Universal Irritants

File this under...why won't they stop?!?

I had an awful realization the other day while watching a squirrel and pigeon fight over a jawbreaker, a common occurrence in the Midwest where is nothing to do. I tried to attend a book-burning this weekend, but it was canceled since the only book to be found was a Reader's Digest from 1984 with article on the dangers of parachute pants to America's youth.

There has been an awful increase in actors who sing. Not sure why...they make movies, receive much monies and public adoration, and somehow, not content...they form a band and sing. And sing. And emote while singing.

Kevin Costner...




Russel Crowe...




Keanu Reeves...



Did you all not learn the lesson of Shatner?



Please...stop singing. I promise... I will go see your movies, all of them. Even the ones where you patronizingly and condescendingly teach inner-city minority children some useless bit of knowledge and learn to love yourself along the way.

Every time I hear an actor sing, my brain vomits into my ear canals, yet somehow, I can still hear them warbling their tunes. I am just not deaf enough to survive the onslaught of any more "actors who sing."

For humanity, if nothing else, stop singing.

Update - Barkles and Distracted

Bad and good news.

Caught Barkles at the liquor store (ironically, located next to the Baptist church).


Fear she may be hitting the bottle again because she asked me for money to "buy a liquid gift for a friend". When I refused, she called me a cheap bastard and went Liza Minneli on me. I managed to crawl home with a sore shin, though my socks were ruined.

Heard from Distracted this week. Apparently, the operation to remove the sofa from his ass is going to be successful. Reason to be optimistic anyway.

It's been a week.

A Weekful of Brett Worst

I don't normally give a rat's patoot (potty mouth!!) for sports, except for particularly spectacular meltdowns, scandals, or other weird psychological aberrations put on display. I don't much care to watch millionaires run around chasing a flying leather-like spheroid over a well-maintained grassy area set in some geometric shape. I know, as a male and as an American, I am supposed to get excited, identify closely with my home team and its favorite athlete, and drink beer in post-game celebrations or depression, but I just don't get it. It's not in my DNA. Give me a Bradbury over a Bradshaw any day.

But, this week, I have been following the Brett Favre ("Bretty") meltdown, probably because it has certain literary merits. Bretty, in case you have been dead and only recently resurrected by sipping water from a holy grail (thanks, Sean Connery, Harrison, Ford, Steve Spielberg, and of course, that bastard who messed up the Star Wars saga with Jar Jar Binks), was a player for the Packers (snicker...I said Packer). Bretty decided to "retire" earlier this year due to 'mental tiredness'. In other words, he needed to be 'mentally retired' after the last season of playing the fools ball. Bretty was loved and worshipped in Cheeseland so suicides in Wisconsin increased, garments were rended, and mourning was in abundance after his retirement. Then all moved on.

A few weeks after that announcement, Brett hinted he wanted to come back. Apparently, the two naps, warm chocolate milk, and cozy 'banky' time made all the difference to his mental tiredness. He hinted at returning as adulation is hard to leave. The Packers did not pick up on the hint. He hinted some more. The Packers and Wisconsin pretty much ignored the hints, as you would an elderly relative who keeps hinting that she wants to see the all-nude Andy Williams Revue to check out his 'huckleberry friend'.

The Packers got a replacement for Bretty. Fans rejoiced, many babies were conceived in celebration because that is how Cheeseland expresses joy...via procreational activities. Cheese was being rapidly made, and Wisconsin passed more laws allowing intra-familial marrying. It was a new era of happiness. Everyone had moved on, thinking Bretty was going to enjoy his family time and his millions, and recover from his tiredness. Perhaps Bretty would buy a SuperBowl ring on ebay? He was happier than BP finding a box of vodka in her closet, happier than Panda discovering there is no cure for Deafness, happier than SpinePuncher at a chiropractor's office, happier than Nets when she discovered a 28-hour workday, happier than Barkles finding a squirrel with a broken leg and a fat butt, ok, you get it.

However, Crack Bretty kept hinting and hinting. This went on for months. Bretty would not stop. He was like a zombie ex-footballer, newly risen from his richly-appointed mausoleum. Oh, limelight, Bretty wondered, why do you not shine on me anymore? One night, while watching Little Giant on his 500-inch LCD, it hit him.

"Because I don't play anymore. They loved me when I played the football." He quickly took a whore's bath, put on clean panties and jumped into his SUV and drove to Lambeau. Unfortunately, he had to come home because it was 1AM at night. A little early. On his way back home, he hit a raccoon in the butt, causing extreme constipation (in raccoon).

Bretty amplified his hints to a crescendo....let me come back!! A Moses of one, only he thundered 'Let me play football' rather than 'Let my people go!'. The NFL and the Packers pow-wowed. Bretty giggled, so happy with the attention. Halitosis be damned...this was what he wanted and needed. The world is watching Bretty again!! Oh joy!! Lookit me!! No!! LOOK AT ME!!

It came to a head this week. Bretty met with the Packers, and after half a day or so with the coach, he came out in near-tears, rejected and dejected, hugged a random security guard, because, goshdarn it, sometimes random hugging heals the hurt soul, and sped off in his SUV (good environmental message for the kids). The Packers had remained committed to moving on. The security guard purportedly said 'Don't touch me with your loser cooties, nutlog!!'. Just kidding...no one is crazy here, folks.



It was a bad break up. We have all had them. Where we go begging to be taken back, but the significant other just doesn't want us because we said 'yes, that dress does make your mom's butt look big', or because we forgot their birthday, or because we would not allow their mother to open-mouth kiss us during the family Christmas party, causing her self-esteem issues. I mean, they just can not forgive and forget....hello, Dewars?. Even when you find solace and redemption in a respectable religion with a servant-shoving preacher's wife, and clean up your act, they selfishly just can't forget the pain you caused them. Moved on, my ass, what about me?

Um, back to Bretty. As with any breakup, he rebounded and landed in bed with the first team to tell him he was pretty. Pretty Bretty, said the Jets, come here. Bretty did not say sleep on it, either...he went right to the Jets. But, you can see the pining in his eyes in the picture below...



This picture says so much that Bretty can not find the words for, because he plays football, not writes (or apparently reads) books. His eyes and stricken smile are very emotive. They say...I miss you and I will always love you, Bretty proclaimed, my beloved Packers. I hurted my heart-hole and I bleeded out my sad-hole. But I want you to be emotionally healthy. I want to be emotionally healthy. Right now, the Jets want me, and my heart must go on, even if I want to stay by your side and love you forever.

And that is all I wanted...was to to be wanted by you.

Good luck, Bretty. As a dear friend once told me when I changed jobs under trying emotional circumstances similar to yours, Bretty.... (My response to my friend William? "Cram it, and keep your crappy coupon for a free Whopper."

' Now cracks a noble heart.
Good-night, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!'

Oh screw it, Bretty, good luck with your next retirement.

Comic Con 2008 - Personal Highlights

My third and final post on Comic Con.

Writers were few and far in between at the convention; big emphasis this year (perhaps every year) was on films. Between Iron Man, Hulk, BatMan, Hell Boy, and Peck's Bad Boy, it was difficult to find original works, let alone writers worthy of that honorific.

I made a happy discovery. As you may know, my taste in literature ranges from that of wide-eyed innocent to blood-sucking ghoul. I rarely get to indulge the former, but at the convention, a chance detour down a certain row lead me to TopShelf, an independent and alternate comic publisher. The artwork, the stories, and the characters are a breath of fresh air from whiny super beings with powers and problems that currently pervade comic literature.

I picked up two books that immediately appealed to me because there are no words (ironical - Mr. Wordsmith loves wordless books). Owly and Korgi - just wonderful, beautiful pieces of art.

Andy Runton can very proud of Owly - I was charmed by his characters. Wonderful introduction to fine comic art for any one. Along the same lines, Christian Slade's Korgi is equally wonderful. Also mostly wordless, with the story conveyed in beautiful, elegant black ink. I met both artists and must say...their art is reflective of who they are...it was a pleasure. If I were ever to do a comic, I'd would head to TopShelf for the impressive creativity and artistry they have in abundance...who knows? :)

I attended a conference featuring Sergio Aragones (best known for his marginal art in Mad magazine). It was fascinating to hear a bit of his story, how he went about doing this drawings, and to see that, yes, his humor was prevalent in real life too. The panel was moderated by Mark Evanier (I did not know who he was either, but funny...he ate a sandwich while Sergio spoke, and told a story about Sergio).


The guy on the far right is Stan Sakai, I am not familiar with his work. Except...he looks like my mother. Sorry, Stan, and Maw, you should be flattered...Stan is cute.

I did not attend the Dean Koontz panel after all. Decided that screaming him at to stop the Odd Thomas character would be considered socially...unacceptable. Plus, the line to meet him snaked around and around and around, all the fans clutching their books, ready to pay homage to the "Wrecked Koontz". Felt any criticism would have placed me in mortal peril...sort of like when Whippy the PM browbeats me for not psychically anticipating requirements. You got lucky this time, Koontz!! Next time...glaring at you hard, boy!! Odd Thomas!! Damn it!!

But, ahhhh!!! finally, got to hear one of my favorite writers, and best short story author ever...Ray Bradbury. I sat through a panel on Wonder Woman (whatever) to make sure I had a great seat Ray's panel, which was hosted in the same room afterwards. Apparently, Wonder Woman has a new plane and lasso...who cares? She sucks as a character...invisible plane? Gold lariat? Spangly bracelets? Kinky boots?

If you don't know Ray's works, let me say this...I have been reading his stuff since I was about 8 or 9 years old. His short stories are just perfect nuggets of literature.

He speaks like he writes, which is to say...fantastic. Time has not diminished him at all. The thing that struck me the most about Ray is love. Specifically, he advised the whole audience (whom he affectionately and collectively referred to as his 'bastard children') to "love what you write, and write what you love". Someone asked him about metaphors or some other literary device. His response was "write!!!" and to remember his previously given advice. I agree, just write, damn it!! Screw grammar (kinky!!)!! Screw spelling correctly the first time around!! Just let it flow out of you...unedited, unabated, and uncensored...ugly or beautiful. Editing is secondary.


Ray mentioned that he could not afford college so he graduated from the library. I loved that, made perfect sense to me. He said that college does not educate you, the library does. That when we go to the library, we select books that are reflective of who we are, good or bad. That if we choose a book that reveals something not so great for ourselves, close it up and put it back.

At the end of the panel, we gave Ray a sincere and deserved standing ovation. Then, he was mobbed by autograph seekers, by fans who wanted to tell him what his works meant to them, to have that personal connection.

And it's funny. With all the autograph buying I did this week, of all the people from whom I should have wanted an autograph, I really did not need it or want one from Ray. Somehow, it would have cheapened this experience for me. It was enough to have sat there for an hour, and listen to one of my favorite authors. To hear a writer preach on the craft.

An inspiring sermon that I will remember.