In place of a title.

So. I went to watch Serenity last night as promised. Due to a widespread strain of insanity amongst my friends, the only one who joined me at the theater was K., but she's enough.

K. loves Bruce Lee, zombies, samurai, science fiction, and weird genre stuff enough for any three of the others. She has tattoos and I suspect that one of them is a picture of Meryl Streep with a red circle and slash through her face.

The movie started at 12:20 and I got home at around 2:45. I am writing on just south of three hours sleep. My nerve endings are like live wires, and that's before I started drinking the coffee.

The movie was great. Like all of Joss Whedon's work, it was full of character, action, and shocks. It isn't necessary to have seen the tv show Firefly to enjoy Serenity, but those that have will get even more out of it.

I don't want to say more about the movie at this time. You should be allowed to see it without being spoiled.

(Incidentally, look at that Amazon page for the tv show dvds. It has a five star rating based on 1644 reviews. If you shop Amazon often like I do, you know how rare it is for something to get beyond three or four hundred reviews. Also, said reviews are on the whole very thoughtful and cogent. Which is also a rarity.)

You'll be hearing much more about Serenity in the coming weeks I think. It was far more affecting and surprising than Star Wars: Revenge of the Shit by the way. It certainly has me anxious for a sequel.

As for the writing, well, I am in the process of throwing myself into the thick of it. I am thrashing out ideas for a ground level tv show. It's not for a network or anything. It would be all DIY and use supposed weaknesses as powerful strengths.

Before you ask: No, I don't know what I'm doing. If I did, I wouldn't have any need to do it.

Job, and SERENITY

I was glancing through a book in passing at work the other day, Bonjour Laziness: Jumping Off The Corporate Ladder by Corinne Maier. One passage leaped out at me. It was something like, "It doesn't matter how well you do your job. What matters is how well you conform."

Chills to the bone, eh? Yet still SO TRUE. The heads of my department seem on the whole hugely uninterested in hiring bright people who can do the job. (I was hired by personnel and put in there at the last minute.) We have several substitutes who would love full time employment but when it comes to choosing... my boss is totally bent on always selecting the dullest, most bovine candidates. Any occasion when they don't follow this rule of thumb is cause to celebrate.

Let me make something clear: My job as library clerk is not hard. Being a really good library clerk is nothing to shout about. But it's such a not difficult job to do that you really have to struggle to find someone who can't do it to a professional level.

I get morbid and depressed when I think of all the fascinating work my synapses could be firing over. Then I go to the library and go livid when what a job that should be Grand Theft Lollipop becomes an ordeal because someone else's synapses fire naught but blanks.

Remember when I said that working in Access Services was the hardest job in the library? Well, sometimes I think that on some level that it was just me. Good friend and consumer of umbrella drinks Randall informed me that no, I was correct: Access Services is Hell: Library Division.

More on that stuff some other time.

Right now, I wanted to mention that I have tickets to see Serenity tonight at 12:20 a.m. Gentle Reader, It Is Going To Rule. My favorite review for it so far has been this one by Ken Tucker in New York magazine. Be warned: There are spoilers. Some choice quotes from the review:

Joss Whedon proved in his long run on Buffy the Vampire Slayer (seven seasons) and his short one on Firefly (eleven episodes), he has two distinct yet complementary gifts: He can write quick, gabby banter for an array of heroes and oddballs better than any auteur since Preston Sturges, and he can dramatize the camaraderie within an ensemble better than anyone since Howard Hawks.

and:

Serenity frequently plays like the best sequel to Raiders of the Lost Ark that Steven Spielberg never made.

So basically, Mr. Tucker would have you know that Serenity has been perfectly tailored to fit my ever demanding movie watching needs. Which can only be great for the rest of you, barring those perverse individuals who watch Tarkovsky movies for fun.

Time to murder and create.

I've been wondering the last few months how to talk about this without sounding like a complete ass. I've come to the inescapable conclusion that there isn't one and that I have to write about it anyway.

Earlier this year, I had a dream. Not a dream in the Martin Luther King Jr. sense of the word, but in the "Freudian Wonderland" sense.

For whatever reason, I usually don't remember my dreams. Most of the time it's like I don't even have them. It's just go to bed; nothing, nothing, nothing... and wake up. The joke I tell myself is that I dream so much during the day that my dream center is too tired to bother at night.

Because of the nothing, when I do remember any dreams --I pay attention to them. Examine them for meaning, say. Of course most of them come off like my brain running a regular diagnostic test. There does not seem to be much of anything to parse.

Then... there are the others. The ones where my subconscious seems to step out from behind the curtain and state what it wants me to know in no uncertain terms. This has happened now... three times? Well, twice for sure.

I first noticed the phenomenon when I was twenty. There was a girl I was quite interested in who was still in high school (Shut up). This girl, we'll call her Grace, went on a choir/band trip to Virginia Beach for a competition.

The morning of the day her class arrived at the hotel in Virginia Beach, I had a dream: Singer k.d. lang's face appeared on the palm of my left hand and said, "Today at three o'clock in the afternoon, Grace will have sex with another man." Then I woke up.

The day was spent with me feeling a bit torn. On the one hand, I didn't like the idea of Grace with anyone else. On the other, wouldn't it be supremely weird if my dream turned out to be spot on?

That night, Grace called me up at seven. I immediately told her about my dream and asked her if it was correct. Yes, it was, even down to the time of day. Was I mad with her? Not really. We weren't serious or anything and I was still a bit jazzed over the strange occurrence of the morning.

In fact I was so thrilled that I'd gotten a message from Something, that I paid very little attention to the actual content of what it was telling me. In my youthful naivete I believed the event indicated that Grace and I had some sort of deep connection. Now? I think the dream was meant to serve as a warning to me. (Incidentally, Grace and I are still friends. As for our relationship, it's stayed 3:00 in Virginia Beach ever since.)

Years pass. In May of this year, I had another dream of a very different nature:

It's night. I am outside under the sky standing in the center of a circle.

People surround me on the outer rim. They dance, chant, and beat drums. Some have torches, others swing whirling braziers of fire. The blood of a freshly killed animal is on the wind and in the lungs of everyone present.

I'm scared, and don't know what's happening, or why. Clearly I'm the focus of what's transpiring, but I'm not sure if that's such a good thing.

A shaman enters the circle with me. He's all creeped out in the current fashion of bones and mystic regalia.

The chanting, the dancing, the drumming all build and intensify. My heart slides into an unrelenting Art Blakey solo. Then the shaman speaks. He intones slowly and is not unsure of the words:

You were given a Responsibility.

You are running out of time.

You will not live forever.

BOOM! Everything STOPS, and I wake up. For the next three days I was by turns intrigued and terrified over the dream. My main thoughts were, What the hell was that? and Just how much time do I have?

Which brings us up to Right Now. After much consideration, I have decided that I am going to be quitting my job at the library soonish. I don't know when or how, but before my 36th birthday on June 16th, 2006 for certain; quicker than that when I figure out the means.

Now before you all launch into me, I know what I'm saying sounds bizarre. "How can you afford to quit your job?" Well, um, I can't.

Getting another 'straight job' is also not a solution. The problem with those jobs is that they value conformity over excellence. Try as I might, I am just hopeless at conforming. I stick out like a sore thumb in a sargasso of clawhammers. And frankly? I am thoroughly sick of taking on work that requires me to stifle the best most valuable parts of myself in favor of a bland automaton type 'productivity.'

So no new straight job. Neither do I feel I can afford to ignore either the dream or my gut feeling on this. But do I really have to quit? What purpose does that serve?

It's like this:

Life is short. Every hour spent doing things that bore me senseless and dull my imagination is an hour I'm going to regret on my deathbed. Looking back on even this much life it's never been the stupidly brave things I've done that I regret --always the chances not taken in favor of some foolish sense of security.

Anyway, this post is not about giving answers. I don't have any answers yet. But I am asking the questions right now, and because I've got a big fucking brain I expect that I will come up with some workable answers in time.

(As an aside, do you know what the life of a genius is like? I'll tell you: Everyone goes on and on about how smart so-and-so is... until he or she says something that the other party disagrees with. Then said genius is felt to be misguided or still has a lot to learn. This is true even if both parties agree that one is a genius and the other is not, by the way.)

Jack, I can hear you saying, what is your responsibility anyway? Simple: To be a writer and create. To have the thoughts that others can't and go to the places in my imagination that others would shrink away from.

Maybe it doesn't sound like much to you. But it is all that I have been entrusted with, and it is big enough.

In my more fanciful moments I'd say that the message in my dream was given to me by the gods. More likely, it's just my subconscious making obvious something I already knew on a very deep level. It's no matter either way. As Alan Moore wrote, "The one place gods inarguably exist is in our minds where they are real beyond refute, in all their grandeur and monstrosity."

So there you have it. Do I sound a little pretentious to you? Well, okay then. I warned you at the beginning that I was probably going to sound like an ass. You have only yourself to blame for reading this far. Truthfully, I feel somewhat ridiculous writing about it. But there's a great sense of relief too.

How about that?

Two quick notes.

Lisa's grandmother is fine. Since Rita didn't turn out to be the monumental bitch her sister Katrina was in Louisiana. All donations of food, money, etc. (including my paltry $25.00) are being passed on to the people that can use them. So if anyone did donate anything, thank you.

Moving on...

Last year on the BBC radio program CHAIN REACTION, Alan Moore interviewed Brian Eno. I listened to it and was amazed, but you can read the transcript of the two geniuses engaged in conversation here. The 'giant man-eating spider' question remains a favorite.

A Global Frequency of sorts.

First things first:

My friend Lisa needs your help. She's from Houston and most of her family has evacuated because of Rita, but not all. The gig is "Operation: Rescue My Grandmother" and you can find out more about it here.

To anyone who happens to be reading this: Please offer her any assistance you can, even if it's just a $1 or a can of food. Lisa is very important to me, and if Hurricane Katrina has shown us anything, it's that this kind of stuff just cannot be left to the supposed experts right now.

Hmm. We are on the Global Frequency after all.

Dewn't

Let us suppose for a moment that you were thirsty and in need of a cold drink. What would you drink? Wa-

No. Skip that. Let me instead show you what on no account you should ever drink: .THIS. It's called Mountain Dew Pitch Black II and it promises "a blast of grape flavor with a SOUR BITE." (Emphasis theirs.)

Chalk a point up for the marketing department at Pepsi Co. They got the bite part of that description just right. This stuff tastes so filthy sweet they should have just called it Diabet-Ick!. The bottle claims that MDPB2 is a combination of "black grape and other natural flavors", which you have to admit sounds punchier than black grape and the corpse of an old man rotting in a greenhouse filled with fetid orchids.

Oh, and the bottle says that this particular type of Mountain Dew is a "Limited Edition" flavor. Once it's gone, that's it! That's really the only good thing you can say about it.

That's what happens sometimes when you try something new. Ewwwwww. Ick!

Comfortable hell with extra throw pillows.

I work as a clerk at the Los Angeles Public Library. To be more precise, I work in the circulation department (called Access Services) and have since June 2000.

The library is the best job I've ever had: Insurance, dental, good pay, much difficulty in order to get fired. Plus: BOOKS, eh? Big plus there.

The circulation department is the busiest one in the library. No, really. People who work in other departments talk about how busy they are but one thing they all have in common is that they don't want to work in Access Services. That's because despite protestations to the contrary, they know.

In other departments like Science, or Literature there is time to slack. My friend Randall just transferred to Science and when he talks about his mornings now, they all sound like short vacations punctuated with lots of e-mail and the occasional burst of filing. "I got so much read this morning." I could kill him, but then who would I eat lunch with?

Working in circulation, interacting with the public as I do, you might think: I bet Jack has amassed a few pet peeves. You are so right, Gentle Reader. So. RIGHT. Here are a few, in no particular order:

1. People who bitch about miniscule fines. The poor jerks who owe fifty dollars or much, much more in library fines usually don't complain that much. They know why they owe so much, you know? If they do complain, well they sort of earned the right to be upset in a roundabout fashion. More often than not it seems the less someone owes the more nuts they go in response to it. I'm sorry, but if you have time to bitch about two dollars to a city employee, then no amount of telling me how important you are is going to convince.

2. People who are obsessive/compulsive about paying their fines. Then there's the ones who spaz out and slow the check out line down for infinite moments looking for that last quarter. Because they "don't want it hanging over their heads. "As if somehow, owing that last twenty-five cents could spell out karmic disaster for them. Please. No one cares. That line of people that stretches off behind you to the bad part of town in Mordor really doesn't care. Oh, and I couldn't raise my care level above NIL if I was to paid to, which in fact I am. Your fines are under five dollars and you can still check stuff out. So piss off, already.

3. People who return items that are wet. I shouldn't even have to explain this really. When you hand me something that is recommended to be stored in a cool dry place like oh, virtually anything you could possibly want to check out from the library --it shouldn't be wet. EVER. I don't mean you shouldn't have left that copy of The Great Gatsby out in the rain or dropped it in the tub. That goes without saying. I mean I don't want you handing me a book or video that is mostly dry (as it should be) but oddly wet in places. Because it sets me to wondering how this intrinsically dry object got patina of wet about it. Did you place it in next to the water bottle in your bag? Did your hands sweat from the activity of holding it on the bus? Did something more outre happen between you and this book? I have no way of knowing. If you're one of our filthier patrons (jerks who return videos with cockroaches in them represent), I really have NO WAY OF KNOWING.

4. Why is it that people who smell bad need to lean over the counter as far as they can? Well, Brainiac? Why? Incidentally, oftentimes women with flattering cleavage and large... fines also have on occasion been known to lean over the counter. That's not a pet peeve though. I just wanted to mention it.

5. People who cannot alphabetize. This one is actually directed at co-workers of mine. We have a big shelf where we keep the holds and several times a week (or even several times a day) I can't find the item a patron wants to pick up because Helen Keller decided to drop by for a spot of shelving. This really pisses me off because when I'm fantasizing about all the rocket science jobs I'm capable of, it strikes me that this one is so easy to get right. It's only the alphabet we Use Every Day.

6. Bureaucratic horseshit. This job could be so easy, I shouldn't have to put up with any of it. The soccer moms that are my bosses think otherwise. You know, one does the right thing because it's the right thing to do --not because it's in a manual. There's actually too much to write about on this subject. So particular explanations will have to wait.

But not long.

Belated Birthday

For those completely unaware of the fact, I turned 35 on June 16th. I celebrated the day in sort of understated fashion: My friends Randall and Irma took me out to dinner at a Morroccan restaurant Dar Maghreb. We ate an eight course meal in the traditional way (i.e. with our fingers after first washing our hands in a huge tureen of soap and rosewater brought to the table). Squab turns out to be pigeon and tastes rather salty. Who knew?

Oh, and there was bellydancing! I must say I quite enjoy the impression of myself my friends reflect back at me.

Oh, and before I forget: When I saw this I laughed mightily. My birthday is the REAL Number Of The Beast.

This bit of information is very exciting. Are there career opportunities available for me to become the Antichrist? My high school guidance counselor so didn't hip me to this. What a dick.

"Evil" is a growth industry. The best part is, I already have the cds for the job.

Can you dig it?

I knew you could.

DVDs I have bought and loved...

I waltzed into my Level 3 Improv class last night walking a bit taller. I was inordinately satisfied with a DVD purchase I had just made on the way to class and I fairly glowed from the experience. Dear Reader, I offer my list of purchases:

Moonlighting, Seasons 1 and 2 -There have been various tv shows that I've been obsessed with over the years, but this was the first. Detectives + Screwball Comedy - the Banal Car Chases that infected just about every other show of the period. For a change, the mysteries they solved were actually compelling as well, occasionally even slightly perverse. If Moonlighting broke the fourth wall a little too often, well hell, even that was unique and different at the time.

(Incidentally, when I mention Banal Car Chases above I am not speaking out against ALL car chases, just lame ones. In particular the cookie-cutter-here-we-go-again exercises in stupid repetitiveness that earmarked most of the adventure shows of the 1980s. We're talking mostly of the Stephen J. Cannell and Glen Larson stable here I think.)

St. Ives -This is one of my favorite Bronson movies, based on one of my favorite Ross Thomas novels (The Procane Chronicle by Ross Thomas writing under his Oliver Bleeck pseudonym). Bronson plays Raymond St. Ives, a professional go-between hired by an aging millionaire to get back his stolen diary. Said diary is important because it contains within its pages plans for the perfect robbery. The book is better than the movie as I recall, but Bronson gets to offset his crude appearance with a bit of class (His St. Ives has expensive tastes you see). Jacqueline Bissett also stars, and sexier than her is difficult to imagine.

The Essential Steve McQueen Collection -Woo hoo! Bullitt, Papillon, The Cincinatti Kid, and The Getaway. Combined with The Great Escape 2-Disc Collector's Edition you might have Man Movie Awesomeness to turn boys into men. As it is, the mere contemplation of the set makes this man geek out like a boy all over again. Oh, and Tom Horn and Never So Few are just gravy combined with the others in the set.

Ong Bak -I confess I've never seen this one before and can't even find the Special Uncut DVD version I bought. Anyway it looked cool, and at $13.95 was very affordable.

When I got to class everyone was interested in what I had bought. I showed them and discovered to my horror that excepting one other guy in class NO ONE HAD EVER SEEN A STEVE MCQUEEN MOVIE. They kind of knew who he was, sure, but that was it.

I was shocked. These are all straight men in their mid-twenties to early thirties. None of them are what you would call ignorant or uninformed. They all ran to see the new Star Wars, etc. Did these men not have fathers? Were they all the products of broken homes? I was about to venture a few questions about Clint Eastwood but was more than a little afraid of what I'd find out.

The Great Escape, The Magnificent Seven, The Good, The Bad & The Ugly: These are rites of passage for any American boy of a certain age, aren't they? The watching and appreciation of these movies is as American as baseball.

What happened?

The Sacred And The Profane

A conversation I had tonight with Jeremy:

Jack: A question: Do you think people who cannot appreciate the profane in the world (i.e. the clever use of profanity, expression of ideas that might be considered dirty, etc.) also have a corresponding lack of appreciation of the sacred?

Jeremy: I believe that the more simplistic view of the world you have, the weaker your soul. So, yes.

Jack: You know, I don't know what I like and am impressed by more: My question, or your answer.

Jeremy: (Laughs) Hint: It's your question.

Jack: Ah, but your answer to the question was sublime.

Jeremy: I've got to stop putting this essay off. Seems you've worked your way into my theme.

Jack: Excellent! My fifteen minutes of fame is assured! Now I can focus all my energy on achieving another gratuitous fifteen that I wasn't even allotted!

Jeremy: You've heard of the Turing test, of course.

Jack: Yeah.

Jeremy: No program has been able to pass it yet. The reason is because of a lack of nuance. There simply aren't enough programmers in the world to put that much character into an intelligent system.

So the point is, since I always approach these things obliquely for some damn reason, and also because you're currently fascinated by Dawkins & the complexity of nature, it's become clear to me that simplistic views, ones that summarize (as in racism or stereotypes), or are absolute (with us or against us), or are a work of accounting (health of a child is worth some dollar value) are the exact forms of thought that steal our souls.

Jack: Interesting. You know, we had a conversation about this kind of thing a few months ago.

Jeremy: Really?

Jack: Yeah. It was expressed differently, though. We were talking about the American Revolution and came to the conclusion that if you looked back at the great figures of history... (Benjamin Franklin, Marie Curie, Victoria Woodhull, Gandhi, Winston Churchill, etc.) what you notice is that the greater the subject, the more complex as people they were.

Jeremy: Oh yes, I remember that conversation. They were Shakespearian in stature, with flaws as great as their presence.

Jack: Right. And your real fucking bastards were simplistic in comparison. Everything was an either/or, black & white proposition with them.

Jeremy: E.g., In religio-fanatic world, everything is a summarizing symbol. "Cross", "tit on the TV", "Flag on the Floor," "Muslim/Christian": It all strives to simplify.

Jack: You know what I find really cool?

Jeremy: What? Redheads?

Jack: I notice that when all ideas of 'Fate' or 'Destiny' or 'Religion' are expunged from my worldview (but not the possibilities of same), when everything I am becomes my sole responsiblity...

I suddenly feel capable of anything.

Jeremy: Perhaps it's comforting to know it's all a playground anyway.

Security!

Since the beginning of '05 I've been taking improv comedy classes at the Improv Olympic West. Guess I grew tired of making an ass of myself in front of the same old crowd.

I took the Level 1 class back when I lived in Chicago (the original Improv Olympic is located less than a block from Wrigley Field). Ultimately I couldn't continue on at the time though, as my income (derived solely from medical research studies at the time) had temporarily dried up.

Why would someone fork over hard earned money ($300 for each eight week course, six levels in all!) to learn what seems from the outside to be nothing so much as getting up on stage and making shit up on the fly? Is this a worthwile skill? Is it something that can even be taught?

My reasons for doing this are as follows:

1. Getting up in front of complete strangers and spouting off whatever comes to mind scares the shit out of me. Reason enough to take it on right there.

2. It will free up and get the creative juice flowing. This is just one method to use. Others include: imbibing strange substances like absinthe when they present themselves, shufflings of Brian Eno's Oblique Strategies cards (look it up), perusing books of magic and religion (Aleister Crowley's Book Of Lies currently with something by Austin Osman Spare later on), and giving myself over to the occasional mad impulse that seizes me.

3. The social aspect. I now spend three hours a week minimum playing at this stuff with a room full of people smarter and funnier than I am.

The first four weeks of this endeavor (i.e. January) were very hard for me. Learning to let go and stop thinking so much takes some doing. I just began Level 2 last night. I am definitely improving.

Last year I had a conversation with a friend of mine, Phaedra. She's going to college right now to study Educational Systems or somesuch thing. I told her that if I ever went to college I would definitely end up majoring in something functionally useless that interested me a great deal like "Fire Eating" or "Inveterate Gambling" something. Attending Clown College also holds some appeal.

Flash forward to a few weeks ago: Randall and I have a conversation over lunch. He's studying to get his library science degree right now. Turns out, he's paying pretty much the same amount for his classes as I am for mine.

Okay, so improv isn't as glamourous as fire eating or earning a degree in Clownology, but you know what? It'll do for now.

Time to clean house.

Salon has had an article up for almost a month now on the growing trend of men sans children having vasectomies. You can read it here. This was of some interest to me, as I...

a. Have no children and desire none of same.

b. Had a vasectomy almost two years ago myself.

When I had the operation done (Only a $10 co-payment with my insurance! That's a savings of oh, roughly... $190,518.00! WOOT!), there was no indication of it being a trend or anything of the sort. I knew one guy who had done it back then. He has not had occasion to regret his decision.

For that matter, neither have I. Incidentally, unlike one of the guys in the article, I spent a good SIX years pondering the question. Oh, and I haven't joined any groups of the "childfree" or what have you because I'm not a joiner by nature, and all of that smacks a little of desperation. But what do I know? I live in L.A. If I lived in Nebraska, or Michigan, or wherever I might beg them to let me join.

So even though I spent six years thinking over the matter I expect someday I will live to regret the decision. The tragedy that triggers this feeling of regret will not however, be the one that so many friendly doomsayers in my acquaintance have imagined: I am not going to suddenly fall in love with some woman that makes me want to be a father.

NO. It won't be like that because you see, it just isn't tragic enough.

The moment that lays me low will be when I meet a fabulously sexy and intelligent woman who doesn't want marriage, definitely does want a child, and has decided on ME for the lucky sperm donor. Naturally, the only possibility of sex with her will reside in my capability of making her pregnant.

I can hear you now. "Jack, that is SO unlikely... "

Yes, Dear Reader, I know. But figure this: You do your thing, get what you want, and then (and only then) fate smacks you with a comeuppance you could have never planned against in a million years. That's how tragedy works.

What's funny is that I might already know this woman. She fits the first two criteria, and a friend tells me her eyes all but flash rapidly in morse code when she sees me in the library.

Whatever. She has many options I'm sure. Still, It would be interesting if she asked me. I've never cried so hard that I started laughing before.

I know a guy named Art, and I know what I like.

I've been in my apartment for quite a while, and still have almost nothing on the walls. Initially I had meant to wait until my sister Libby sent me some old photos of my parents... but she's still busy and I am still waiting more than a year later. Then I made a brief stab at getting something, only to find that I don't respond to Gustav Klimt's "The Kiss" the same way that I used to (also, I found the selection a tad pedestrian).

Finally though, I have spent cash on something for the wall. I bought a print by Geof Darrow. He's an artist best known for the comic books THE BIG GUY AND RUSTY THE BOY ROBOT and HARD BOILED (both written by Frank Miller) and the design of every damn thing in THE MATRIX movies. It's the image off of CHEVAL NOIR #2 which you can see here and it measures 19" x 30".

What I love is all the questions the picture and it's myriad details throw out at the observer: Who is this guy? (Well, in fact I know the answer to that one: His name is Bourbon Thret.) What's he running from or toward? Where's he been? Looking at the hat, where hasn't he been? What adventure is he stuck in the middle of and what is he smiling about?

Now that THE MATRIX movies have come to their ignominous end, Darrow has a new comic book out: SHAOLIN COWBOY. Issue #1 is out now in finer comic shops everywhere and recommended to everyone who thinks they would like a book featuring great art, a strong silent hero in the Sammo Hung mold, his high verbal donkey sidekick, and more than a little of the old ultraviolence. The first is mostly set-up and hilariously so. An interview with Darrow about the book can be found here.

Now to get it framed.

Some preliminary thoughts on the divine.

I go on a lot in this blog about the things I love: Movies, books, comics, etc. The obvious reason for why I do this is that the material in question is very compelling to me and since you're reading here it might be of interest to you too. The less obvious one (but far more accurate) is that I write about other stuff so I can avoid writing about myself.

Thursday morning, 2:23 ayem. I am alone, which is not in itself strange. I am always alone, and especially when I'm not. That just seems to be the way of things.

What use is this heart of mine? My heart seems forever locked in the doldrums on the edge of the known world. I'm following charts empty of useful coordinates. Nothing but great distances to cross with no safe ports of call to head for.

Uhm. Yeah. Moving on...

Today I went to the library branch close to my house to inquire about transferring there. The Hollywood branch sports a vastly smaller building, smaller collection, less interesting patrons and more crazy ones. However, it's a five minute walk from home (saving me over an hour in commute time), I might be encouraged to pack a lunch regularly instead of eating out, AND I'd be trading the endless amount of bullshit with management for a pittance or just the same bullshit in a new locale.

Whatever. I hope the transfer goes through. I am very bored with the library and can feel the rot setting in.

Recently I picked up Freethinkers: A History Of American Secularism by Susan Jacoby. Pretty self explanatory title really. It chronicles America's illustrious tradition of atheists (like Thomas Paine, the man responsible for giving the Founding Fathers the idea of a Republic by the people, for the people, etc.), deists (Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, George Washington, and Abraham Lincoln), and the like.

Jacoby wrote this book in response to the ever increasing movement of fundamentalism emanating from the White House. The separation of church and state really has never been more in jeopardy than it is these days. Such an important issue (Washington's absolute commitment to it is the main reason he was chosen to be the first president), but the very religious of all sides fail to realize that it is meant to protect their rights not limit them.

For my part, I have no religion. This simple fact pleases me no end. More than having a religion ever did, that's for sure. As Thomas Paine said, "My mind is my own church." Or take Alan Moore's quote: "The domain of thought is the one place that gods inarguably exist." That I can perceive a sort of connection between these two geniuses so different from one another stokes my imagination. And my religious impulse, if you will.

Movies.

The 2004 summer movie season is over. There wasn't much I wanted to see this year. Logic tells me it's been over for quite a while now, but it's Indian Summer in my head, so shut the fuck up.

On the whole, I was pretty bored with it. You're probably saying, "Well, Jack, you're thirty-four. Of course Big Loud Stupid Action Extravaganzas don't interest you. You're getting older, and your tastes are maturing. By the way, enjoy your last year on planet Earth as part of the 18-34 demographic. Soon no one will care about you or what movies you want to see."

Yeah, yeah. But here's the thing: I like Big Loud Stupid Action Extravaganzas. I'm just wanting a more intense, less stupid, vastly more creative versions of same. And when I don't get it, I become a more than a little cross. To a certain extent, it's like the movie going experience is personal, and the lesser movie I have been forced to endure is... a betrayal.

That probably sounds a little bizzare, and I owe an explanation. Fine. Try this on for size: I think it's possible that I experience story on a much deeper level than most people, maybe the way a lot of others listen to music or take drugs. In a way, it's rather like I ingest the narrative; let it inside, and at the same time lose myself in it.

So when I've consumed said story, and it's fucking lame, my entire being rejects it like food poisoning. With something this important and intense, you have to be really good at the culling of material --otherwise you could end up strung out on some bad shit, like Michael Crichton (ick!), Robert Jordan (ulp!), or worst of all: Tim LaHaye (gahhhhh!)

At that point, it's best to just induce vomiting. But I was talking about movies, not books. I'm sorry.

Okay, back to movies then: You've probably noticed, there's a lot of movies coming out these last few years based on comic books. In the US, comic books mainly mean superheroes. While I enjoy stuff like Spider-Man 2 (which was better than the already good first one in every way) and will probably go to see next year's Batman Begins and The Fantastic Four, part of me is screaming because it wants Something New.

Come on. Spider-Man and the Fantastic Four were both really cool, forward looking concepts... forty years ago. Batman? Superman? Your grandfather has memories of afternoons stretched out on the lawn reading their exploits back in... 1939. Go ask.

My point is, it's the 21st Century. The flying car thing didn't work out and that sucks, I still have to work for a living instead of having a robot slave to free up my time, but I'm learning to deal. Still, we are living in the future now. I'd like to see some movies reflect that. Isn't time for New Heroes? Some New Myths?

I know what some of you are thinking you know.

"Get to work."

Some preposterous ramblings.

This past Saturday I went to the Egyptian Theatre to watch some obscure westerns as part of their Westward Bound: The 1st Annual Westerns Festival. Even though I overslept, the Egyptian is a mere seven minute walk away so I made it on time.

On the bill were two double-features: Two Robert Mitchum movies consisting of Bandido (1956) and The Wonderful Country (1959); followed by two 'B' westerns directed by William Witney, Santa Fe Passage (1955) and Stranger At My Door (1956).

All four films were just okay, but Quentin Tarantino introduced the second pair and I shook hands and exchanged a few minor words with him. Go me.

I also watched The Patriot. This is the summer blockbuster of 2000 starring Mel Gibson that boiled the American Revolution down to a rather boring story of revenge. The six episode Ken Burns style documentary called Liberty!: The American Revolution is coming through Netflix in the next couple days, in order that sanity can be restored.

The American Revolution is becoming a minor obsession for me. Soon I'll be reading biographies of the founding fathers, histories, etc. For insight into the religious beliefs of the founders of our nation, you could do much worse than pick up Thomas Paine: The Collected Writings published by The Library Of America. There's a reason why this country has a separation of church and state, and Paine was huge influence on Jefferson, Franklin, Washington, and later Lincoln.

What else am I reading now? In addition to items mentioned recently; the new Stephenson of course, in addition to selected works of Shakespeare, Bernard Shaw's plays Pygmalion and Man And Superman; and Neil Gaiman's graphic novel in eight parts .1602, which recasts the superheroes of the Silver Age as Elizabethan era characters. It actually works much better than it sounds.

Looking over my blog, what shines most brightly is my utter lack of discipline and almost perfect inability to express what I mean. Bah. All it means is that I need to write more. Has there ever been a time in my life when I didn't need to write MORE? Accurate assessment of this mess indicates that I need to write about TEN TIMES MORE than I do now just to get a tenth of what I write at an acceptable level.

This by the way is why I will never have children. There is not enough room in my life for children AND the ideas I want to have AND the places I want to go AND the drugs I want to take AND the drinks I want to consume AND the women I want to... AND. AND. AND. Mine shall be a life devoted to romance.

The inside of my head is a jungle, a thick tangle of concepts and memories and ambitions. I need to beat through all of that with every stroke of the pen or keyboard to get to something that no one's ever seen, that I can't even guess at the nature of. What is it? Fuck if I know, but it's in there. I know it, and so does everyone else apparently. Even strangers, damn them.

Anglophiling.

Friends, family, enemies, and lovers are quite aware of my love for British pop culture. Sherlock Holmes was probably the first fictional hero I ever had. The Beatles the first music I can remember falling in love with. (How much of this was due to them having a cartoon I saw every day after toiling in the first grade? I don't know. I just consider myself supremely fortunate that Neil Diamond didn't have a cartoon that I might've seen at that impressionable age.)

My obsession with James Bond (which flowered during the time every other boy in my generation had given himself over to Star Wars) and I suppose Doctor Who --came later. (I really do need to write about the Bond thing. Later.)

In the 1980's American comics experienced a sort of "British Invasion" as writers and artists from across the pond started writing and drawing for us. This exposed me to the writing of Alan Moore, Grant Morrison, Peter Milligan, and Neil Gaiman. Holy Living Fuck were those the days. Well, for comics they were anyway.

All this has been a preamble to some links I'd like to point out:

The BBC is now airing The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy: Tertiary Phase on Radio 4. You can listen to the current episode for a week here. The original series is easily amongst the most imaginative and hilarious radio I've ever had the pleasure to listen to. Don't know how the current batch will match up, but here's hoping.

The current series of six shows (and another six planned for next year) will adapt the remaining three novels in the "trilogy". Douglas Adams was doing some work on it when he passed away a few years ago. He did manage to actually voice one of the characters. Oh, and all the surviving cast members are back, which is very cool.

Some years ago, an English guy I worked with named Simon introduced me to the work of one Stephen Fry. Fry is an English actor, novelist, and director. He played Oscar Wilde in the film Wilde, Jeeves in the tv show based on P.G. Woodhouse's Jeeves and Wooster stories, and was featured prominently in my favorite tv sitcom ever Blackadder. He's also the reader of the Harry Potter audiobooks in England.

The man is witty, erudite, and hilarious. He also gives tremendously good interviews. In order of appearance: An interview from a couple years ago with Jonathan Ross from BBC Radio 2, a recent one on NPR, last week's conversation from The Onion and some further conversation from the same interview can be found here. Also very interesting is this blog entry where the interviewer writes of what it was like to interview Mr. Fry. Excellent.

I was lead to the two most recent interviews by links found on Neil Gaiman's blog. Something else really clever that began because of that blog is Johnny Theremin.

Made me laugh.

Enjoy this holding pattern for now.

I haven't written of my experience at Burning Man yet. Some of you are champing at the bit and bristling at the bridle over the silence. I've been somewhat busy the past couple weeks. It's taken a while to reacclimate myself to 'civilization' and figure out What's Next. E-mails are owed, blogs go unwritten, and bon mots go undropped in conversation as a result.

Huge blog entry to follow soonish. Oh and by the way: Today is September 21st, 2004. Neal Stephenson's The System Of The World, third volume in the epic work of sheer authorial genius known as The Baroque Cycle.

Rick Kleffel of The Agony Column (one of my favorite sites devoted to books) says Stephenson's achievement is on the order of Tolkien's Lord Of The Rings or William Gibson's Neuromancer. You can read what he has to say here.

Get thee to a bookstore!

We pause to discuss What I Am Reading And Watching.

Any minute now I am going to be done with Neal Stephenson's The Confusion and baying at the moon in anticipation for Volume Three of The Baroque Cycle: The System Of The World. It's taken me quite a while to finish, but I've been distracted these past couple months. Having said that, let me say that I can't wait to re-read the whole close-to-3000 page trilogy. Methinks I will love it even more the second time.

When that one's cast aside, I'll be picking up Letters To His Son by the Earl of Chesterfield. Subtitled 'On the Fine Art of Becoming a Man of the World and a Gentleman', this is a collection of the correspondence the Earl wrote to his illegitimate son (starting in 1737) as a way of supplementing the bastard's education.

Samuel Johnson despised the book saying it, "taught the morals of a whore and the manners of a dancing master." Now I'm reading it in the 21st century, which goes to show that there really is no such thing as bad publicity.

Also on deck is Give Our Regards To The Atomsmashers!, an anthology of essays about comics by such literary worthies as Jonathan Lethem, Glen David Gold, Greil Marcus, Luc Sante, and Aimee Bender. It's edited by Sean Howe. Just think, if I had spent the last fifteen years busting my ass proper at this writing thing I might have had an essay in this book. (That's what I tell myself anyway.)

And... I'll be re-reading Ross Thomas's Chinaman's Chance. This is for a thing I'm working on with friend soon to be collaborator Mark Miano. I don't think I've ever mentioned Thomas here before. High time for it I suppose. Ross Thomas is one of the hidden treasures of late-20th century crime/espionage fiction. How a man who wrote so well and made it look so fucking easy remain so totally unknown staggers imagining.

You can read an article about the late, great Mr. Thomas courtesy of the LA Weekly. St. Martin's Press is currently reissueing his complete backstock of twenty-five titles. Try The Fools In Town Are On Our Side or his first, The Cold War Swap (which he wrote in six weeks and won an Edgar Award for Best First Novel). You owe it to yourself.

In the watching department I joined Netflix a couple months ago and my life has been made immeasureably better. I've been watching the first seasons of Monk, The Gilmore Girls (the turn-on present in gorgeous brunettes spouting witty dialogue should not be underestimated), and the occasional movie.

I feel the need to point out that I bought a dvd of The Winslow Boy. Based on Terence Rattigan's play and directed by David Mamet, it is one of the most profoundly satisfying movies I've seen in the last decade. At the end of it nothing would have made me happier than to watch ten more hours of the same characters. Give it a look.

I am leaving for Burning Man this weekend and will be back with many tales to tell in just over a week. At some point I have to remember to write about silent films, why the 1960's James Bond/secret agent craze died out but lives on in me, and ruminations on the opposite sex.

At Night In The Summertime

Christ. It's one-thirty in the morning, Thursday. I'm awake, thinking, and now writing. My nerves have been lightly sanded by heroic sized mugs of Columbian coffee. This is going to be an interminable kind of rambling entry, so consider yourself warned.

You know, what I really want to do right now? Talk. Unfortunately, no one I know is up. Nobody in any time zone. Can you believe that?

I thought as an adult I would have friends sprinkled all over the globe. We would spend our days living our incredible lives and take calls from one another at any hour. Who knows when adventure's going to call? No one does, motherfucker, so pick up the phone --it might be her.

The reality is that now I'm thirty-four; most of my friends are settled down, or in the process of same. They're getting married, buying houses, having babies. You know, the Big Real Life things that most people work toward.

Yeah, um... I'm not doing any of those things at present. I don't want a house (and couldn't afford one out here anyway), and children hold about as much appeal for me as getting leprosy. Marriage is an institution I can see being commited to in the future, but the arms on that particular jacket are still looking a wee bit long if you know what I mean.

It sounds like I am avoiding responsibility, and I am. Not the way you're thinking of, though. I'll continue this line of thought later...