Another Angle of My Office

Put a camera in the hands of a child and you'll see things you see everyday in a way you've never seen them before. Here's the southwest corner of my office, right over the old recliner.

I'm Lovin' It

When you order a coffee at McDonald's, employees now offer to add in your cream and sugar for you. Though the potential for contamination makes me grimace, the opportunity to drive thru for a pre-mixed blend and avoid potential hot-lap puts the golden in those arches for me.

Hopefully that the only gold going anywhere near my coffee.

Eulogy for September

Long before the leaves
have begun to fade,
department store aisles
embrace autumn's shade,
adorned with the yellows,
oranges, reds, and greens
of Halloween, Thanksgiving,
and even Christmas scenes.
In such a hurry
to savor the moment,
mankind loses the minutes
twixt the tide and current.
So long, September,
we hardly knew ye;
under autumn's heel
you'll forever be.

Wil Stood By Me

Last Wednesday, I braved Los Angeles traffic and Hollywood parking to meet Wil Wheaton at Meltdown Comics on Sunset Blvd. Wil and a few other writers are touring to promote their latest project, TokyoPop's Star Trek: The Manga: Kakan ni Shinkou. Though a bit late and seemingly disheveled by traffic, too, Wil was kind enough to pose promptly for this picture with me. Regarding the comic, here's a quote from my review, hopefully soon to appear in full at Geek in the City:

Featuring five stellar short stories starring the Original Series crew, Kakan ni Shinkou is a meaty volume in more ways than one; all of the stories are surprisingly long but not unnaturally lengthy (one of my criticisms of the serialized manga format), and most of them proudly include TOS standards like the meaningless death of a Red Shirt, a morality tale shrouded in a space-faring adventure, and most importantly the definitive interplay between Roddenberry’s trinity, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. While they often steal the show, the rest of the cast make their presence known, as well; Uhura even saves the day in one installment, thanks in small part to Nurse Chapel’s encouragement. This volume boldly goes exactly where the Original Series has gone before, but, this time, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

If you happen to read this today and are in Southern California, Wil and the crew are appearing at Golden Apple Comics in West Hollywood tonight. I couldn't recommend the comic more, and what better way to celebrate The Next Generation's twentieth anniversary than an autograph from TV's Ensign Crusher?

How to T.P.

The fifth 52 Comic Challenge: Draw a "how to" comic.

Anybody that knows me knows how much I love t.p.ing. To reiterate my strip's first panel, t.p.ing is the easiest, most effective, most harmless pranks you can pull; it creates an instant, annoying impression, but it doesn't leave any lasting effects. At least, not when my friends and I did it. Our arsenal was simple, almost environmental: toilet paper, forks, Q-tips, and water guns. Around the Fourth of July, we once "forked" someone's yard with American flag toothpicks. Sometimes, we'd sprinkle birdseed in someone's gravel -- so the circle of life could continue. We never egged. No silly string, except for that One Terrible Time. I'm still not sure if Chris peed in the gas tank that one night, but if he did, I don't condone it. If we wanted to leave a calling card, we printed one out, or used shaving cream . . . easy to wash away, and sometimes pleasantly fragrant. We'd even leave you the rest of the can.

Regarding the comic itself, it's one I've wanted to draw for a long time: me t.p.ing, plain and simple, partially inspired by an episode of my friends' and my short-lived public access TV show Dumbfounded. My how-to guide is an intended three pages; the first, establishing motive and the importance of "the pre-job drive-by" may never reach fruition . . . for this installment, anyway. These challenges, provided by Young American Comics, have been particularly fulfilling creatively. I've resolved to accomplish at least every other week's, which strikes me as a realistic goal for one that has never produced comic strips for public consumption ever before.

Like t.p.ing, you have to start slow. Then, before you know it, eight rolls in a friend's yard turns into 100 in your Spanish teacher's. That I have some experience with.

Addendum: Looking at the two pages together, drawn nearly a week apart, I realize that the caricature of me from page 1, panel 1 is vastly different in style and attitude than the one on page 2, panel 1. So goes self-parody, I suppose.

Yellow Sun

I wonder if
Nicolas Cage
named his son
Kal-El
because he knew
naming him
Bruce Wayne
would've been
a death sentence.

My Side of a Conversation with Starbucks' Pumpkin Spice Flavor

You're early.

No, no, of course I'm happy to see you.
It's just . . .

Well, I wasn't ready for you yet.

No, I can't explain it.

I guess,
I guess, what you bring to the table
is so special
I can only handle it
when the time is right.

You know, I have to be
in the mood.

Yes, you get me
in the mood,
but it feels more special
if I'm already there.

If the air is crisp
and smells slightly
of fireplace
and all that.

I kind of
fall for you
all over again.

That's romantic, isn't it?

No, don't say that. Come on . . .

Fine. Be that way.
At least I was honest.

You'll come back.


You always come back.

Okay

“Are we okay?”
she asks sweetly,
and over the phone
I hear her wrestle
with that wrinkle
in her forehead
that draws the line
between worry
and all right.

“We’re okay,”
I laugh
as I learn that
a hasty good-bye
is a loud
and very powerful
weapon.

Isn't it ironic . . .

. . . that guys
wearing camouflage
are usually the first
to stick out
in a crowd?

Corndog

Today I learned that a "corndog" is when somebody knees somebody else in the butt.

Surprisingly Cool

When I woke up
this morning
the sky was overcast
and the breeze was
surprisingly cool

so I excitedly pulled on
my favorite sweater
and walked to the corner
for a hot cup of coffee

and though it was fresh
from the pot
when it hit my tongue
I thought it tasted
surprisingly cool

so when I returned it
to the barista
I may not have had
the warmest tone of voice

but she offered me another
with an apology and a smile
in the heat of the moment
the way she reacted was
surprisingly cool

so I adjourned to the patio
to enjoy my morning brew
and watch the traffic
drive by briskly

and when the sun finally woke up
and stretched its yellow legs
I sipped my coffee and kept my sweater on
because they made me feel
surprisingly cool.

Let's Go Back to Prison

I love my brother, but if he were ever imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit, I wouldn't study the prison, encode its blueprints in a full-body tattoo, then hold up a bank to get arrested and incarcerated in the same joint to break him out from the inside. Hey, that's just me. Sorry, Kyle.

Prison Break creator Paul Scheuring has a different take on brotherly love -- a definitively more unconditional one. When the series began, smoldering protagonist Michael Scofield accomplished the impossible by freeing his brother from Death Row and breaking him out of prison, then, in the second season, the Brothers Fugitive and a motley crew of prison misfits toured the world in pursuit of their respective redemptions. Critics wondered how a show dubbed Prison Break could exist if its heroes weren't in prison, but season three answers that challenge . . .

. . . by throwing Michael right back in jail. This time, everybody's favorite furrowed-brow jail bait is in the world's worst prison, nestled in the world's persistently damp forehead, Panama, as the previous seasons' conspiratorial subplots reach a startlingly contrived fruition. Near as I can tell, Lincoln was framed for the murder of the Vice President's brother so Michael would develop the MacGuyver-like skills needed to break out of jail, which the government would manipulate him to employ again to bust out some guy from this impossible facility in Panama.

That Scheuring hasn't written himself into a corner with this elaborate The Fugitive-meets-The X-Files brand of storytelling is a prison break in itself, but more commendable is my dedication to Scofield's adventure through the apparently easily corrupted legal system. The implication that he and his brother have always lived a life of tumultuous vigilantism is the only thread keeping the series' context together, that their birthright is a rollercoaster ride of luck, chance, and justice.

Season three promises to challenge these limits more than ever, since this Panama prison is a lunatics-run-the-asylum scenario, where conflicts are settled with to-the-death gladiator brawls and the guards dare not venture past the perimeter, if only to collect the ever-increasing dead. Aside from the surreal passage of time (all three seasons capture just a little over a month's worth of imprisoned peril, and the characters' ability to cope can only be explained via acute bipolar disorder), my only critique of this season's premiere is its departure from the finale's otherworldly last moments, during which a dark, rainy sky kept the specifics of Michael's madhouse hidden in shadow. In this episode, the sunlight streaming into the prison's courtyard is a thin but tangible connection to reality. Perpetual darkness would've preserved that horror flick/parallel dimension vibe and made Scofield's escape that much more sweet.

Still, I'm in it for the long haul, now, just like Scheuring's chummy chain gang. It's okay. I don't expect my brother to break me out, either.

Worm Hole

The mid-morning sidewalk is littered
with earthworms that have sizzled
in the sun.

Their dried bodies look like
macabre confetti from a party
they wanted to leave early.

Every time I see them,
one earthworm still wriggles
in a desperate dance for life.

Sometimes, I pick him up gently
and return him to the cool, tall grass.

Sometimes, I leave him
to make his own way
around the bodies of his brothers

like the rest of us.

Time to Make the Coffee

To many people across the country, that Target is now carrying Dunkin' Donuts brand coffee is no bog deal, but to many Californians and me, these ground roasts are our only taste of the legendary doughnut chain. Yes, you can find any ethnic food available in the world right here in Orange or Los Angeles counties, but you cannot find a Dunkin' Donuts. (They were a rare commodity in Arizona as I was growing up there, too, but a recent affiliation with Baskin Robbins has fostered half-doughnut/half-ice cream shops across the Valley.) I know I'm not the only one jonesing for a Dunkin', since the Hollywood Target at which we purchased our first Dunkin' Donuts coffee was sold out of every blend except decaf and hazelnut, the latter of which I prefer, anyway. While the average instant pot of coffee often tastes the same to me, and the Dunkin' grounds are no exception (two hasty pots into the bag, at least), just seeing that familiar pink and orange logo assures me even more than the daily inaugural morning cup of coffee usually does. I can picture where this coffee came from. I can see that little mustached man grinding the beans for me -- just one more task on his pre-dawn to-do list. Just like I remembered, his work is right on target.

I defy anyone to find a better sweet treat than the chocolate Dunkin' Donut hole.

The Karaoke Chronicles: "Whatever Lola Wants"

(Prologue: My friends and I have had some fun times thanks to the addictive, interactive art of karaoke. Here's one 'em.)

Eric and I had become quasi-regulars at Angels’ Tuesday night karaoke contests, and I had even won fifth place singing the Barenaked Ladies’ One Week earlier that month, so I wasn’t surprised when an older lady recognized me and asked if I would join her if a duet.

“What song do you want to sing?” I asked excitedly.

“Have you ever heard the song Whatever Lola Wants?” she asked back.

“I don’t know it,” I replied sadly.

“Don’t worry,” she assured me wryly. “You won’t have to sing anything. Just stand there, and when I give you the signal, hold this up.” She handed me a small black lighter, and when I turned it over in my hand, I showed Eric its Playboy bunny logo. We shook our heads, wondering what we’d gotten ourselves into this time. Before long, I found myself standing in the middle of the crowd as this older lady seemingly began to serenade me.

I should preface what happens next; Eric and I had talked to this woman before, and we knew that she was in the business of hosting lingerie parties. At the time, I didn’t know what a lingerie party was, so in addition to introducing me to Whatever Lola Wants, this woman was the first to put the image of a roomful of women trying on underwear for each other into my head. I really owe her a great deal.

When the snake charmy sounds of What Lola Wants filled the bar, the crowd collectively, knowingly smirked, and Eric shrugged his shoulders sheepishly as my muse danced around me suggestively.

Whatever Lola wants . . . Lola gets . . . And little man, little Lola wants you . . . Make up your mind to have no regrets . . . Recline yourself, resign yourself, you're through . . . I always get what I aim for . . . And your heart'n soul is what I came for . . .

Suddenly, the woman reached into her blouse, which, I hadn’t much noticed, was an easily accessible, cleavage-baring low cut. She promptly extracted a pair of handcuffs, and while the prop elicited gasps from the crowd, they incited panic in me. Perhaps my inner submissive took over, but I extended my wrists, only to find the handcuffs in my hands rather than on them; either “Lola” didn’t have the time to cuff me, or she didn’t think I was ready for the commitment. Either way, I still trust her judgment.

Whatever Lola wants . . . Lola gets . . . Take off your coat . . . Don't you know you can't win? You're no exception to the rule, I'm irresistible . . . You fool, give in! . . . Give in! . . . Give in!

I really cannot explain what happened next. Actually, what happened was clear; I just can’t explain how it happened. Reaching into her bosom again, my singing partner pulled out a red, lacy bra, apparently hers as evidenced by the size, but whether or not she had heretofore been wearing it, I don’t know. I certainly didn’t see her unlatch it, but I might have missed the move, since my eyes had been embarrassingly darting around the room. Perhaps, as a lingerie specialist, she’s well-trained in such maneuvers. Honestly, I wasn’t thinking about it at the time, as she draped the brazier around my head and neck, leaving it dangling across my right shoulder. The song seemed to be winding down, so I was wondering what Lola’s grand finale would be.

“How much stuff can she store in there?” I thought, eyeing her cleavage suspiciously. Then, her fingers wrapped around the wrist of my hand holding her lighter and raised it gently. I interpreted her nod at me as a signal to light a flame; a simple gesture for an encore, I assumed.

“Why not?” I mused silently, despite my usual advocacy for karaoke fairness. “She’s a great entertainer, and –”

Suddenly, this lady’s hand hovered over the flame for an instant, and a fireball suddenly erupted from her palm! The crowd let loose with an understandable “whoa,” but I undoubtedly squealed like a frightened child on the Fourth of July. Later, Eric told me that the woman had pulled a piece of greasy tissue paper from her pocket, a small flammable prop available at any magic store. Lola was incredibly prepared. She definitely knew what she wanted.

I breathed a sigh of relief and assumed that the show was over. The woman kept singing, but a freaking fireball seemed like an adequate grand finale to me. “Just finish the song,” I thought, “and let me think of a song to charm you with.”

She danced away from me a bit, back toward her table. I wondered if she’d leave me in the midst of the crowd, used and humiliated, like some sort of performance art punch line. I would’ve accepted the role gladly, but when she reached into her purse, I knew I wasn’t getting off that easy. With her fist closed around another prop, she danced back toward me and draped the object around my neck. I removed it slowly, not wanting to ruin its effect, but the audience’s uproarious laughter told me that I couldn’t do anything to cheapen its impact. With the handcuffs hanging from my fingers, I found one hand holding a simple looking remote control, the other holding what looked like a plastic Easter egg, both connected by a thin, beige wire.

Yes, I was twenty-one years old, but I didn’t know what it was. Until my finger flipped the remote’s on switch.

If its extension really looked like an Easter egg, somewhere baby Jesus is blushing at the affiliation.

I always get what I aim for . . . And you heart and soul is what I came for . . . Lola wants . . . Lola gets . . . You'll never win . . . I'm irresistible, you fool . . . Give in! Give in! Give in!

Finally, Lola’s song ended, and I was stripped of her now numerous accessories. I extended the lighter, but she held up her hand in refusal.

“Keep it,” she said, like I needed a souvenir of the most unique karaoke performance in which I’d ever been a part.

Later that week, I learned just how unique. Eric, other friends, and I went to another karaoke bar, where I almost got my first bar pummeling at the hands of a drunkard that insisted I was Drew Carey’s nephew, but that’s another story. No, the important part of this epilogue is our running into another Angel’s regular, one that also frequented Lola’s lingerie parties.

“That little toy she gave me at the end sure looked weird!” I exclaimed to her as we recollected the performance.

“Oh, yeah, well . . .,” our fellow patron smirked, “we call that one ‘the Silver Bullet.’ It’s more of a back door item.”

I stood up slowly and looked at Eric to see if he had heard. His ear-to-ear grin told me that he had. In that moment, despite the song’s title, I decided that I didn’t care to know what Lola wants. I’m not sure I’d want to give it in to her.

Free Refill

Thank goodness O.J. was up to his old tricks last weekend. Sally Field was almost important again.

Nobody Is Safe

If you sit in the same place
long enough
you’ll see somebody
spill their hot coffee
right on their lap.

You’ll see somebody
lose their wallet
or their keys.

You’ll see somebody
looking at everybody
except the one
they’re with.

You’ll see somebody
get the worst e-mail
or text message
they’ve ever read.

If you sit in the same place
long enough
somebody will see those things
happen to you,
too.

Blythe, California

In the winding desert between
two of America's busiest cities
rests Blythe, California,
a transition town with
dozens of fast food joints
and gas stations
and highway patrolmen,
feeding, fueling, and feuding
with some of the fastest people
on the planet.

Blythe, California is a town
that accepts its fate
as a place nobody wants to be
for very long,
and it really isn't very far
from here.

Office Supply Store Girl

Scotch tape, masking tape,
paperclips, and glue,
staplers, push pins,
rubber cement, and you:

stocking shelves and singing along,
your hands to the post-it notes
and your lips to the song

that I may or may not hear
echoing through the store,

and between items
on my shopping list
I'm stuck on you
in an unscheduled moment
of business
taking a message
from pleasure.

An Awesome Picture of Me . . .

. . . in my office. Thanks, Ruthie.

How can we forget?

Yesterday morning, I asked one of the little girls at work to write the date on our daily sign-in sheet, since I had forgotten.

"Nine eleven?" she unwittingly asked . . .

. . . in a voice so sweet and innocent, I couldn't help but recoil at the date's contrasting solemnity.

How can we forget?

Love is a battlefield.

Damn you, Tod Parkhill!

I've had the idea for a few months now. "Karaoke Comics," I'd call it. "I draw the songs you request." Like karaoke, my interpretation would be distinctly my own, just, in this case, visual rather than audible. Really, Karaoke Comics would combine my two most favorite performing arts (please don't make me explain why comics are a performance art) while conveniently handling the writing portion of the process. Pure visual, most often surreal, reincarnations of songs.

(Hey, it's either Karaoke Comics, or my other make believe venture, the Karaoke Strip Club, "where they dance to the songs you sing!")

Then, in his third of 52 comic challenges, Tod Parkhill reaches right into my brain and in three little words swipes my idea: "Draw a song." As soon as I saw it, I thought, "Yeah, I'm getting to it!" A guy on ComicSpace playfully requested "Love is a Battlefield" some months ago (in the e-mail that inspired it all, really), so I've had this bar scene-turned-war idea floating around my noggin since. Here it is, in all of its sketched glory. It wasn't going to get much farther beyond this stage, so I figured I best throw it up here and move on.

Also, again, I drew this strip on larger paper, but this time the professional comics size (12" x 15" or something like that), so while I was able to scan each page entirely in two pages, I couldn't escape that messy seam in the middle. It adds character, right? Right? Well, since I love comics, it makes sense that making them would prove to be something of a battle.

Because, you know. Love is a battlefield. (Tod, Corey, you owe me another night of karaoke for this.)

Infrastructure

If a road or freeway
needs repairing,
construction could take

years

to complete the project.

Orange cones,
worker drones,
union strikes,
road spikes,
double takes,
coffee breaks . . .

. . . but less than a year ago,
a local Chinese buffet burned down
and seemingly overnight
a fast food joint
has taken its place.

The city gives us
plenty of places to go
but precious few ways
to get there.

What I Draw During Staff Meetings, part 1

Self-portrait, intended to reflect Jack Kirby-style pose:




Media: Pencil on meeting agenda.

Marine Layer

Nighttime rolls over
and pulls a blanket
of woolen mist
over its cold shoulder.

Earth rubs its eyes
of evening's crust
and hits its head
on a sullied ceiling.

Morning is a merciful master
that demands obedience
with rusty blades buried
in a billowy bouquet.