Comic Book Death Pool, Learning and Tales from a Smoker: My Weakest Moment
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
I’m joining a dead pool that starts in September. The way it works is, everyone chooses 10 people they think are going to die this year. If your person dies you get one point for every year they’re under 100 and I think 20 extra points if you’re the only one that picked that person. It’s a fun concept and got me thinking – we should have a comic book death pool. Go here for the rules and information on how to sign up – I’m going to try to muster up an original sketch from somebody as the prize, I'll announce who as soon as I land someone. A "2006 Comic Book Death Pool Winner" themed sketch. I'll sniff around and see who I can get.
A wise woman once said: “You live, you learn. You love, you learn. You cry, you learn. You lose, you learn. You bleed, you learn. You scream, you learn. You grieve, you learn. You choke, you learn. You laugh, you learn. You choose, you learn. You pray, you learn. You ask, you learn. You live, you learn.” Despite the fact that I have never learned much from screaming, choking or praying and I generally tend to learn after I make the wrong choice but not just when I choose, I have learned something recently. I learned that there is a time, place and venue for every story. And “All the Wrong Choices” might have been a wrong choice for Elk’s Run #2 now that I’ve seen several reviews where people were confused.
You write, you learn. You misjudge, you learn. You write a story about a man that sucks farts off of subway seats and the little boy that sees him and publish it in a more mainstream comic, you learn.
____________________
There was a pretty strict rule at my dorm that stated no smoking was allowed in any of the common areas. And by strict rule I mean no one ever followed it but there was a rule in place. Every floor had a common area and ours was constantly populated with people studying, talking or waiting for their roommate to finish up. And every single one of us was smoking at all times.
One weekend my parents visited and I managed to miraculously make it through an entire weekend without getting caught smoking (significance of this). This was such a rare occurrence and needless to say I was much elated. Elateful – inventing new words is fun.
Anyway, the Sunday evening after they left was a standard hanging out in the common area, smoking and talking kind of lazy Sunday night. Out of nowhere our RA rounds the corner and sees me puffing on an American Spirit, laughing about something or other.
My freshman year RA was a dork through and through. ROTC, bed by 9, straight A and straight edge, coffee-caked face dork. He would only get involved when someone would complain because he hated confrontation. So if I was playing music too loud he’d lightly knock on my door and with his nasally voice say, “Yeah – Jason - how’s it going? I got a complaint about your music being too loud so maybe you can just turn it down a little?” I mean, no balls. Seriously. So when he came around and put the hammer down on me smoking, we were all shocked.
Homeboy was pissed. He did one of those, “You know? I’m sick and tired of this floor smelling like smoke all the time!” He was dork-raging all the way and we were trying hard not to laugh. And then he gave me the horns.
“That’s it, I’m writing you up.”
He’s writing me up. Which is fine, I’ve gotten written up in the past and I planned on getting written up in the future. But as he walked away my brain had the following monologue: “What a dork. Writing me up for smoking. I mean…wait a minute. They’d send a letter home. My mom would find out. And I just busted my ass to hide it from her – all of my hard work would be for nothing. She’d get a letter saying I was smoking in the hall the day she left! Oh man. OH MAN THAT SUCKS! No, he can’t do this. That dork! That god-damn ROTC, fag-pants, pizza-faced dork!”
As I get more and more riled up I make my way to his room, knock on his door. He answers.
Me: Hey, sorry about the smoking thing, I won’t do it again.
RA: Yeah, well, I’m still writing you up.
DORK! Except, you see, here is where I become a hypocrite for calling anyone else a dork. I’m going to obviously paraphrase the conversation but you’ll get the general idea.
Me: Come on, dude, I won’t do it again. You don’t have to write me up.
RA: I’m writing you up.
Me: Oh, come on. What’s the big deal?
RA: You tell me.
Me: Nah, man, it’s just…you know…my mom doesn’t want me smoking and I just told her I quit and if she gets a letter home like this she’s going to be pissed.
(That’s right folks, college student, pseudo on my own, tough-guy, saying that my mom’s going to be mad at me. But, you see, it gets worse…)
RA: Well that’s your problem.
(I’m getting a little desperate here. Partly because I feel like I’m on a mission but mainly because he’s threatening to take away my moment. And, you know, I don’t want to hear my mom crying on the phone.)
Me: Dude, come on, don’t do this. My mom – she has a bad heart and she’s always getting worked up over this stuff and I don’t want her to get too upset. Just let it go.
RA: No.
(Now, to say my throat wasn’t getting a little shaky here would be a lie. I really sort of let the moment get me going a little too much.)
Me: Dude, come on! Look at me here, I’m begging. My mom’s going to have a heart-attack if you send that letter home.
(Paraphrasing or not, I specifically remember telling him my mom was going to have a heart-attack. And, while I’m at it, if I say I didn’t have tears in my eyes here it would be a lie.)
RA: Well you’ll learn your lesson.
Me: My mom having a heart attack would teach me my lesson? Come on, dude, look at me, I’m serious here. This isn’t a joke. I learned my lesson. Come on. Please.
RA: Just…just don’t do it again, all right?
Me: Thank you! Thank you so much. I promise I will never do it again, thank you, thank you, thank you.
I backed away from his door, practically bowing. It wasn’t my proudest moment. Once the whole ordeal was done with I sort of got my bearings together and realized that I just acted like an idiot and should be ashamed of myself I needed to pull myself together so I had a cigarette.
In the common room, of course.
A wise woman once said: “You live, you learn. You love, you learn. You cry, you learn. You lose, you learn. You bleed, you learn. You scream, you learn. You grieve, you learn. You choke, you learn. You laugh, you learn. You choose, you learn. You pray, you learn. You ask, you learn. You live, you learn.” Despite the fact that I have never learned much from screaming, choking or praying and I generally tend to learn after I make the wrong choice but not just when I choose, I have learned something recently. I learned that there is a time, place and venue for every story. And “All the Wrong Choices” might have been a wrong choice for Elk’s Run #2 now that I’ve seen several reviews where people were confused.
You write, you learn. You misjudge, you learn. You write a story about a man that sucks farts off of subway seats and the little boy that sees him and publish it in a more mainstream comic, you learn.
____________________
There was a pretty strict rule at my dorm that stated no smoking was allowed in any of the common areas. And by strict rule I mean no one ever followed it but there was a rule in place. Every floor had a common area and ours was constantly populated with people studying, talking or waiting for their roommate to finish up. And every single one of us was smoking at all times.
One weekend my parents visited and I managed to miraculously make it through an entire weekend without getting caught smoking (significance of this). This was such a rare occurrence and needless to say I was much elated. Elateful – inventing new words is fun.
Anyway, the Sunday evening after they left was a standard hanging out in the common area, smoking and talking kind of lazy Sunday night. Out of nowhere our RA rounds the corner and sees me puffing on an American Spirit, laughing about something or other.
My freshman year RA was a dork through and through. ROTC, bed by 9, straight A and straight edge, coffee-caked face dork. He would only get involved when someone would complain because he hated confrontation. So if I was playing music too loud he’d lightly knock on my door and with his nasally voice say, “Yeah – Jason - how’s it going? I got a complaint about your music being too loud so maybe you can just turn it down a little?” I mean, no balls. Seriously. So when he came around and put the hammer down on me smoking, we were all shocked.
Homeboy was pissed. He did one of those, “You know? I’m sick and tired of this floor smelling like smoke all the time!” He was dork-raging all the way and we were trying hard not to laugh. And then he gave me the horns.
“That’s it, I’m writing you up.”
He’s writing me up. Which is fine, I’ve gotten written up in the past and I planned on getting written up in the future. But as he walked away my brain had the following monologue: “What a dork. Writing me up for smoking. I mean…wait a minute. They’d send a letter home. My mom would find out. And I just busted my ass to hide it from her – all of my hard work would be for nothing. She’d get a letter saying I was smoking in the hall the day she left! Oh man. OH MAN THAT SUCKS! No, he can’t do this. That dork! That god-damn ROTC, fag-pants, pizza-faced dork!”
As I get more and more riled up I make my way to his room, knock on his door. He answers.
Me: Hey, sorry about the smoking thing, I won’t do it again.
RA: Yeah, well, I’m still writing you up.
DORK! Except, you see, here is where I become a hypocrite for calling anyone else a dork. I’m going to obviously paraphrase the conversation but you’ll get the general idea.
Me: Come on, dude, I won’t do it again. You don’t have to write me up.
RA: I’m writing you up.
Me: Oh, come on. What’s the big deal?
RA: You tell me.
Me: Nah, man, it’s just…you know…my mom doesn’t want me smoking and I just told her I quit and if she gets a letter home like this she’s going to be pissed.
(That’s right folks, college student, pseudo on my own, tough-guy, saying that my mom’s going to be mad at me. But, you see, it gets worse…)
RA: Well that’s your problem.
(I’m getting a little desperate here. Partly because I feel like I’m on a mission but mainly because he’s threatening to take away my moment. And, you know, I don’t want to hear my mom crying on the phone.)
Me: Dude, come on, don’t do this. My mom – she has a bad heart and she’s always getting worked up over this stuff and I don’t want her to get too upset. Just let it go.
RA: No.
(Now, to say my throat wasn’t getting a little shaky here would be a lie. I really sort of let the moment get me going a little too much.)
Me: Dude, come on! Look at me here, I’m begging. My mom’s going to have a heart-attack if you send that letter home.
(Paraphrasing or not, I specifically remember telling him my mom was going to have a heart-attack. And, while I’m at it, if I say I didn’t have tears in my eyes here it would be a lie.)
RA: Well you’ll learn your lesson.
Me: My mom having a heart attack would teach me my lesson? Come on, dude, look at me, I’m serious here. This isn’t a joke. I learned my lesson. Come on. Please.
RA: Just…just don’t do it again, all right?
Me: Thank you! Thank you so much. I promise I will never do it again, thank you, thank you, thank you.
I backed away from his door, practically bowing. It wasn’t my proudest moment. Once the whole ordeal was done with I sort of got my bearings together and realized that I just acted like an idiot and should be ashamed of myself I needed to pull myself together so I had a cigarette.
In the common room, of course.
Labels: mitc
posted by Jason at
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