Breaking walls and physics

Today is my last day in my current apartment. I’ve been in this building for three years, this particular apartment for two of them. With everything packed up and this apartment exposed in all it’s nakedness I can honestly say that Robin and I have thoroughly fucked this place up really, really bad. Holes in the wall, stains on the ripped up carpet. Blinds are cracked, I smashed the light on the ceiling in the bedroom and it’s been a bare bulb for the past year. Warped wood, books on the windowsill so long they left clumps of paper and paint behind. The tub is so dirty it looks like we were using our place as a hostel for peeps traversing the Underground Railroad (I forget if any of it actually was underground but you know they were covered in dirt by the time got this far up north either way).

I wish I could be all cool and talk about the rock star buried deep within me and how said rock star just destroys shit for the hell of it. Fact of the matter is - I am quite possibly the biggest klutz you will ever meet. Just to let you know how bad it is, and how people have just accepted it, the other day I was out grocery shopping with Robin when she turns to me and says, “You know, you haven’t fallen down in a while.” Completely out of the blue, I should have been thrown for a loop. Instead I just thought about it for a second and agreed. I haven’t fallen down in a while.

We have a half cup rule in my apartment. If I’m drinking anything but water I am not allowed to have my cup more than half way filled. This way, when I spill it, it won’t leave as big a stain. You see what I mean; it’s just sort of become my way of life. When I help people move I don’t carry the TV. Everyone discourages me from entering stores with glassware in it – they usually ask me to wait outside. If I have to go in, because let’s say I’m the one buying some stuff, I need to take my book bag off. I’m bad with my book bag, I have pretty much worn one everyday of my life since elementary school, I wear it everywhere, and yet I will still walk around as if I have no idea it’s on my back. My book bag has been on the receiving end of the “you break it you buy it” rule many a time. This basically means I’ve been on the receiving end of the “you break it you buy it” rule many a time since my book bag can’t hold a job let alone pay for the shit it breaks.

Probably one of my bigger klutz moments and by far my favorite was when I wanted to act out a scene from Monty Python’s Meaning of Life (I believe). There was a skit when a man hires some people to bring him up a mountain – Everest, I assume. Anyway, this crazy tour-guide guy, a Sherpa I guess, shows the mountain climber the path they will take by climbing on the wall and office furniture.

So, I decided to show RJ and Luis what happened in this hysterical skit. The first move was to jump on the wall in my parents dining room and pretend to cling to it as if it’s a mountain.

Foot right through the wall, up to my knee.

I think I should pause for a second. This wall has a bit of history with me. I put several holes in it, usually from opening the door too hard and punching the doorknob through it. Now, I have this one memory which could really be another dream because looking at it now it’s really weird. But I also think I pushed Luis through this wall once. I’m actually laughing my as off right now because it seems pretty ridiculous. Either way, this is the first time I put my foot through it.

So now RJ, Luis and I are staring at the hole in the wall and wondering what we should tell my parents. We had some joke suggestions, a bird flew in the window and crashed into the wall, someone threw a bowling ball through the window and it went through the wall. We finally settled on the worst lie of all time.

Now, it’s a lot funnier if you look at the layout of my parent’s apartment and try to act out what I told them. But here we go. I was in the kitchen, getting something out of the fridge. I close the fridge and leave the kitchen, trip over the corner of the refrigerator, probably becoming the first man in the history of refrigerators to trip over the corner of one. That’s like tripping over the corner of a building. Anyway, I tripped over the corner of the refrigerator, turned 90 degrees, and somehow fell forward about eight feet, crashing head first through the wall. This was my big excuse. It violated every law of physics as well as every law in lying.

They didn’t buy it. At all.

Hey, if you’re going to pick up Elk’s Run #1 and if you’re a customer for Mail Order Comics, like I am (shops are for pussies), pick it up there. They have it for 40% off cover (at some point today, as of this posting they still haven't updated the main site), good deal. I really shouldn’t be going around telling that to the world because it’s kind of assholish to the other retailers but we’re all friends here and I know some of you already buy from them. I don’t see why you all wouldn’t buy from them, books are cheap, don’t have to leave your house to socialize with nerds and you can be sure to order all of your indies and not rely on your LCS picking them up. That’s just me though.

read a book, fanboy: A Canticle for Leibowitz

turn off the metallica, fanboy: Cold Vein

Learning to Drink

I almost wrote my Saturday post last night, before going to bed.

I was a little on the drunk side, went out with a bunch of people to celebrate Robin’s last day at her job that’s been torturing her for the last year or so. She starts her dream job next Wednesday – working at home running a pet sitting business because the owner is retiring. Making the same amount of money and a set schedule so she can go to grad school and get her MBA, which she started doing this month. Congratulations baby.

So, yeah, I was drunk and my post would have totally sucked. Big time. I’m glad I actually had the sense to stop myself and say, “You know, Jason, this post is probably going to ruin everything you’ve trying to build on this board.” Ok. I didn’t say that. I said, “Man, I can really go for some McDonalds” but then realized I shouldn’t drive to McDonalds so went to bed in an attempt to combat the cravings.

Anyway, I think this is a good time to talk about some of my worst drunken experiences.

Tequila Night – College, sophomore year. Me, five friends and a bottle of tequila. Kicked in about an hour. Flying the rest of the night. Talking to my friend Kim in the hall, my friend Matt gives me a wedgy, slight tear in the underwear. “You call that a wedgy, you pussy?” I scream at him as I reach behind my back, grab the band of my underwear, pull it over my head and rip the underwear OFF MY BODY WITH MY PANTS STILL ON. “Now THAT’S a wedgy!” Hung them up on my wall, it became legend. People would come from miles to see the underwear.

First Night of College – Never had hard liquor before that. I was a beer man straight through. Went to a party, talked all kinds of shit. Someone must have called my bluff and handed me one of those big plastic souvenir cups. About 9 parts vodka 1 part OJ. I don’t know if I drank the whole thing but I know I threw up all night. One part I remember was my girlfriend at the time helping me shower because I puked all over myself. “Move your head.” I said. One second later I’m throwing up where her head was. Not a proud night by any stretch.

Down by the River – Sophomore year again. We were all drinking in the dorm, took it to the Charles River. I decided to lay down by the river bank because I’m that smart. My friend Kim, from the tequila story, found me and Picked m up, pretty much carried me home. Kiro, the tallest Japanese man to ever lived, found us halfway and helped her out. We got to the dorm. “I’m fine, I need to shit.” I went into the bathroom and my ass exploded. Then I had to puke. So in this quick ninja motion I spun off the bowl, put my head in it and puked. I then rested my head on the seat and passed out, face hanging over a mixture of diarrhea and puke, pants down to my ankles exposing my shit crusted ass. Kiro came in and found me and being a true friend, picked me up and carried me into my bed. Even pulled my pants up for me. He told me the next day that I told him “It’s ok, you don’t need to wipe my ass.” He didn’t, of course, thankfully.

Joe’s Car – Joe was on the football team with me. One night we went out to some friend’s house. Joe was on meds, he wasn’t drinking, so we took his car out instead of a cab. Well, I drank. We drive back to Joe’s house. Right after we park, about ten seconds before I should have exited the car, I decide I can’t hold it anymore and turn to throw up out of Joe’s window. But the windows closed. All over his car, all over myself. I start telling Joe I can’t move. He runs in, gets some paper towel, and cleans the inside of the car and me while I apologize to him over and over and over again. Once he’s done I hail a cab and go home.

I’ll tell me two other favorites, not involving me.

Nico on Skates – Sophomore year, again. Nico from Rico is drunk. We all are. He wants to go rollerblading. We didn’t think it was a good idea, he went without us. About an hour later he comes back. Cuts all over his body, bleeding from head to toe, clothes ripped. He looked like he got hit by a car and dragged through the neighborhood.

Tom in Cambridge – At party, Junior year this time. Tom disappears. We cant find him anywhere, finally we decide to go home. At about 4AM Tom calls us at the dorm, tells us he doesn’t know where he is. He throwing out street names, we use Mapquest. He’s in Cambridge. We were at a party in Allston. And his isn’t Cambridge as in off a T Cambridge. This shit was deep Cambridge. “Tom, how the fuck did you get out there?” He started walking home from the party and saw some little kid’s bike in a yard. He hopped the fence and stole this little bike and rode it, drunk, all the way to Cambridge.

So those are some of my drinking stories. Feel free to share yours.

read a book, fanboy: The Bad Guys Won!

turn off the metallica, fanboy: Accepted Eclectic

Accidentally damning Poppy to hell (or why I never “swear” anymore unless I really, really mean it)

I’m not extremely religious an in dogmatic religion but I consider myself pretty spiritual. And not just because it’s trendy, I actually go through all the motions. I pray every night, take moments out of my day to thank whoever is obviously hook me up and try to follow some sort of righteous help people out path. My praying is usually pretty casual, I just sort of talk to God while I fall asleep, about my day, tell him stories. I don’t know - I just figure everyone else bothers him with requests; I just try to make him laugh.

Last night for some reason I decided to see which of the original Ten Commandments I break routinely. Four of them but it really depends on the definition. I don’t keep the Sabbath “holy” per se but that come from creationism and on the seventh day God rested, that’s what I do. So I don’t think I break it but others probably do. Committing adultery. That’s a tough one. I’m a pretty monogamous dude, as in, I am. Six years with Robin. Six years! But not married. Again, that one is a bit murky. Bear false witness, occasionally. I’m a business man, I need to lie occasionally. Or embellish the truth at least.

Taking the name of the lord in vain. That’s what we’re talking about today. I think “God damn it” is my favorite phrase. And I occasionally “swear”, as in “I’m telling the truth swear to God”. But, in my defense, I only swear when I am absolutely 100% sure that I am telling the truth. Why? Because I damned my poppy to hell when I was a kid.

This is probably one of my earliest memories. I think I was in kindergarten at the time, my mom was walking me to school. I remember lying about something, I don’t know what it was. My mom knew I was lying and she was vexing.

“Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Do you swear on poppy?”

Now, poppy was my mother’s father. He died before I turned 1. He was a WWII hero and a neighborhood legend. He won all sorts of purple hearts and some silver things – a whole lot of medals. I think it was like 13. Seriously, not joking, I have a picture of it, I'll put it up when I get home. Anyway, I’m like 5 or 6 years old and who wants to get in trouble at that age? Getting in trouble means no ice cream.

“Yes, mom! I swear!”

And here is the memory that will be forever burned into my brain. My mom coming down to my level, looking me right in the eye and saying, “You swear? You know if you swear and you’re lying you’re sending Poppy, my father, to hell.”

Well. That’s just fucking great. Why didn’t you tell me that before I swore? What could I do? I already swore, too late to take it back. Poppy was frying now in my mind.

“I’m sure.” I had no other choice.

Looking back at it now it’s kind of funny. My mom, love her to death, had a flair for the dramatic. I highly doubt that by swearing on Poppy and lying about it because I didn’t want to get in trouble negates everything the man did in his life. If anything I damned myself to hell.

But still, sticks with me. When I swear on something, even if it’s my Daredevil collection, people believe it.

read a book, fanboy: The Crying of Lot 49

turn off the metallica, fanboy: Low End Theory

Random Tomato Paste Breaks and an Elk’s Run plug

The past three nights I have been working for my day job well past midnight. We (my boss, coworker and I) took a bit of a risk a month ago and decided to take our specialty to another company. We now have to start making money. So I’ve been writing proposals up the ass. Five this month while organizing three for next month. While trying to move, edit two books, find an artist and finish Esau.

Whatever happened to the days when you went to school (or even work) and when you were home you were home and that’s that. Not that I ever really did anything productive with my time. As a matter of fact, let me school you on three of the “games” my crew used to play to occupy our time (when we weren’t drinking or failing at getting ladies).

Breaks – My father used to play this so it wasn’t like we were crazy inventive with this one. There was a shape we made with our hand that if someone looked at it they were “broke”. There were rules of course, the break can not be placed within line of site, the victims eye had to be drawn towards it. If the intended person saw the break, you punched him. If he didn’t fall for it he punched you. Pretty standard game.

But we got obsessed with it. We found some of the most ingenious ways to break people. Take pictures of the break and put it in a stack of photographs, have a friend look through them. Tag team someone where a friend would say, “What’s that?” and point down the hall at someone else that was holding up a break. If someone dropped something we would go down to pick it up and come up empty handed, hand in break formation. “Here you go. BROKE!”

It got ridiculous; eventually it got to the point where you always had to stare into space because someone was trying to break you. We didn’t even punch anymore, just said “Save mine” and went about our business. A punch could easily be turned into a break. So one day we had a breaking the break ceremony. We went down to the pier; everyone gathered in a circle and held our breaks in the air. On the count of three we broke the break hand formation and vowed to never break again. And we wondered why we never got ladies.

Interesting side note, G and I set up our boy Max this past New Years. G took a picture of my break hand on his cell phone and programmed it so when I called it showed up. He was showing Max his new phone when I called. Making use of technology to break someone. Of course, he never changed his picture, so whenever I call him I get this on the other line, “Oh fuck! I have to change that shit!”

Broke G. You were broke.

Random – I don’t know how this game started but we must have been drunk. Hold a dictionary and without looking, open it up and point to a random page. Whatever word you point to is “your word”. At the end of a round, whoever has the most random word (as voted on by the players) wins. The winner makes the losers sing a random song in a random music style.

You could also call “random”. If you call “random” and point to the word "random" in the dictionary, you were the supreme winner for all time and at any point you can command the players to sing a song. At any point. Parties, weddings…anywhere you wanted. This was a very ideal situation to be in. So, if someone had a word like googleplex, you might as well call “random” because you’re going to lose anyway. However, if you call “random” and don’t point to “random”, you had to go into the middle of the street by yourself and do something completely random. Our neighbors thought we were psychotic. If they only knew what we were up to. They would think we were gay.

Tomato Paste – And yes, the weirdest game ever made. It all started when G and I were going to Brian’s house and my mom, quite possibly one of the most random people ever, gave us a can of tomato paste to give to Brian in case he needed it. So we did. The result was unexpected.

About six of us made a pact that the tomato paste will go with us wherever we go. Not only that, someone had to hold it all times and, with the exception of walking, could not partake in any activity while holding the tomato paste. They could also ask, “Hey, can you hold the tomato paste, I have to ______?” You were not allowed to deny the request. If any of these rules were broken, you got punched.

A classic example. We’re in Jimmy’s car. Scenario comes on. Brian turn to me and says, “Can you hold the tomato paste, I want to rap.” I take the tomato paste, he rocks Scenario along with Q-Tip and Busta’ Rhymes.

That lasted an entire summer. Then we went down to the pier with a can opener. Each of us took a turn opening the can of tomato paste. We then said some words, about what the tomato paste meant to us, and threw it in the river while screaming, “Farewell tomato paste!”

Ahh…how I long for those days.

Elk’s Run #1 is in Previews, tell your comic shop to order it! Order # FEB052900. Here’s what people are saying about it:


read a book, fanboy: If Chins Could Kill

turn off the metallica, fanboy: So...How's Your Girl?

The Day Mike Gets Shot

Now, my mom reads this blog. So this entry might be kind of weird because this is one the stories she definitely never heard. This was one of those never tell anyone type of stories for quite some time. But, several people have asked for it and I will deliver and if anything, there’s a lesson to be learned here. Don’t be an idiot.

In my January 19th posting entitled “Origin” I wrote:

“The lackluster response of the new EP combined with the not-so-good Moose the Movie, our friend Mike getting shot in the neck and G and I allegedly playing strip poker with Brian’s ex-girlfriend and her DOPE best friend, R.A.I.L. broke up and The Moose went back to the closet.”

Several people have written me emails asking if the whole Mike getting shot thing was a joke. No, it wasn’t. This is one of those Brooklyn stories. Brooklyn stories are the stories you tell when a friend asks, “So you’re from New York? What’s the worst thing you ever seen.” This is the story I tell. In no way is it representative of New York, shit like this happens once, but it’s the story they want to hear when they ask that question.

The end of our first year in college, we are all home for the summer, my whole crew. One night, a bunch of the guys get together for a night of drinking and shooting the shit about college. This guy Mike was there, the cousin of our friend Jimmy. Mike and his friend went out to some bar at around 11 or so and said they would come back later.

It’s now about 2AM. We’re all feeling pretty good and we know Mike is coming home soon. We decide to set up a “Home Alone House” complete with trip wires, greased doorknobs, stuff to step on – nothing to really injure but enough to make people laugh.

We all pretend to go to sleep. I’m lying on a sofa to the left of the entryway, giggling like a maniac when the doorbell rings. Ciro grabs a squirt bottle and the fun is about to begin.

Ciro squirts some water out of this peep-hole like thing in the door. We hear “FUCK!”

He opens the door. In comes Mike, his friend and his friend’s brother (whom we never met before then). His friend’s brother is pissed-off, screaming, “Who the fuck spit in my face?” I’m still giggling my ass off until I look up and dangling right above my face is a fucking pistol.

The laughter stops really quick when the friend’s brother starts waving that shit around.

Mike’s friend calms his drunken brother down and gets the gun off of him, tells him to chill out. The brother goes into the kitchen to cool off. I tell the friend to take the bullets out of the gun now and he agrees that it’s probably a good idea. Everyone goes upstairs and hangs in Jimmy’s parent’s room while the friend tends to his brother downstairs.

The friend comes up. Tells us his brother is leaving, he gave him the gun back but it’s not loaded. We all breathe a sigh of relief.

Then the brother comes upstairs.

“I need some bullets, I had beef with some guy at the bar and he might be after me.”

We all smile, there’s no way in fuck this asshole is getting his bullets back.

Wrong.

The friend hands his brother the bullets. Here’s where the story diverges from my version and what I heard happened. You see, as soon as the friend reached into his pocket I decided this would be a GREAT time to take that shit that’s been backing up. So I go down stairs, sit on the bowl and I’m pretty sure I start crying.

BANG!

I don’t fucking move. I hear people running, screaming, doors slamming shut and I sit on that bowl and take a shit.

Finally I come out and it’s the most surreal thing ever. I walk up the stairs and the brother is sitting on the toilet bowl, head in his hand and crying. Sitting on the sink is Mike, a towel to his neck. “What the fuck happened?” I asked him. He pulls the towel away. The fucking bullet went right through the right side of his neck, in the front and out the back. I was offset from the jugular, more of a skim pass the muscle but there was a chunk of flesh missing from Mike’s neck. A couple of inches over to the left and he was dead.

Brian tells me that this is “delicate”. It was an accident, the brother went cowboy and spun the gun on his finger. It went off and clipped Mike. Apparently the brother had some mafia connections (which was probably bullshit) and we can’t tell anyone about this. He was going to drive Mike to a friend that was going to “patch him up”. RJ, G and Ciro were gone, they ran out. G was my ride.

I go outside and they’re all in G’s car waiting for me. They rush me in and we drive off. RJ, who was standing right next to Mike when it all happened, said that the crazy fuck did not spin any gun. He raised it and fired without blinking an eye.

And that’s what happened the night Mike got shot.

Interesting side note, Mike needed to tell his parents something. He was all bandaged up on his neck. He told them a stick went through his neck while playing football. And they believed it.

If that was my parents…woah boy.

read a book, fanboy: Song of Solomon

turn off the metallica, fanboy: Black Star

Roller Coaster…of Love

While I was packing I came across my collection of Roller Coaster pictures. I am quite the Roller Coaster aficionado; I have ridden everyone that challenged me. Once I conquer a Roller Coaster I like to taunt it, pose for its camera and let it know that this ride is my bitch.

Observe how I show my dominance over the coaster. Watch me flash it; watch me rock it. This one is my favorite, however. I look like I am either concentrating or constipated and Robin looks like she’s taking headshots for a press release.

I wasn’t always a roller coaster fan; I actually used to be afraid of them. I used to be a spinning ride fan. But then one summer, I believe I was 13, my manhood was tested by a woman, I rode my first “adult” coaster and I have been addicted since.

Melanie was her name, I don’t remember the coaster. I believe it had a snake theme. Wildwood, New Jersey. My parents fell for a time share of sorts - Outdoor World to be exact. It was awesome the first few years, we would go down there with friends and swim in the lake, play basketball…it was a damn good time for city folk like us.

It was also where I had my first summer fling. Melanie Something. I’ve made out with girls before Melanie but Melanie was the first booby I touched bare-skin, on the playground one night. It was on the tire swing where I made my first attempt at romance, whispering into Melanie’s ear, “You must be horny, your nipples are hard.”

“No, it’s just cold,” she responded before getting up and walking away. The following day she hooked up with some guy named Peter because he was from Philly, like her, and that was apparently more convenient. All I know was I spent that entire week with a condom in my wallet – I was a few years off but hey, at least I was responsible.

That condom stayed in my wallet for a year. Then, one day, I was playing Genesis in my room with G when my mom comes in, says, “How are you guys doing?” and instantly goes across my room, grabs my wallet, pulls out the condom and says, “WHAT’S THIS?” She claims to this day that she saw the ring from across the room. Bullshit, she zoomed in on that wallet like a friggin’ Hawk, that whole scene was a set-up.

She threw my condom out. Not because I shouldn’t have it, but because it was 6 months expired.

My first condom. Trojan, blue wrapper, stolen from my father’s draw. When I started buying my own, still a few years off, I got the “Large” kind, hoping some woman would notice it and think I was rocking some serious manhood.

I was such an idiot. Never handling the whole puberty/sex thing well. I was doomed from the start. In the sixth grade I told this girl Nicole, “I know I’m mature, I got hair on my dick.” So smooth. Of course, Mrs. Shea, the school librarian, overheard my comment and told my teacher, Mr. Ringston, who sat me down and told me how I shouldn’t say that to women and besides, men don’t get hair on their penis they get it on their testicles so I was probably lying. If that wasn’t awkward enough, he told me this while sowing a dress for our sixth grade dance festival. Yes, we had a dance festival. And yes, Mr. Ringston made dresses for the girls and tuxedos for the boys. And yes, we danced to More Than a Woman.

And yes, that was the most uncomfortable moment of my life.

read a book, fanboy: Carter Beats the Devil

turn off the metallica, fanboy: Third Eye Vision

Moving and a Preview of Things to Come

Packing. That pretty much sums up my weekend. After winning big in poker on Friday night I packed all day Saturday and Sunday with a brief intermission to take a collection of clothes, computer supplies, decorations and appliances over to Good Will. Seriously had to be a couple of grand in merchandise.

We’re moving to a new apartment in the Courthouse area of Arlington. Younger, near a metro, one of my favorite bars around the corner. Perfect set-up.

It’s funny how this became the perfect set-up. When Robin and I were first planning our move down to DC four and a half years ago we had all these grand plans. I think the official 5 year plan (six months from now) was to be in San Francisco, in a house on the bay with a big window where we’d entertain friends and eat Chinese Food. The house also had a room that was 100% fish tank (including furniture), a spherical and padded “music room”, an entertainment room with multiple screens, NFL and MLB season pass and a different gaming system hooked up to each one and a comic book room with museum style display cases all over the room.

Yes, this all seemed within reach to me in “five years”.

I think my perception of reality was warped somewhat. My parents struggled quite a bit, we lived in Red Hook, Brooklyn in a house that was my home but was always in need of repairs, money was always a little on the tight side. But despite that, I always had what I needed and wanted, you know? I needed and wanted stuff for school, video games, ski trips, etc and I always got it. I think what that did was set-up the following perception:

“Shit, my parents are struggling and yet they could still hook me up like this. When I make bank, I’m gonna be living like a king.”

Instead, I should have known then what I know now:

“Shit, my parents are struggling because they hook me up like this. When I make bank I am soooooo fucked.”

I’m more grounded now. A nice place in Courthouse is fine by me. It’s just funny, Robin and I, combined, make the kind of bank that I didn’t even IMAGINE making 5 years ago and yet I still thought the San Fran Plan was an easy route back then.

Anyway, while packing I came across some stuff, photos and the like, that are going to drop you punk asses to your knees. I also started thinking about other stuff that either I or my parents had that can entertain. In the coming months you will hear songs, see comic strips, funny pictures, movies (including Moose the Movie but, even better, a video from when I was seven years old, in black and white, showing my favorite dance moves…you can’t even imagine how funny it is going to be…I will become the new Star Wars Kid), horrible flash animations, even more horrible drawings…you will be assaulted with a barrage of media that will make you want to tear your eyes out. Most of it will have to wait until after the move and I need to pick up some stuff from my parents but it will be worth it for you.

I spent 25 years trying to be artistic and compiling a whole lot of crap. And now, I am ready to make fun of myself, and I hope you join me.

And your friends, start pimping the site. You have to admit, you’re chuckling a little bit.

Finally, I am putting a “media” link on the side where I’ll keep links to MP3s, videos and pictures of merit.

Ok, have a good week everybody, I hope to have some of that good stuff starting tomorrow.

read a book, fanboy: Survivor

turn of the metallica, fanboy: Funcrusher Plus

Forbidden Love

Ok, first a little background story. Jesus Christ Megastar, the greatest musical ever made, written by Guam, Quentin Lewis and myself and performed at Boston University. The play was about my character, Jason, that sabotaged the director’s, Pat Casey, thesis play about Jesus. Ok, but this wasn’t a traditional play, you see, we fooled everybody.

We hung flyers all over campus announcing the cast. Talked up this great musical. Then people show up, sit down. The Playbill had fake cast members and their bios. Then I stroll in, 10 minutes late, the audience is antsy, a woman on my arm and Ole Dirty Bastard playing on the radio. The announcements start. “Tonight, the roll of Jesus will be played by Jason Rodriguez. The roll of Judas will be played by Jason Rodriguez.” Etc, etc, etc. The orchestra was replaced by keyboard player Quentin Lewis. And then the play starts.

The most anti-Semitic song possible comes out of my mouth. It is horrendous, funny, but horrendous. I do the whole thing by myself, playing 5 different parts. I do my jazz hands and pose, the audience is dead quiet.

Pat Casey, the director, who was on stage trying to drag me off while staying in some character looks haggard and shouts “JESUS WAS A JEW!”

This is Jesus Christ Megastar. The plot unfolds as the play goes on but the point is, I sabotaged Pat’s play to do my own play and I never really read Pat’s play. And now I have to improvise a musical about Jesus with Pat and Dan trying to keep me on course because I know nothing about Jesus.

Believe it or not, there’s even more to it than that. It was a sick, sick play.

So why am I talking about it? Below is a link to a track called Forbidden Love, the second song in the play. In this song, Mary Magdalene, who was played by a blow-up sex doll with track pants and a sweater on, is professing her love for Jesus. Jesus is conflicted.

I was Jesus, obviously, and the voice of Mary Magdalene was Pat Casey, trying to salvage his play. I love the ending, when he gives me the cliff-note version of Jesus’ life to make sure I do everything right. Now that I listen to it, Mary sounds like Guam, maybe we used Guam for the CD but Pat did it during the play. During the play Guam was a preacher planted in the audience.

Enjoy. If you like the track there are 7 more, I can put them up. But they’re a lot funnier with the acting since the play was pretty slapstick and visual. And now that I think about it, I have the video…

Forbidden Love MP3

And, for an added bonus, the cover to the album. Am I a god of rock or what?


read a book, fanboy: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay

turn off the metallica, fanboy: De La Soul is Dead

Pink shirts

It’s impossible to wear a pink shirt and not feel insecure about it. Technically, my shirt is pretty dope, Hilfiger style, like a salmon pinstripe. It’s styling, I will admit. But you see, I said salmon. It’s not salmon. It’s pink. When a guy says salmon he means pink.

What the hell is this all about? A woman can wear blue and feel good about it, there is no purely masculine colors. What makes pink so feminine?

I think I would be fine if I weren’t wearing a tie. The only tie I have that remotely matches my shirt is this grey and burgundy one. Again, a hot tie on its own, but paired with the shirt it clashes just enough so that someone says, “Wow, that tie doesn’t really go with that pink shirt. Oh shit, that dude is wearing a pink shirt.”

I had this shirt as a kid, it was the MOST atrocious shirt ever worn by anyone. This was probably 6th or 7th grade. Now, to set the mood appropriately, my whole family pretty much assumed I was gay when I was younger. I was a little limp-wristed, I can’t deny that. I remember my father sitting me down and telling me he’d love me even if I was gay which, is really cool that my father is that supportive, but he still thought I was going to end up a little on the gay side. Looking at old videos I shot of me practicing my dancing and picking daisies out in right field in little league I can’t blame my dad. He was a smart man, he saw the signs. I’m sometimes shocked that I’m not gay.

So the shirt was this “salmon” shirt except it wasn’t even close to fucking salmon, it was pink. And it had blue stripes. But the coup de grace, if you will, was this absolutely horrendous, humongous, white sailing emblem that was placed right over the left chest. It looks like I sown it on, it didn’t fit with the shirt at all. You combine that with the mullet I was rocking, the tight jeans and the lisp/high pitched voice I was the poster child for homosexuality is a trait that is there from childbirth. I was gay before I knew what gay was.

This shirt, today, is the second pink shirt I have ever owned. I just don’t think I ever got over that first one once I realized how wrong it was. If you think that’s weird, wait until you hear why I haven’t eaten coconut since I was five.

read a book, fanboy: Sanctuary

turn off the metallica, fanboy: Black Elvis/Lost in Space

Free artwork! And something about my roof on fire as a kid...

Ok, first things first. Marco Magallanes, a newcomer in the world of comics, did a five pager for us in Western Tales of Terror #3. He is the man like you wouldn’t believe. His story can be seen here , written by the equally talented Greg Thompson.

Now, Marco, being one hell of a sport, is launching a little contest on the Hoarse & Buggy boards in which he will be giving out one free commission (PG-13, no furry porn you big, dumb freak of nature) to the H&B board member that pimps WTofT#3 the hardest. If you aren’t a member, sign up. If you didn’t tell your local comic shop to order WTofT#3 do it now. Again, if you want your commission to be furry porn, don’t bother doing either.

Separately, the weirdest thing happened the other day. I told Robin the following story:

One year, when I was a kid, I was lying on my bed with parents during the Fourth of July. A bottle-rocket flew into the window, hit our ceiling and exploded, causing our ceiling to catch on fire.

To which Robin responded, “That sounds weird.”

“No, it really happened.”

“But your ceiling looks fine.”

“It was years ago, we fixed it.”

“But it has the same old-school tin pattern.”

She didn’t believe me. I called my mom up and asked her to tell Robin about the time the ceiling caught on fire.

It never happened.

I must have dreamt it or some shit as a kid and adopted it as fact. It was pretty odd.

read a book, fanboy: Gravity's Rainbow

turn off the metallica, fanboy: A Much Better Tomorrow

Origin

Reactions to my file photo have been mixed. I’ve noticed that the people, who dig it the most, know about The Moose in the Closet. You see, some of you feel that The Moose in the Closet is just some name I came up with for my blog. That is incorrect, The Moose in the Closet is actually an alternate persona, an entity that emerges from time to time and has only one goal: to produce something so bad it transcends bad and becomes good.

The Moose first came out of the proverbial closet in 1996, my senior year in High School. We were having a party in my parent’s yard; the radio had microphone inputs. I plugged in and started freestyling to Beastie Boy’s The In Sound from Way Out under the persona The Moose in the Closet. We began recording and what came from that session was the Midwood High School ’96 underground smash hit self-titled debut album, featuring songs such as Dogfood, Ravioli and Sesame’s Treat (A Man’s Big Meat).

G (my beatbox master that presses “Play” on the CD player at the appropriate moment) and I decided to record a follow up album and we scheduled a session in the basement of our boy Brian’s house. However, as with most bands, a woman came between us. G stood me up that day and went on a date. The Moose in the Closet was dead.

But out of the ashes of The Moose in the Closet came my new band, R.A.I.L (Random Acts of Illegitimate Lyricism). We formed the same night that The Moose in the Closet broke up, Brian picking up his acoustic guitar and Jeromeo making use of his drum machine a hybrid hip-hop/rock band was born. On that very night we recorded The Ho’s we Knows, I’m so Gay and Fucked in the Ass Again (Bob Sagat).

After five minutes out of the spotlight, The Moose was once again reborn, like a Pheonix out from the ashes and into the ears of every Senior at Midwood High School ‘96 that was in Mr. Snyder’s homeroom and sat at the back of the class.

R.A.I.L’s follow up EP came out the next summer, featuring the death metal mix of Strangers in the Night and Euonym (Is There an Alternate Definition?). The lackluster response of the new EP combined with the not-so-good Moose the Movie, our friend Mike getting shot in the neck and G and I allegedly playing strip poker with Brian’s ex-girlfriend and her DOPE best friend, R.A.I.L. broke up and The Moose went back to the closet.

Now it is 1999. Guam and I have just finished a season of Improv and theater at college and we filmed a movie called Mr. Sandman. We needed a production company name. I suggested Moose in the Closet, Guam suggested Velvet Elvis. And like that, Closet Elvis Productions were born and make no mistake, The Moose was back.

Closet Elvis Productions produced a play in Boston called Jesus Christ Megastar, a well received musical that is already pretty much forgotten. Guam broke off a splinter production with Greg Oreo, long time collaborator and continues to make “artsy” plays in the Boston area. We all met up again under the Closet Elvis Productions website, a humor magazine that was becoming immensely popular until The Moose forgot to reregister the domain name. This summer, however, we relaunched the old Closet Elvis Productions crew under the banner Closet Elvis Living and we are slowly rebuilding our fan base.

So that is the story of The Moose in the Closet. I am going to find all of the old media and post it up here from time to time. I will even post the raw, uncut footage of Moose the Movie, a movie which was designed with one goal in mind: to look as bad as a movie can possibly look. Interestingly enough, neither Brian, Jeromeo nor G were in Moose the Movie. It was RJ, Lou-Lou, Elizabeth (my sister) and I. So the movie really had nothing to do with The Moose in the Closet.

Now, do you see why the picture need to be bad? It’s The Moose. And The Moose is so bad it becomes good.

read a book, fanboy: A Confederacy of Dunces

turn off the metallica, fanboy: Blazing Arrow

Profile picture and other shit

Word, Jason got a file photo. Sex me up with your eyes.


In addition, I'm gonna start doing this "read a book, fanboy" and "turn off the metallica, fanboy" thing with every post. I'll also keep a list of the ones I put up on the right of the page. It will just be books and music that I like and I feel everyone should read/listen to.

read a book, fanboy: The Master and Margarita

turn off the metallica, fanboy: Dr. Octagonecologyst

Birthday cards

I was looking for a birthday card for Robin yesterday. It’s weird, do you know that card with the cut out oval in the front, a portrait of Ulysses S. Grant through the oval and a message that says something like “Not many cards have an honest to God 50 dollar bill in them.” And then you open it and it’s obviously a portrait of Grant and nothing else and the inside says “Well neither does this one!”

That card was moderately humorous at first. I admit, I bought it for someone one year when I first started seeing it. It was a good card for the times.

But in CVS yesterday, everyone of the non-Shoebox Greetings “humor” cards where some variation of this basic card design. “Not many cards have two tickets to Cancun in them.” “Not many cards have pictures of naked women in them” etc, etc, etc.

When did this card become such a cash cow? How did this become the most bankable idea ever? And most importantly, who is still falling for this trick?

Why don’t they do this with other cards, not just birthday card?

Doctor: Hey, Jimmy, I got you a card.

Jimmy: Wow, doc! Thanks!

Jimmy (Reading card): Not many cards give you a clean bill of health.

Jimmy (Reading inside): Well neither does this one, you have cancer!

I ended up getting her a card with two flies on it, doctor and patient, and the doctor tells the patient “Stay away from the crap” or something like that.

We really need a better selection.

Covers!

Western Tales of Terror #3, one of the books I edit, is currently soliciting in previews. It features Jay Faerber (Noble Causes), Ryan Ottley (Invincible), Dan Wickline (Blood Stained Sword, Fused), and more. Read more about it here. It's in January Previews, order number JAN052812. Be sure to tell your local comic shop to order it.


And while I'm showing off covers, here's a sneak peak of issue 4 featuring Stuart Moore, Eisner winning editor behind Vertigo, Marvel Knights and writer of books such as Zendra, Para and Giant Robot Warriors. And we also managed to sneak in SSS Comics' Saul Colt, the return of Jared Bivens (from issue one), Jon Hook, a personal friend and tremendous writer and some new art talent in Jason Copland and Joseph Bergin III that will friggin' floor you. Technically, I shouldn't be announcing the line-up but we're all friends here and it's not like you can't read the names off of the cover.

Samples, samples, samples

Put some writing samples up:

Esau – A 96 page OGN about a cowboy chasing his brother across Cretaceous Utah on an Iguanodon. Currently looking for an artistic collaborator.

All the Wrong Choices – A 5-page short about a man that sucks farts off of subway seats and the little boy that sees him. Co-written by the talented Chris Fabulous (also did the layouts) and is being illustrated by Paul Maybury to be printed in glorious full color as a back-up in Elk’s Run #2.

Six Shots – A 3-page short where a thief meets a demon on a mountain path. Currently being illustrated by Marco Magallanes to be printed in Western Tales of Terror #5.

Release – A 32 page experiment that studies the effect one person’s release has on others. Currently looking for an artistic collaborator.

I have a few more things to share in the coming weeks. Some super-hero stuff, slightly more mainstream, have a conspiracy piece I’m fond of as well. Little at a time, my man. Little at a time.

Where aspiring creators go to die

It’s funny; you go through all these loops and fall for all these traps when you try the whole "writing for comics" thing. When we first start out, we have no idea what’s what and we usually fall for that one guy that’s producing a book and really likes our work. So we write something for them and he/she agrees to put it in their anthology and you go fucking nuts.

A year later you realize there is no anthology, the guy you were working with pulls this whole thing on a regular basis and you were just sort of dragged along. This happens to all of us aspiring writers. It’s happened to me twice.

I’ve also dealt with the sub par talent that overcharges for work. At the beginning, you pay for everything and you rarely realize what’s good and what’s not. There are tons of people trying to make money off of you. They never get published but neither do you and you’re out a couple of hundred bucks per pitch.

The reason I bring this up is because I just stumbled across a website for some comic “company” that is forming that features the “editors” of the two dupe-anthologies and a letterer and inker that fall in that charge too much for shit category, both of whom I dealt with.

I’m not a bitter person, I took some lumps and now Hoarse & Buggy treats me good. I bring this up, because this makes for an interesting experiment. Are they all lying to each other? Are they all ripping each other off? It’s funny how you see these people all start to group together, like it’s their last attempt, they realize they need to produce and they find each other.

I’m going to track these guys, see what they come up with. I know the guy that’s running this whole thing is actually crazy. And not crazy as in “______ is kind of crazy” but crazy as in “_______is fucking nuts”. This should make for some great entertainment.

Oh yeah. Peyton Manning is a choker.

Chad Pennington is the Joe Namath of my generation…

…and that’s not a good thing. I’m a Jet fan through and through, I was born this way. My little corner of Brooklyn where I grew up was Jets/Mets, nothing else. One thing hardcore Jets fans know is that Joe Namath had one good season. In particular, one good game. But we love him anyway. Chad Pennington is so overrated, ever since his first season he can’t win a big game or make a big play.

3 points! His offense scored three points tonight! 7 goes to special teams, 7 goes to the defense. But Chad will still talk it up and the media will still talk up “Chad and his Jets.”

God damn Jets. And God damn Mets, while I’m damning people.

Welcome to my new blog

Seriously, welcome. Does this shit work?