Journal of Fear and Hope (2011)

With a Bang
December 4, 2011

The problem with the end of the world is that no matter what scenario you imagine, there's always that messy clean up afterward. Corpses to round up, zombies to shotgun, vampires to stake. The list of post-apocalyptic chores tends to get pretty distasteful. Can't you people just disappear and leave me alone to read? I've been hoarding prescription glasses for just that occasion. And invent an electricity source I won't have to upkeep. And figure out a way to can pizza so it stays fresh for decades. You can take the mosquitoes and gnats with you. But leave me one of those Star Trek easy-to-use sickbay machines you just walk into and it cures your blood poisoning and mends your broken bones. Leave the keys to your cars in the ignitions, but please clear the streets before you go. And tidy your houses up a bit. Maybe class up your movie collections a little. I'm gonna want to watch some foreign flicks, but I don't have to have to row across a couple oceans to find them. Maybe you could build bridges over those, or step up research on the transporter technology you guys have been talking about for years. You'd think if you were gonna leave me here on this planet alone, you'd at least have the decency to make it easy for me.

On this Terrestchul Ball
November 20, 2011

Some years back, a tornado touched down in a couple of places in Nashville, TN. In between those two touchpoints was a Baptist church. The ministers and the members and the media called it a miracle. In 1999, Hurricane Floyd made landfall on the coast of North Carolina. It dumped rain on top of an already drenched area. The Tar River flooded, and the town of Princeville, NC was almost entirely destroyed. It was underwater for ten days. I drove through Princeville after the water had receded. I saw broken houses sitting slanted on their foundations. But I saw no people. Everyone in town had fled. Nobody called that a miracle, though it was a result of the same sort of meteorological manifestation as the event in Nashville. So what exactly constitutes an act of god? When people are saved by happenstance, or when people die by accident? If we attribute every weather event to the hand of god, god has shown himself in recent years to be quite a bastard.

Anyway, I wrote this song in response to what I saw in Princeville. I recorded the ominous backing track years ago. Pulling it off the storage disk yesterday, I was struck by how much I liked it, weird and noisy as it is. I didn't like the words as much though, so I rewrote and re-recorded them. So here you have a collaboration between me from ten years ago, me from five years after that, and the me that I am now. I'm glad we can get along.

It's More Fun to Compute
November 7, 2011

My relationship with video games has changed over the years. At first, the Atari was a toy I shared with family and friends. Something to do. Then as video games grew and matured, they became touchstones for myself and my like-minded close friends. We loved exploring and playing in the woods, so The Legend of Zelda was an immediate favorite with its forest mazes and extensive maps. Games like Dragon Warrior and Bard's Tale became extensions of our tabletop role playing sessions. We gamed on our own at home then met at school to share what we found. When I had to move away and leave my friends, video games were a way I could continue those explorations on my own. Though I was alone in the basement, there were always plenty of adventures to be had. Now I don't have much time to game. But when I do, the frustrations of work and the expectations of adulthood melt away. For a short time anyway. I know I can't go back to those carefree days of youth when my biggest responsibility was to clean my room. But once in a while, I can take a vacation to that always welcoming digital world.

Gooble-goble
October 30, 2011

I know a lot of people, grownups even, who are really into dressing up for Halloween. I loved getting a costume as a kid just like everyone else, but as I got older, the urge left me. These folks, however, put serious time, effort, and money into their costumes. Zombies, Doctor Who characters, Cobra Commander, comic book heroes. Meticulous in every detail down to the props that character would carry. I guess the idea is to express your individuality by masquerading as someone you like or identify with. But it also seems to me that these folks, especially those who attend SF and comic book conventions, dress up to be accepted. "Oh, you're dressed as Dr. Clayton Forrester? I love that show, too. You're just like me." It's strange to dress as someone else in order to be accepted as yourself.

How Green Were My Eyes
October 22, 2011

In writing about Neil Gaiman, I mention being jealous of his artistry. I play it up a bit. I'd like to think what I feel is more respect for a fellow writer than anything else. I don't get jealous of other writers because I don't hang around very many. But I do hang around a lot of stand up comedians, and sometimes, that green-eyed monster rears its ugly head. There's a local free paper in Asheville that runs a poll every year of favorite businesses, places, performers, etc. They have a Best Local Comedian category, and guess what, this year it wasn't me. Not that I truly deserve that honor. To be honest, that title should go to Art Sturtevant for all the support, work, and love he's put into the comedy community. But did I hope to see my own name not only in that list of favorite comedians but at the top? Sure did. Can't deny it. But just yesterday I listened to the Carlos Mencia episodes of Marc Maron's podcast. Mencia's need to be the best comedian in the world has left him friendless and reviled by almost all his peers. There's a lesson there. I recognize my own talent as a writer and a comic. But no one can ever be the best at anything. Someone better will always come along. Even Babe Ruth had his records broken. So I won't even say I'm good. I'm just me and I'm working. And that's good.

A Poison Forest
October 14, 2011

Sometimes you need to scream in furious anger. And while the nightly news offers many outlets for your rage, the futility of yelling at The Glass Teat just leaves you exhausted and depressed. So do what I do. Choose your favorite anger representative and scream along with him or her. Is it Trent Reznor? Tracy Bonham? John Fogerty? Here are my favorites.

Hey, those folks occupying Wall Street, they sure are angry aren't they? This has been an angry year. Egyptians and Libyans overthrew their governments, tossed out their leaders like yesterday's tuna. People are pissed at bankers and businessmen for making millions in bonuses while actively driving their own companies into the dirt. Folks are mad all over. I got mad at my phone a few days ago. It took forever to connect to the Internet. And when it finally did, the the goddamned media player wouldn't play my favorite podcast all the way through. It would reach a certain point and then restart at the beginning. And when I tried to fast forward past the place where it snagged, I would go too far and miss minutes at a time. It was torture. I will be starting my own Occupy movement this weekend. It will be called Occupy the Recliner. I am dedicated to this cause. I have books and snacks already sitting on the coffee table, episodes of Mystery Science Theater set to go. But I won't be using my phone. At least not to go online.

My Words Fly Up, My Thoughts Remain Below
March 5, 2011

Here, in this chapter, we meet a character called Rags. Of all the characters I've ever written, he's my favorite. He speaks in clipped bits of pop culture: song lyrics, literary quotations, advertising slogans, lines from movies and TV shows. This trait also allows me to flourish his speech with poetic twinings that border on the purple. Rags offers me a break from having to write semi-realistic dialog. If you have actual, true-to-life dialog, you end up with people discussing their jobs, what they ate for lunch or saw on TV. This maybe insightful, but it's far from exciting. (Note, I liked Bubble, but the dialog was dry and forgettable. It was the situation that captured me.) On the other hand, when you have people on roller skates speaking in iambic pentameter, it's just goddamned ridiculous. So we have realistic dialog in a realistic setting, and fantastic dialog in a fantastic setting. Neither works that well. What I'm trying to do in this story is meld both worlds. Rags is homeless, dependent on TV and pop culture, but full of poetry. He's a walking Tom Waits song.

But I Like It
January 23, 2011

Rock-and-roll has always been my muse, my motivator, the sound track to my stupid, little life. The first band to impress itself deeply upon my psyche was Living Colour. I heard "Cult of Personality," and my world changed. Before that, I listened to whatever was on the radio and accepted it as good simply because it was there. Then Living Colour kicked out that blazing guitar riff and sang about fallen heroes, about politicians, about the Frankenstein's monster of the Media. It was a revelation. You could sing about those things and still rock hard? Suddenly, all the songs about good times and girls and parties meant exactly fuck all. So why isn't "Cult of Personality" on this list? For the same reason I wouldn't list myself as a favorite writer or comedian. It's a song that exists within me now, and I can't disect it anymore than I can my own heart.