Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Dreams of a tectonic future
Well, after this all I need is a tsunami and a tornado to complete my set.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Run Silent Run Deep
Well kids I've been downgraded to 32 hours a week, which means I can't pay my bills and it's time to look for a new job. Don't know what's going to happen, but I ask indulgence while I shore some bits up. I have SDCC this weekend and should have a good idea about the comic going forward or not. I also have samples out for a possible polish job. It's not big money, but it's money. I'll also be moving back to Venice,CA at the end of August to save money on rent. I'm moving into the back house of my friends who kindly put me up two years ago when I got here. Rent is cheaper and if I can save enough per month, I can move back into the undignified world of PAship. Please bear with. It's going to be a bumpy ride over the next few months, but what can I say, I'm a survivor, so keep in touch. I'll do my best to do the same. Worst case scenario, I'll put up a few posts along the way, but blog is not priority now.
Be Good, Do Good Work, Keep in Touch.
Probability says I'll actually post more during this time, but just in case.
Be Good, Do Good Work, Keep in Touch.
Probability says I'll actually post more during this time, but just in case.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Parental Units
My parents are in town this weekend, so there will probably be even less than the current no activity around here. When they leave maybe I'll post funny pictures of them posing in front of things or something. Until then you can amuse yourself with this.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
In Treatment
Yeah, I'm late to the game as usual. Get on board. You may just learn something about yourself. I'm 7 eps in and I know I've been enlightened. Good stuff.
Dr. Horrible's Sing-along Blog
See it free this week, then go give Joss Whedon your money. Click on the picture above to access. Go now. He needs your money to make more funny.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Generation Kill
Just watched the first ep of GENERATION KILL and from what I saw this is going to be one of the more fascinating and honest looks at US soldiers in combat. In a weird way it feels like a modern version of BAND OF BROTHERS. I say modern because it’s the Invasion of Iraq and also because like BOB did, it captures the sort of pop zeitgeist of the soldiers of the time. And also like BOB, it’s character driven rather than action driven. I really look forward to the subsequent episodes. While I have seen few of the slew of Iraq Invasion shows and movies, this one feels really honest, and with a luminary like David Simon attached, I know it will be above all as honest as possible. I should also say that Ed Burns, not the actor and director, but the the former Baltimore Police Officer that Simon has mentored as a writer, is also attached and he co-wrote the first ep with Simon and I think it’s probably Burns inherent understanding, as a former officer, that informs the reality of the situations as well as the comradery that groups in these situations share. Either way, I suggest you check it out.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
The League of the Pen
No one knew what they called themselves, all they knew was that they were together, a gang. Gang was probably too harsh of a word for them though. Maybe they were a collective or even a group. But like a gang they had tattoos, small black splotches where they held their pens, and contrary to popular belief they were actual tattoos and not just ink from a pen temporarily staining their skin.
Outside of the bar, no one had ever seen them together, which is why the gang moniker was probably inapt. But they met once a week like clockwork. They even arrived in the same order every time. They all wore jeans and sneakers with black tee-shirts. The only way their wardrobe differed was in their selection of blazer. The leader, or so everyone thought, was the one wearing the tan blazer with the leather elbow patches. There was something about the way his eyes rested under his thick black framed glasses and the way he licked the beer foam from his mustache before it could drip on his beard.
If you had the patience to sit silently in a booth near their table you could glean bits of their conversation as it penetrated the small and silent moments between the songs from the jukebox. They played the same songs every time, but varied the order of play. The music was mostly undulating tone poems by bands like Sigur Ros, Radio Head and even Pink Floyd. These undulating pulses of noise, discordant from natural sounds masked their conversation as they spoke to each other in a non modulated tone like they were delivering dialogue in a Hal Hartley film.
Rumor, always makes for great story and when one of the rumors started to spread, we never saw them again. It seemed from what we could glean from the disparate stories that at least one of them had been involved in a coup d'etat. The League of the Pen, as we called them was engaged on a regular basis with writing the things that changed history. In this particular story, one of them had been hired to write a note from the President of some third world back water country, to the General of the army of the same. His assignment was simple, set off a coup d'etat with less than 10 words in a personal note. There was already tension there, or though the story says, and the CIA was waiting in the wings.
When the letter arrived at the General's private residence, it is said that he didn't question it for a second. He looked at the envelope, laughed and pulled the cigar he was smoking out of his mouth. He opened the letter, then sat silently after he read it, rage building on his face. In less than twelve hours, the country was his and in less than six after that it was ours.
While what exactly was written on the card is greatly in dispute, there are those that say the writer did the unthinkable in only six words.
I want to...
Outside of the bar, no one had ever seen them together, which is why the gang moniker was probably inapt. But they met once a week like clockwork. They even arrived in the same order every time. They all wore jeans and sneakers with black tee-shirts. The only way their wardrobe differed was in their selection of blazer. The leader, or so everyone thought, was the one wearing the tan blazer with the leather elbow patches. There was something about the way his eyes rested under his thick black framed glasses and the way he licked the beer foam from his mustache before it could drip on his beard.
If you had the patience to sit silently in a booth near their table you could glean bits of their conversation as it penetrated the small and silent moments between the songs from the jukebox. They played the same songs every time, but varied the order of play. The music was mostly undulating tone poems by bands like Sigur Ros, Radio Head and even Pink Floyd. These undulating pulses of noise, discordant from natural sounds masked their conversation as they spoke to each other in a non modulated tone like they were delivering dialogue in a Hal Hartley film.
Rumor, always makes for great story and when one of the rumors started to spread, we never saw them again. It seemed from what we could glean from the disparate stories that at least one of them had been involved in a coup d'etat. The League of the Pen, as we called them was engaged on a regular basis with writing the things that changed history. In this particular story, one of them had been hired to write a note from the President of some third world back water country, to the General of the army of the same. His assignment was simple, set off a coup d'etat with less than 10 words in a personal note. There was already tension there, or though the story says, and the CIA was waiting in the wings.
When the letter arrived at the General's private residence, it is said that he didn't question it for a second. He looked at the envelope, laughed and pulled the cigar he was smoking out of his mouth. He opened the letter, then sat silently after he read it, rage building on his face. In less than twelve hours, the country was his and in less than six after that it was ours.
While what exactly was written on the card is greatly in dispute, there are those that say the writer did the unthinkable in only six words.
I want to...
Saturday, July 05, 2008
The Wizard is moving
The Wizard story now has it's own home. Update notices will appear on this site, but the text itself will reside on the other site. I've recreated all the original posts with the exact date and time so I can track the monthly output as well. All of the comments are turned off for the first 20 posts since we've already been there. You can either click on the picture at the end of the nav bar under the blog header, far right square with the wizard standing in it) or click HERE and book mark it.
Thanks for reading.
Thanks for reading.
Wizard Part XX
PART I PART II PART III PART IV PART V PART VI PART VII PART VIII PART IX PART X PART XI PART XII PART XIII PART XIV PART XV PART XVI PART XVII PART XVIII
PART XIX
ALL PARTS HERE
Part XX
As I struggled to catch my breath I looked up and saw Em looking at me through the glass porch door. She looked upset. I tried to tell her it wasn't her fault, but the words froze in my throat.
Something moved to my right. I turned my head as I tried to lift myself up. It was more solid, this thing moving quickly through the front yard. It was a Reaper, and it scampered up the gutter and positioned itself onto the roof. I didn't know for sure what was about to happen, but when I saw another one jump along the back fence of the School for the Deaf, something about the way it was moving made me think of an Australian collie.
Reapers reminded me of something I'd seen in an old EC comic when I was a kid. It was a story about a grave hopper, this lanky wiry old man turned ghoul with tattered cloths and bare feet that hopped through the cemetery from grave stone to grave stone, occasionally stopping to perch atop one, knees at the chest. Reapers had the agility to move at astonishing speed. They never walked upright anymore, but scampered and jumped from perch to perch.
The creepiest thing about them though was that they had no lips and they communicated in a code akin to morse by chattering their teeth. The sad thing about them was they'd all been death runners at one time. If you survived long enough, you eventually became a Reaper. It was the price you payed for the extra time.
The death runners could feel their presence and started to scatter, the temperature rose drastically and by the time I'd made it to the door, it was almost balmy.
Shutting the door behind me I listened as at least two Reapers scampered back and forth across my roof, chattering their tactical strike. Back in the dinning room I hovered over the map and watched the whole sick thing play out. There wasn't anything I could do. There's a number of things you learn along the way, the first is never say the tall man's name, and coming in a close second is you never fuck with a Reaper when they've got work to do.
I soon realized why the Reaper on the fence had made me think of a collie. On the board there must have been twenty Reapers running the perimeter of the Island. They could be discerned from the death runners because in this particular conjure, they appeared on the map as small balls of light while the death runners were still just wisps of smoke.
I heard Em pull a deep breath, or at least the sound of one, when she picked up on their plan too.
Oh Aubrey, they're herding them to the River.
Well, you go to give 'em credit, it's a quick solution.
Only a few stragglers were able to penetrate and move through the Reapers lines, the others moved like lemmings to the final pull of the Tennessee. Some seemed to take it in stride and walked of their own accord into the final current. Others seemed to struggle and fight to the last minute. The worst was the three or four the reapers surrounded at the end. These poor bastards would never make it to wherever the final country lay. They were the prize the Reapers got for a job well done.
Reapers needed to eat too.
PART XIX
ALL PARTS HERE
Part XX
As I struggled to catch my breath I looked up and saw Em looking at me through the glass porch door. She looked upset. I tried to tell her it wasn't her fault, but the words froze in my throat.
Something moved to my right. I turned my head as I tried to lift myself up. It was more solid, this thing moving quickly through the front yard. It was a Reaper, and it scampered up the gutter and positioned itself onto the roof. I didn't know for sure what was about to happen, but when I saw another one jump along the back fence of the School for the Deaf, something about the way it was moving made me think of an Australian collie.
Reapers reminded me of something I'd seen in an old EC comic when I was a kid. It was a story about a grave hopper, this lanky wiry old man turned ghoul with tattered cloths and bare feet that hopped through the cemetery from grave stone to grave stone, occasionally stopping to perch atop one, knees at the chest. Reapers had the agility to move at astonishing speed. They never walked upright anymore, but scampered and jumped from perch to perch.
The creepiest thing about them though was that they had no lips and they communicated in a code akin to morse by chattering their teeth. The sad thing about them was they'd all been death runners at one time. If you survived long enough, you eventually became a Reaper. It was the price you payed for the extra time.
The death runners could feel their presence and started to scatter, the temperature rose drastically and by the time I'd made it to the door, it was almost balmy.
Shutting the door behind me I listened as at least two Reapers scampered back and forth across my roof, chattering their tactical strike. Back in the dinning room I hovered over the map and watched the whole sick thing play out. There wasn't anything I could do. There's a number of things you learn along the way, the first is never say the tall man's name, and coming in a close second is you never fuck with a Reaper when they've got work to do.
I soon realized why the Reaper on the fence had made me think of a collie. On the board there must have been twenty Reapers running the perimeter of the Island. They could be discerned from the death runners because in this particular conjure, they appeared on the map as small balls of light while the death runners were still just wisps of smoke.
I heard Em pull a deep breath, or at least the sound of one, when she picked up on their plan too.
Oh Aubrey, they're herding them to the River.
Well, you go to give 'em credit, it's a quick solution.
Only a few stragglers were able to penetrate and move through the Reapers lines, the others moved like lemmings to the final pull of the Tennessee. Some seemed to take it in stride and walked of their own accord into the final current. Others seemed to struggle and fight to the last minute. The worst was the three or four the reapers surrounded at the end. These poor bastards would never make it to wherever the final country lay. They were the prize the Reapers got for a job well done.
Reapers needed to eat too.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Wizard I-XX
I call this automatic fiction because I don't edit it before I post it. Yes, I do correct typos and spelling, but I don't change or adjust the story once it's written. This can lead to plot holes and all sorts of MacGuffins. It's purely an exercise for me to warm up before I write on my projects currently in progress. Hopefully at the end I'll have a nice rough idea I can clean up.
[This particular post is constantly modified to keep this on the front page. I am not an internet blog purist. It's my island I say what lives and dies.]
[This particular post is constantly modified to keep this on the front page. I am not an internet blog purist. It's my island I say what lives and dies.]
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Amusing Diversion
Now that the Metafilter link has been disabled, the traffic is slowing down. It was an interesting look at how the simple placement of a link can push things into the light. Here is a link to the disabled and now archived post on Metafilter.
The blinding glare
It seems my little dark place has had the light of a metafilter link shined upon it. So I shall simply stand back and hope that everyone behaves themselves. This is a personal blog that attempts to be nothing more than be a repository for my brain gas. Please feel free to look around. Try not to crap in the comments section, and stay out of the fridge.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Back to the drawing board
Well, without knowing exactly what happened at my friend's meeting, it's back to the drawing board. I'll debrief him on Friday. Focus now turns to comic. Time to start taking names. The beginning of the end has begun and I'm taking this entire town with me. You thought the ending of Buffy left a huge scar in the Earth.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Delay
It's been a bit since I posted anything. This has been mainly due to the fact that since the middle of last week I was helping a friend put together the writing end of some docs so he can have a meeting today. Could I benefit from it? Yeah? Will it happen anytime soon? probably not. The meeting is with a rep that'll then take the stuff around and try and push it like cream filled donuts on unsuspecting tykes. I'd say if anything happens from it it could be as long as a year. Until then I have to finish up the final issue of the comic I've been writing for him, which isn't unrelated and try and knock out a few more Wizards before the three readers I have of this blog abandon it for tin foil with light reflecting off of it.
My day yesturday, and I know you don't really care was:
6:30 - Wake
7:40 - Leave apartment for bus
8:10 - arrive and start work
4:10 - Leave work
4:45 - Stop at gas station on walk home and pick up small red bull and large Sobe Adrenalin
5:00 - Arrive home and write non stop, after drinking aforementioned
9:00 - Finish what needed to be done. Go to bar for drink, or two, or four
10:00 - Return home and make hamburger for dinner.
10:30-11:30 - knock out some episode descriptions for another project he was working on just for fun and to be helpful.
11:30 - Watch Colbert Report where Cookie Monster shows up and makes me unbelievably happy.
12:00 - Go to bed
6:30 - Wake
Of course i also received an e-mail with the 9th draft of a short I've been helping another friend work out, so that has to be done some time this week. I'm just saying.
My day yesturday, and I know you don't really care was:
6:30 - Wake
7:40 - Leave apartment for bus
8:10 - arrive and start work
4:10 - Leave work
4:45 - Stop at gas station on walk home and pick up small red bull and large Sobe Adrenalin
5:00 - Arrive home and write non stop, after drinking aforementioned
9:00 - Finish what needed to be done. Go to bar for drink, or two, or four
10:00 - Return home and make hamburger for dinner.
10:30-11:30 - knock out some episode descriptions for another project he was working on just for fun and to be helpful.
11:30 - Watch Colbert Report where Cookie Monster shows up and makes me unbelievably happy.
12:00 - Go to bed
6:30 - Wake
Of course i also received an e-mail with the 9th draft of a short I've been helping another friend work out, so that has to be done some time this week. I'm just saying.
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