield digging at the arteries and veins in my wrist and you just KNOW that this kind of shit'll happen on some fucking backroad and I'll have to drive 20 miles to find someone with a sawzall and some bandages and every bump I hit will make the glass dig deeper into my wrist and I'll be bleeding all over my dashboard and my $15 Eddy messenger polo and my fucking khakis and be cursing myself out for sheer stupidity but will still be checking it out 'cause, really, how often do you see something like that?

And even when it's all okay and I've gotten my wrist out of the windshield and the blood out of my shirt I'll still have a goddamned big hole in the windshield and I'll drive it around like that for months, telling myself that I don't have the bread to get a new one and every time it rains the windshield wipers will push all kinds of water onto the front seats and my legs so I'll end up driving around with a plastic tarp in my lap or some kind of nonsense, and when I get out to Seattle it'll, obviously, just get worse as the Emerald City pisses all over me and Jen'll say nothing but, "Well, I said you should just get a new windshield," and she'll be aggravatingly, utterly correct and that'll just make it worse, and convince me to try and find some other way around it, just so that she's not so utterly, smugly correct.

The Travel Channel is showing a show on the Top Ten Truck Stops in the world. They're showing it, and I'm watching it. There's a sickness here.

I need to go read about nutrition now.

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