NYCC Report and Reminisce Over You

EDIT: I'm getting emails asking me about Speakeasy. You should go to Josh's blog for anything about the fate of Elk's Run. As far as my own opinions and what I'm getting from all this, I learn from it - just like I always do.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I had a blast at NYCC – and I was there on Saturday, the day everyone got turned away, fire marshals showed up and people were waiting on line for hours to get back onto the convention floor. I stole an exhibitor badge so I can come in and out freely, only got held up on a line once, and we were passing exhibitor and press badges back to the outside to sneak folks in. If I was one to trivialize struggle and elevate the importance of 32 pages of excessive cleavage I’d say we were like the NYCC Underground Railroad. But I won’t, ‘cause I’m not that guy.

But it was good, talked to a lot of people about the book I’m putting together, got a couple of people to commit to the project and have a couple of people at (hopefully) a halfway point. One cat in particular would be a dream come true, so much so I’m holding off on following up with anyone else until I hear back from him.

Pop Culture Shock’s after party was pretty dope, good turn out – good people. DJ was bangin’ and I always thought white people dancing was funny because, you know, I’ve seen video of myself dancing and it’s all my momma’s side, but goddamn there’s nothing funnier than white comic fans dancing. They were spinning some funk towards the end of the night and this one cat looked like James Brown doing the Humpty Dance while having an elliptic seizure.

And we'll do a little old school Moose style story, why the hell not...

___________

I got to hang out with my cousin RJ all day Saturday at the con which was a blast. I don’t get to see the dude enough and it’s too bad, we’ve been through a lot of shit together. Back when his brother got sick, me, RJ and Luis used to chill every Friday at my place and just watch stupid B-horror movies until three in the morning.

Some good, some bad. The best call we made back then was renting SALEM’S LOT. Not that it was a good movie by any means, but some dude dubbed over the VHS copy of the movie at the video store. He did it well too; it took us a little bit to catch-on as to exactly what the fuck was going on.

For instance, when the opening title came on you heard the guy say, “Salem’s Lot: The Movie. Staring George Duzunddrada…” We were sitting around and wondering why the guy reading the credits didn’t even bother to pronounce the actor’s name right. During the opening scene a car whizzes by the camera and you hear, “Mee-meep! Hi!”

We couldn’t stop laughing, you know? We just figured it was the worst fucking movie ever made. It wasn’t until the old dude “farted” that we realized some genius laid his own audio embellishments down. Pegasus Video closed down recently; I wanted to stop by and buy the dubbed SALEM’S LOT but kept forgetting to.

We found other gems, of course. 976-EVIL PART 2 was a favorite of ours – the scene when the nerd on the moped says, “See ya later, doll” and then crashes. Good shit, right there, many a laugh. Of course there was the Jerry Springer TOO HOT FOR TV joint, the scene when the redneck says, “Oh dang, I’m falling!” as he’s falling. We watched that scene about fifty times in one night, 49 of them in slow-motion.

We’d always get into arguments over the movies we watched. RJ and I firmly believed STAR WARS was the greatest trilogy of all time. Luis thought it was POLICE ACADEMY, despite the fact that there were six of them made at that point. But there was one thing we always agreed on, THE LAIR OF THE WHITE WORM would be better if it was called THE LAIR OF THE WHITE DILL.

Ah, inside jokes.

But it was all escapism, you know what I mean? We were teenagers, we could have went out on Friday nights and prowled the streets of Brooklyn, we occasionally did, but at home – ragging on shitty movies and eating calzones from the House of Pizza – it was the kind of entertainment that was guaranteed to take your mind off of what was going on in the family at the time. We all needed it, RJ the most, and the time spent hanging with cousins on a Friday evening will always be one of my favorite memories from my teenage years.

The night Steven took a turn for the worse, RJ was over my place. I remembered pretending to sleep on the floor when my mom got him, I remember him stepping over me and trying not to wake us up. Shortly after Steven passed away – it just goes to show you that escapism only takes you so far. When life wants to be fucked up, it just gets fucked up.

Sorry for depressing you all – but at the heart of it, RJ and I can still get together for 15 hours at a crowded convention and the whole time act like we did over thirteen years ago – a couple of goofy kids obsessed with pop-culture and hell-bent on making fun of everything and everybody. You take something away from all your experiences in life; I took a friend out of this particular one. Hanging with him now-a-days just brings it all back – you’re not supposed to forget shit like this and you’re not supposed to hide it, know what I mean?

Business

Greetings. There’s a new The Hive up, this one is about getting a free marketing team and it turns into a discussion on running your business like a business – a thread that we’ll be picking up on with the next column. Anyway…

I am fucking beat.

I’ve been working my ass off this whole month – both at the day job and at home. I had to go into work every weekend this month and then I’ve been putting in about two to three hours each night on the secret project and I still feel like I’m behind schedule with it. I’m going to need to really step it up in March in order to be where I want to be by the end of it, namely announcing the book.

Last night I got Robin to help me. We folded about a hundred pamphlets. That’s right – pamphlets. Because postcards are the things you see in a gift shop while you’re vacationing in Orlando and ask yourself, “Who the fuck sends postcards anymore.” Pamphlets, or brochures, if you will, are what businesses use. The only time you get a brochure is when you’re interacting with a company – when they are trying to sell you on something – because a lot more information and crafty design goes into a brochure.

Anyway, there’ll be plenty more of that talk at The Hive today.

Looking forward to New York this weekend, haven’t been in town since New Years. I was going to leave today but work has me pegged so I’m taking Amtrak down Friday morning. Saturday I’ll be at the con all day and all night, rocking my fresh pressed suit, my brown leather Adidas with the Goodyear Tire souls, my Puma bag, my new business cards in their freshly shined chrome case, copies of WToT for proof on my anthology skills (and maybe an Elk’s Run Bumper for a special someone) and my brochures.

Don’t have much prepared for today, next week I’ll start getting better at entertaining with every post. I did it for a full year, though, and I’m just wicked busy at the moment. So I’ll leave you with a hint for the project: There will be an open call for submissions for one 8-page stories. But whoever gets accepted has to agree to have their story edited, from concept to printed page, quite publicly. I'm going to teach you all about the need for editing in comics.

See some of you in NY – some of you will even get a brochure.

Travelin' Man

Let’s start with a little secret project hint, shall we:


Ok, moving along. Yesterday was my birthday. I didn’t do much – I had to work and Robin had class until 10. Plus I had a ton of fun at the DCC meeting on Sunday and that held me over fine. Tonight I’m getting dinner at Ray’s the Steaks, the best steak joint in the DC area that’s conveniently located next door to me and yet I’ve never been there. So, you know, happy birthday to me.

June is going to be crazy – I’m going to be in Cleveland, Chicago, Fort Madison and San Diego. Robin will be in all four of those cities plus she’s spending two and a half weeks in Malaysia and Singapore.

It’s just weird – I never really traveled as a kid, you know? Parents just didn’t have the money; vacations were limited to the occasional 20-hour drive down I-95 to visit my Nanny in New Port Ritchie, Florida. Every so often we’d stop off at Disney World and brave the long lines and the sweltering heat – a rare treat that resulted in a weekend of fun for me and a year’s worth of debt for my dad.

That was most of our vacations, though – visiting family somewhere. Titi Sophie moved to Virginia and that became a popular vacation spot for us. We’d sometimes couple the drive to Richmond with a trip to Virginia Beach – it was during one of these trips that I slept through the gunshots, helicopter noise and looting that is now known as the Greek Fest Riots.

My dad, like all men who struggle to get by while trying to make a good life for their children, got offered opportunities that seemed like dreams come true but in reality there was some sleazy guy in a knock-off suit behind it all. My dad finds out he’s in the running for a free car and we just need to spend a weekend at Outdoor World to see if we’ve won – hear a pitch about their timeshare program.

Two months later we’re locked into some multi-generation contract where we pay monthly fees for the right to rent poorly constructed log cabins in such beautiful locals like Southern New Jersey and The Poconos. My father goes into it because it seems like a good way to get the kids out of the city for a while, vacations close by that are relatively cheaper than Disney World and Virginia Beach. Years go by and we stop going to Outdoor World and there’s basically no way out – I remember my dad on the phone with these guys, trying to find out how he can get out of this contract, and even then you can sense that feeling of being trapped – again – lied to again.

My parents never even took a honeymoon – this January was their 30th wedding anniversary and they never even went away to some island for a week and sucked slushy pina coladas out of coconuts. When I first started working, out of college and all, there was a pang of guilt that went with every trip. Most of them were business trips so you chalk that up as paying bills, but after my first year of working I went to Spain for two weeks. The following summer it was St. Lucia. Than Robin and I started doing two vacations a year, cruises, visiting London a couple of times – just going to cities we’ve never been to on a whim, four or five mini-vacations and one long vacation each year.

Sometimes I wouldn’t even tell my parents we were traveling. If it was a weekend trip I figured it would be better to just keep it to myself. I’d accidentally let it slip occasionally, my parents would ask me what I was doing for the weekend and I’d say, “Going to Miami – oh – I told you that, I think, yeah?”

Anyway, with the house sold and money in their pockets I think they’ll finally be going on that honeymoon soon – maybe my mom will leave the country for the first time – even if it’s just to an island. It’s funny, even my 16-year-old sister is going to Eastern Europe in a couple of months, her first time leaving the country. It’s just a testament to how my parents always put their kids ahead of themselves.

And on that note it’s bedtime. I did end up having a nice dinner tonight, actually, Robin got home from class early and took me to Il Radiccio, got me some of the best Italian food the DC Metro area can offer. I’m going to bed well-sexed and stinking like garlic – 28-years-old and feeling confident about the coming year.

Prime Time Rambling

I don’t have much to report, unfortunately. Things are moving along in the comic world. I guess I need to drop a hint for the secret project so I’ll say that it’s looking to be 144 pages.

However the business plan, so far, is about forty pages.

Single spaced.

And I consider it halfway done.

__________

I don’t really have a story I feel like telling today and that’s perfectly fucking cool, I don’t need to tell a story anymore. Instead, I’m going to talk about TV.

I was watching the winter Olympics last night while enjoying some buffalo wings and Sierra Nevadas with a friend. They really need to spice up the winters a bit. Snowboarding was a decent start but even that gets pretty boring after ten minutes. There are still several key winter sports that need to be added to the winter Olympic line-up in order for it to become a prime-time contender.

For instance, I would watch a guy sledding down a hill with another guy on his shoulders. That shit can be an Olympic sport and I’d Tivo it. Throw some tree branches in there and you have the best sport of all time. Why isn’t that an Olympic event?

Hey, here’s an obvious one – Olympic snow ball fights. Both sides start with nothing, they need to build forts, make some snowballs and go to work on each other. It would even be cool if you give them those little snow-brick molds so they can make an igloo themed command center, lay out maps and sip hot chocolate from their plaid thermoses. Epic snowball battles – 200 on 200 – with snow mortars, snow mines and 122mm snow rockets, each carrying six liters of CS gas.

Fuck, man, they can go out to a snow drift in the parking lot and have dudes flip into it for style-points. Jump off a car and do a forward flip – that was the winter Olympics in Brooklyn, right there.

I need to get a petition started. And while I’m at it, I want Manhunt and Suicide in the summer Olympics, too.

I forgot to complain about 24 on Tuesday, I think I want to make it a weekly feature where I point to a huge inaccuracy in 24 every week based entirely on the fact that my day job is a non-Hollywood, non-real time version of what CTU does on screen. For instance, they established this “sentox” gas as being a persistent nerve gas. Well, persistent nerve gases (like VX) cause more damage when absorbed through your skin than when breathed in. So, when Jack runs up to that canister of “sentox” with a gas mask on and a short sleeve shirt – yeah – he’d be dead within two minutes.

Even if “sentox” wasn’t persistent – even if was more like sarin with the low vapor pressure and all – your skin still absorbs that shit and a high concentration of it will kill you wicked fucking fast, gas mask or not.

Goddamn you, 24. Goddamn you for fucking with my moneymaker.

Whatever, I shouldn’t complain about the realism of 24. In a world were our Vice President is shooting people in the face my perception of “plausible” needs to seriously be reconsidered.

In Too Deep

Couple of comic things before I talk about strip clubs.

I’m editing JJ Khars’ very first graphic novel. Honestly? One of the best concepts I’ve heard recently. Seriously, the kind of pitch you hear and you go ape-shit insane because it’s so perfectly simple yet full of potential. We’re working on the execution of the plot now but I promise you all – when this is molded and ready to go, you’re going to want to get your hands on it badly.

Neil Kleid’s serializing his novel THE COFFIN. Trapped on a NYC train after a suicide bomb and how the passenger’s cope and survive – sounds like some good suspense and drama right there. I’ll be following along; I suggest you do as well.

And finally, I wanted to drop another hint about the secret project:

There’s a website in the works.

But you can’t see it yet.

________________________

The weekend of the Super Bowl my dad came up, excited to watch the game on my new 42-inch Plasma HDTV. Robin and I threw a little party, about eight people – can’t fit a lot of people around the TV – and we all had a good time, plenty of sopressata and mozzarella was washed down with tasty beer.

The Saturday before the game, we dragged my dad out with a group of friends – probably about 15 people – and played pool all night and, you know, drank a lot of beer. Towards the end of the night my friends were going out to a strip club and I really couldn’t go with my dad AND Robin, if it was one or the other we’d tag along but all parties agreed that going to a strip club with my girlfriend and my father was just weird. So the three of us hopped in a cab and went home.

Anyway, got me thinking about strippers and how much I love them. It’s probably the one “masculine” trait I still cling to. I mean, I leave tags on my clothes in case they don’t provide me enough “impact” the first time I wear them, I buy skin care products, I occasionally take baths and god dammit I love me some good candles now and again. I’m 80% chick, honestly. But man, that all goes away at a strip club.

When I decide to restart the Moose story telling there will be plenty of strip club stories. In the past six years I’ve been on around 30 or so business trips – I can remember two trips where I did not visit a strip club at least one night (and on one of those trips my coworker and I drove around San Antonio looking for one only to end up at some sketchy joint where this guy outside told us, “Parking is free but if you pay me a couple of bucks I’ll make sure no-one breaks your windshield.” We left, obviously).

And that’s just business trips – there are strip clubs in DC and trips home to New York were almost always partnered with at least one 3AM cab ride to The Wild West over on second avenue and 39th street in Brooklyn (if the girl with the bar code on the back of her neck is reading this I want you to know I still love you and my drunken promise to take care of you forever still stands – just look me up, baby).

The problem with strip clubs is, sometimes you get a little too into it. And I’m not talking about the times when you blow two hundred bucks or get tricked into the VIP room – that shit just happens and is directly proportional to the amount of alcohol you’ve drank. I’m talking about when you get a little too caught up in the “stripper lifestyle”.

My first year out of college my job was sending me to work out on Long Island two weeks out of every month – there wasn’t much to do during the week except visit the closest strip club. Eventually, my coworker started traveling out there with me and we’d hit a club together. This one time, G hopped on the Long Island Rail Road and met us at our hotel – we all went to a new place together to see what it has to offer on a Wednesday night.

For the most part we were the only guys there. We sat by the stage and one girl at a time got up and danced only for us. One of the girls got really friendly with us, sat down next to us (naked, of course), and actually bought us drinks which, if you’ve ever been to a strip club, you’d know is not just rare – it’s fucking unheard of.

Anyway, she was cool shit and she kept inviting other strippers over. As the night progressed the three of us were sitting amongst a group of naked chicks – having beers and chain smoking cigarettes. The original girl was the ring leader – she’d occasionally declare boredom, point to one of the other girls, and tell her to go dance for us.

I shit you not – it was like having our own harem of women – even if it was only for an hour.

We were talking about real shit too, you know? Asking them about life outside of stripping, talking about some of the most mundane shit – it’s amazing how much the nudity becomes wallpaper when you just sit there with a bunch of naked women and shoot the shit.

We were getting along fine until the ringleader stripper asked us if we wanted to go into the back with her and do some blow. The three of us just sort of freeze – we’re not fans of the llallo – and realize that we went too deep into the stripper world. We politely decline, she goes into the back and comes back high as a kite, the other strippers aren’t sitting with us anymore and the night ends rather abruptly.

That was my last time really engaging strippers on that level – I realize I would just be setting myself (and them) up for disappointment. No – I’ll just throw some dollars in the g-string, get my lap dance(s) – smell that sweet stripper smell that only they have, feel that soft stripper skin lightly rub against my arm, get that perfect stripper leg placed firmly against my crotch – and walk out with as much dignity as I can muster. I can’t party with them. Offer to “take them away from it all”, sure, I did that once (bar code girl, I’m looking at you, my love).

But I can never truly “hang”.

A Ninja in a World of White Shirts

Couple of things going on in my little world of comics, first.

First off, Josh made the Punk website public (and shared some pages). Great little book, first issue is massive amounts of fun, art by Kody Chamberlain – get on it early. And while you’re getting on books early, swing on by the World’s End blog and give us some love.

Caleb Monroe’s Red Chapel is available for preorder over at Dimestore – get yourself a copy, it’s illustrated by Noel Tuazon (from Elk’s Run) and there’s a five page back-up story in it I did with Jacob Warrenfeltz (of the soon to be released Alberic Heresies). So please, go, order the book – you’ll like it.

Also, since I’m now 92% sure the secret project is going ahead and I’m starting to bring more and more people into the fold I think I should start teasing you all a little bit – you know, to keep this blog interesting (just keep in mind there's a chance this may not happen). So every time I post I’ll drop a hint. And today’s hint is…

It’s going to be using ideas we come up with at The Hive – essentially putting my money where my mouth is.

Juicy. Speaking of The Hive, the third column is up – it’s all about handling preorders and getting your book to pay for your book. Go, read, comment – throw out your own ideas. Keep in mind you’re not just mouthing off – the output of these discussions are going to guide the production of an attempt at creating a new market for comics - so please, people, spread the word - the stakes are likely going to get much higher.

__________

So yesterday I had a meeting with a guy who’s notoriously long-winded – there’s no “quick chat” with the dude, he keeps going off on tangents and he’s so bad at it that people call him on it, to his face, and constantly remind him to stay on subject. I did what any sane man would do when confronted with such a meeting, I text-messaged Robin and told her to call me in seven minutes.

Seven minutes later I’m free and my coworker is left to deal with the rambler.

Back a couple of years ago I was much more efficient with this process – I had this dinosaur of a phone, all the keys exposed with nice, big buttons so it’s easy to guide my finger along the key pad. If I found myself stuck in a position I didn’t want to be in I was actually able to put my hand in my pocket and within thirty seconds – without once looking at my phone – send Robin a text message that said, “Call me”.

It looked like I was playing pocket-pool, of course, but I was usually pretty smart about when I made my move.

I’d use that technique all of the time – seriously, certain people would comment about how weird it was that my cell phone would always ring whenever I talked to them.

“I know, right? How weird…”

Now my phone is this crazy-ass Motorola that’s only available in China. Touch screen, fucking stylus – I can’t get out of those impromptu meetings anymore and I when I find myself stuck; I need to start making up excuses as to why I need to leave.

So – someone needs to invent a little device that can be used to trigger your cell phone in five minutes. You don’t want to be, well, this guy…

One day I was at a friend’s place and just needed to get the fuck out of there – unfortunately Robin was with me and I couldn’t use my mammoth phone to text message her discretely. So I kept ducking behind walls and quickly setting the alarm on my phone since it’s essentially the ring tone. Except I kept fucking up – setting AM instead of PM, finally getting it right only to realize the phone is on vibrate (and you really need the ring – the ring just feels more urgent – tells the person you’re talking to that you need to take this call).

After several attempts at getting my phone to ring (accomplished by me inexplicably disappearing for thirty seconds every couple of minutes), I finally get it right – it rings, I take it out of my pocket, put it up to my ear and walk away from my friend while saying, “Hello”. I have some fake conversation in the kitchen for a minute, come back and tell Robin we need to go.

It was honestly the most pathetic attempt at conversation dodging of all time – and everyone knew it.

I need a device that saves me from ever doing that again. I mean, I can’t put my hand in my pocket and have my phone ring instantly – it needs to work on a timer so no-one correlates my hand being in my pocket with my phone ringing.

But until that day…

During the five minutes I was at the meeting yesterday, the guy went off subject about four times and said “like what I did during the Gulf War,” about 20 times. Nothing better than someone who’s still ego-tripping over something he did fifteen-years ago.

Tough Like Baur

It was so weird not posting anything yesterday.

I had a fun idea for today but didn’t have the time to finish it up – work’s been piling up, World’s End is full steam ahead an I needed to get my column for this Thursday’s The Hive to Guy – I really like this one, I think it’s going to help a lot of small press guys. It’s juicy.

Anyway, since I don’t have the story I wanted to tell – a tale of Latin love at the construction site – I guess I’ll tell you all about this little experiment I carried out.

I’ve been doing the diet/exercise this for the new year – lost 12 pounds so far and feeling pretty good. Super Bowl comes along, though, and I must have eaten five pounds of food. Pizza, sopressata, various cheeses, lard bread, chips - washed it all down with well over twelve Heinekens – it was a pretty busy night for the ‘ole gastrointestinal system.

Anyway, Monday morning I wake up and get some shit done. I realize I’m running late and should get to work – don’t have time for a big breakfast – so I go to pour myself a bowl of cereal. No milk. So I say to myself, “Fuck it – I’ll just have a late lunch.”

Busy at work – fucking slammed. I finish up my shit at around 8PM and then I need to go grocery shopping. I get home at 8:30, Josh calls me, and we spend about forty minutes talking up World’s End. I watch 24. Robin comes home, asks me if I ate dinner yet and I realize that not only did I not eat dinner – I haven’t eaten in almost 24 hours.

24. Fucking. Hours.

And suddenly I realized how Jack Baur feels at the end of the day. You know, minus gunshot wounds and endangering the lives of everyone who comes within several feet of me.

Speaking of 24 – as some of you know when I’m not editing comics I’m working on chem/bio/nuke defense. I can combat diseases you didn’t even know existed. I know a couple of things about VX and I’ll tell you straight up – they’re really not doing a good job this season on the WMD realism. If these shmoes ever got hold of VX I’d let them do whatever the hell they wanted with it, chances are they’d only end up injuring themselves. Unless the plot introduces a helicopter and LA actually develops a weather system capable of blowing some wind the only guys dying in this attack is the terrorists.

Beginnings: The First Day

Well, this is it. 263 stories with 207,744 words – averages out to a 790 word story every Monday through Friday for a year. If you count the blurbs and the 10 guest stories (which I edited a little bit, did some work there) that’s 286,582 words published on this blog since mid-January of last year – 1,090 words every Monday through Friday for a year. If you count NanNoWriMo that puts me at 336,914 words this year. Plus editing two books, 17 Here’s the Thing… columns, two comic shorts, several pitches, full-time job, keeping the lady happy and heavy drinking.

I’m proud of that.

So, story time…

____________________

My family offered to bring me to DC but I had this inexplicable need to go my own, get set-up, and then have them come down. Play the roll of an independent man. They offered me extra money but I didn’t take it – it’s not like they didn’t need it anymore than I did. I was going to get by on my own now, I didn’t need to burden them anymore – the only way for me to do this was to throw myself into it, unprepared, with only five hundred dollars and a suitcase of clothes to my name.

I graduated on a Wednesday, got back to New York on a Thursday. That Saturday I was off to DC, no time off. I was to start work on the following Wednesday. My mom was sad, she wanted me to stay home for a little longer, kept asking me to call up my boss and see if I can start work a week or two later. He’ll understand, she tells me, he was a college graduate once too.

My friends all shared similar philosophies as my mother. They’re getting odd jobs and traveling, letting off some steam before going out into the real world – before putting the things they learned in college to work. I was just never that way, with the exception of the summer between sophomore and junior year I held a job since I was thirteen and now I’m going to have a job where I’ll be making a decent amount of money – I was too excited to take time off.

Here I was – 22 years old – first in my family to graduate college – making about the same amount of money as my dad (making more than most of the people who graduated with me). When life presents you with that, you tend to jump right into it.

My father takes me to JFK, on the ride up there he’s telling me he’s proud of me, I’m feeling good about the move, new city is scary and all but sometimes things just feel right – they just click. We get to the airport – he parks in the short term lot so he can walk me in. I go up to the ticket counter only to discover my flight is about an hour and a half delayed. No cell phones for any of us at this point, neither me nor Robin, so I get to the payphone and call Logan Airport and have them leave a message with Robin to tell her I’ll be late.

My father hangs with me for a bit, we just talk for a while – going over everything, the job, the apartment.

Robin and I actually found an apartment online; we put our deposit down without even seeing the place. It was in Arlington – I asked around a bit and found out Arlington was a relatively hip place to live. The price was right, if I remember correctly I believe it was $850 for a one bedroom, much cheaper than the places we were looking at in The District. Best part was that it was a short term lease – 6 months, I believe.

All of these things should have been warning signs but what did I know? I never even had an apartment before – there was the house I grew up in and then the dorms throughout college. My resident director at the time told me that I might have been making a mistake, I should have at least checked the place out first having never been to Arlington and never seeing the place in question.

But it was perfect, you know – ten minute bus ride to the metro station which was going to be clutch since I wasn’t going to have a car.

Or a license.

I believe the move-in date for the new apartment was June 9th – I say believe because, well, we never actually moved in. As far as what happened that made two broke-ass kids give up the three-hundred dollar security deposit, well – that’s not today’s story, now is it? But the two weeks where we didn’t have a place to live we were staying at a hotel – The Tyson’s Westpark Hotel in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. A nice little place that we snagged for about a hundred bucks a night – with the three-grand relocation money I was getting from my new job we were going to be fine, right?

Let me introduce you to the college mentality, in case you never had it. Costs like food, entertainment, clothes, transportation – they don’t really exist. Whatever your biggest expense is – that’s the only thing that matters – that’s the only thing that counts towards your budget. The two weeks staying at a hotel for a hundred bucks a night – that’s our only expense. 1400 dollars of our 3000 dollar advance. No tax. No nothing. We were going to be just fine. Anyway – that’s not today’s story either.

Finally my flight begins to board, I give my dad a big ass hug, he wishes me luck one last time, and I’m on my plane and off to Dulles Airport – I can’t get there fast enough. The flight was a little bumpy, bad weather in the area – I was putting down a couple of beers because that’s what adults do, right? They drink beer; even if it’s an afternoon and you’re traveling by yourself, you’re supposed to drink beer.

Playing the role, still with no idea what was coming.

I land in Dulles and make my way to the arrival board, check on Robin’s flight – it’s delayed and isn’t scheduled to land for another two hours.

Two. Hours.

I make my way outside the terminal to get some fresh air, sit down a bit. Smoke a cigarette and watch the planes come in – go over some notes for my new job – take out this trapper keeper we bought with all the information on DC in it.

Papers on our apartment with floor plans and directions, metro maps, lists of restaurants and bars we found online that looked interesting, monument information, directions to the National Zoo – my friend Max’s phone number since he was the only person I knew in DC. I spent some time looking through it all, killed close to an hour smoking cigarettes and shuffling through hundreds of pages of information.

I get back into the terminal and see Robin’s flight was delayed an additional hour.

I call home; tell everyone I had a nice flight. My mom’s asking me if I’m excited and I sarcastically reply that I’ve spent an hour in the airport and have two more to go – the excitement is waning.

I get off the phone and just sort of wander. Go through the gift shops, the bookstores – I found the smoking lounge that used to be at Dulles airport and spent some time in there reading.

There’s nothing more disgusting than the smoking lounge at an airport. No ventilation – you come of there caked in cigarette smoke and coughing up a lung after spending just five minutes in the hotbox. I spent closer to forty minutes, chain smoking and doing crossword puzzles.

You get restless, obviously – you build up this excitement over starting a new life only to be delayed in an airport all day on both sides of the trip. I haven’t seen Robin since BU which wasn’t ridiculously long but when you’re taking a plunge like this with someone – new city, new job, and a new life – you tend to miss her a lot more when she’s away. Mainly because doubt starts to creep in, you begin to wonder if you made the right decision in inviting her – you wished she was with you so you can remember how she feels, how she makes you feel, while at the same time trying to make sure you 100% made the right call.

She’s the one and she’s not going to let you down. You’re starting a new life with the right person. That’s the kind of shit you remember when you pull her in and kiss the top of her head and smell her hair – you feel her smile as her nose buries into your chest. That’s why I wanted her plane to land – for that.

Finally her plane lands – I’m waiting by the gate. She must have been the last person out – she looks worn down but she smiles the instant she sees me. It’s a tired smile but there’s a lot behind it – I walk up to her and bring her in, kiss her hard and smile back. She apologizes for being late – as if it’s her fault – as if I could even be mad – and we make our way curbside to get a cab.

We end up getting in one of those blue airport shuttle vans you share with several parties. Hop in and tell the guy we’re going to Tyson’s Westpark – he’s pissed off as if we’re going an hour out of the way. That’s the friendly greeting we get upon stepping out into our Nation’s Capitol.

We pull up at the hotel and I go to check in. Go through the motions and the receptionist asks me for a credit card.

Here’s a story – this was my first time checking into a hotel. My father, he never used a credit card – he’d always pay cash for the hotel room. I wasn’t clear on the details but I guarantee you I’ve seen him bust out cash every time we were at a hotel together and use it to pay for our room. When the lady asked me for a credit card I kind of laughed and told her I’d be paying cash.

But I need a credit card either way, apparently. So I bust out my little Bank Boston Visa card, three-hundred dollar spending limit and about two-hundred and fifty bucks already on it. She swipes it – nothing.

She tells me there’s not enough on it to use the card. I ask her what she’s authorizing and she tells me it’s for a week staying at the hotel.

A week? But I’m paying cash.

I needed to front the first night.

But I don’t have the cash yet, the check needs to clear.

And here comes Robin, asks what’s wrong. I say to her, “They’re saying I need a credit card.” For a moment you see nothing but regret in Robin’s face. She loves me, sure, but I think she just realized that I have a lot to learn.

A LOT to learn.

She busts out her credit card – she’s always been the one with the good credit and the five-thousand dollar cards – and give it to the lady behind the counter. Card gets swiped and we’re good to go, we make our way to the room.

Nice little place – comfortable enough to spend two weeks in. In the information book it says the hotel has Happy Hour every day from 5-6 with free appetizers, we get down there with several minutes to spare and eat what’s left of the mozzarella sticks and fries – our first dinner in DC, conserving money from the start. We hang at the bar for a little bit, dollar beers, we toast almost every drink get a little tipsy, make our way back up to the hotel room.

Robin wants to stay in but I want to explore, thinking there’s actually something to explore in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. Having no idea where anything is we walk down Leesburg Pike, pass several car dealerships, McDonalds, a Container Store, a Toy’s ‘R Us – some place called McCormick & Schmick’s that we make fun, it’ll later turn out to be one of our favorite restaurants.

Tyson’s Corner is not New York, though, I learned that one pretty quick.

We finally find this place – some Mexican place with a patio bar and a bunch of people our age drinking and having a good time. We get to the bar and have some drinks, they’re closer to five dollars a pop here but the atmosphere is much better. Get to talking with some guy, tell him we just moved into town and ask him if there’s anything going on in Tyson’s. He tells us Tyson’s is whack, the district is pretty cool, but Arlington’s happening. We couldn’t be happier; we’re going to be checking out our place in Arlington for the first time the next day.

We walk back to the hotel – there was this almost perfect moon in the sky – no clouds to even hint at the shitty weather we were having earlier in the day. Make our way upstairs and take a shower together, sneak in some tired intimacy and get to bed.

A good first day in capitol area. Despite the frustrations and the lack of money and the seclusion of Tyson’s we had each other, a bed to sleep in for the moment, a good job waiting for me and no cares in the world.

Life was about to get interesting.

______________________

But you won’t hear about any of that until I decide to start this up again (and yes, you can classify the next group of stories as a “Romantic Comedy” so, you know, things change). I need a break. A lot of stories told; a lot of words written. For over a year something was posted on this blog every Monday through Friday – 263 new stories. A lot of you guys became regulars and I thank you all for reading and linking, seriously. I think I grew a lot as a writer but more importantly – I learned a lot about myself and my past relationships. This has got to be the most therapeutic exercise I’ve ever undertaken.

I had fun doing this, it became routine, you know? Every night I’d sit down, look through some pictures or some old writings to get the brain going and just write. It was hardly ever forced, especially not towards the end. You’d think this kind of thing would become a burden as time went on but it actually got easier – go figure.

I’ll still be here every Tuesday and Thursday, doing something low-key and low-stress writing. Seriously, if you come by, expect some rambling, some stories (both fiction and non-fiction), some talk of comics and some updates on the soon-to-be not-so-secret project.

Additionally there’s The Hive. New columns the 2nd and 4th Thursday of the month (growing schedule available here) – moderated discussions popping up pretty regularly in the forums beyond that.

World’s End Production Blog, I’ll be popping in there, giving updates on the book. Please come by and share your thoughts, make us feel loved. Likely taking on another editing gig, helping out an unpublished but talented writer – I’ll be updating you all on that. DC Conspiracy – I’ll be hanging there, posting from time-to-time, especially as the secret project ramps up, I’d imagine.

Everything will be announced from here, though, so keep checking back. I mean, when I announce the call for submissions I’m sure you’d want to be one of the first to get your pitches in, right?

A man cannot dominate comics by himself, after all.

Beginnings: Bye Bye Boston

Two stories to go. One quick thing, first. That super secret project I’ve been hinting about? Well, after an inspiring phone conversation with Bob Tinnell (Feast of the Seven Fishes, Terry Sharp, The Black Forest, The Living and the Dead, and The Wicked West) last night I’m going to just start calling it the “secret project”. Taking off the “super”. This is so going to happen. And you’re all going to shit your pants when you see it.

Anyway, story time…

___________________________

A couple of days before college graduation my mom came down to spend some time with me. Robin and I hung out with her; there was some tension but nothing huge. I went to a party one night after dinner, left my mom at home – she says she understood, the end of college and all – but you can tell she was disappointed, I invite her up and then ditch her in a city she’s not familiar with.

The next day my father came up with my grandparents and my Aunt Connie. We all went out to dinner before everyone went back to the hotel – I had another party to hit up; the last week of college is full of parties.

Then came graduation – almost the entire Rodriguez family showed up. Titi Anita and Mario drove up from New York with Titi Lisa and Hervin. Uncle Chris and Aunt Jacinda came up from Connecticut. Tio Andy and Titi Denise came down from Buffalo. They all came to Boston and crashed the hotels to go to my graduation – the first in the family to graduate from college – the oldest cousin setting a new bar for the rest of them to aspire to.

Not everyone in my family made it to the university-wide ceremony held on Nickerson Field – Tom Wolfe was our keynote speaker and that doesn’t do much to excite my family. Fuck, it doesn’t excite me and I’m the aspiring writer. BU, not counting scholarships and grants, ended up being a 120,000 dollar investment – you’d think they’d bring on Clinton or something.

Everyone showed up at the smaller, college ceremony, though. I had the biggest cheering section out of everyone there. They called my name out and I went up, all smiles, my relatives acting like the families from the Junior High ceremony, cameras going off and my Tio Andy screaming at people to move out of the way, he’s trying to get this shit on video.

I get my diploma, it’s in this portfolio, shake the hands and walk off the stage, all smiles – open up the portfolio to take a look at the diploma to find a bill there instead, quietly tuck it under my arms and make my way back to my seat.

After the ceremony my family wants to see the diploma, I’m reluctant. They want pictures with me holding it open, shit like that, and after avoiding their requests for a couple of minutes I finally breakdown and open up the portfolio to show that there’s nothing in it but the bill.

My parents – they’re a little embarrassed, to say the least. Of course it opened the conversations up for a whole slew of “Puerto Ricans can’t pay their bills” jokes but, you know, we can’t.

My father gave me a check, I ran down to the treasures office, settled up my balance and get the real diploma and we all start taking pictures again. I said what turned out to be my final goodbyes to a lot of people I rolled with in college – mainly the people that where in my major, I didn’t hang with them as much senior year. They were all fighting with each other, hooking up with each other – even R was dating one of my good friends. It was all just kind of – sleazy, I guess. My RA friends didn’t sleep with each other and made for much more comfortable nights out.

My entire family and Robin’s parents all made our way to La Familia for a nice Italian meal. I got plenty of envelopes totaling about five-hundred cash – this is going to be all of the money I end up going to Washington DC with. My father paid the massive bill but only after coming out of the kitchen with an apron on - as he started to clean up the table the family starts to crack up – my father has some jokes up his sleeve.

After dinner some of the family left – not everyone was staying the night in Boston. Robin and I went out to Crossroads with my Uncle Chris, Aunt Jacinda, Titi Lisa and Uncle Hervin. We drank and smoked all night, played some darts, played some Clue. Guam came out to meet me there. Honestly, out of all the friends I met in college Guam’s the one I most wanted to have drinks with on my last night in Boston. Homeboy was a partner in crime like I’ve never had and haven’t had since – creatively we jived together, we were always bouncing ideas around – I honestly think college would have sucked if I didn’t meet Guam junior year. He got me into improv, got me into acting and inspired me to start writing again.

Shit you not, you can trace it all back to the dude. Me, right here, over 240 stories over a year’s time, one more to go – this all started at Guam. The comics, the plays, the movies – it all started at Guam. So it was fitting he was the last guy I toasted that night, the man was one of the few muses I’ve ever had and likely the strongest.

After drinks we go back to my brownstone. At this point I’m the only person left in the building, I had two residents who were seniors and they moved their shit out earlier. I set up a room for my family that went out drinking with me – they crashed the night and hit the road early the next morning.

Robin went to the green line stop to take the train out towards Framingham, her mom was picking her up at Riverside. Next time I’d see Robin will be in Washington DC – ready to start our new life together.

I pack up the car with the remainder of my stuff – the stuff that’s not going into temporary storage. I go to the RA office and check in my keys, shake my director’s hand, and give hugs to the RAs who are handling closing. I want to stay longer but my family’s waiting for me in the car.

I get in the back seat with my sister and my Aunt Connie. My mom asks me if I’m all right but realizes my eyes are tearing up and I don’t answer her, she leaves me alone. We pull away from Bay State Road; my sister puts her head on my shoulders and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I try to keep myself together as BU disappears behind me and I fail miserably – but my face is turned towards the window the entire time.

We turn around on Commonwealth Avenue and there’s Warren Towers – the dorm I stayed in during summer orientation, the dorm R lived in freshman year. For us RAs Warren Towers was a nightmare – everyone who got assigned to what was primarily “the freshman dorm” had to work three times as hard as the rest of us. Or they just had constant sex with their residents, whatever.

Drive down Commonwealth and hit Kenmore Square. I used to walk down to the Store 24 in flannel pajamas and my Jesus Kicks. One day we’re down there and the place is closed, I see the guy behind the heavy glass door and begin to pound on it, screaming, “24 hours, man! It’s in the fucking name!”

The Pizzeria Uno in Kenmore was the place to go freshman year – it almost felt like a bar and the four cheese pizza was delicious. We’d always hang there and catch the first three innings of the Sox game, make our way to Fenway and get the severely discounted tickets from the scalpers who are just trying to get rid of them.

Go further down Commonwealth and you get to Angora Café who changed their name to Ankara Café but fuck that. Frozen yogurt with over fifty mix-ins, a night out consisted of waiting on a line that snaked out the door just to get some magical Fro-Yo. Stop upstairs when you’re done eating at the head-shop and fantasize over the glass pipes that cost too much to ever justify purchasing – why spend fifty bucks on a pipe when fifty bucks will get you enough dope to last the week?

Passed Comicopia – the comic store I’d stop in once every couple of months and say to myself, “You know, I want to get back into comics.” Buy an issue of the X-Men to discover Wolverine’s a horseman of Apocalypse or some shit and remember why I stopped reading them to begin with.

Get to Copley Square – a bunch of us got dressed up freshman year and went to a Valentine’s Day dance there – rented a hotel room that cost about as much as I was making in a week. Believe it or not, that was the first time R and I had sex – and yes, we’ve been dating for almost seven or eight months (shit, last week is full of revelations, first Unstrung Heroes and now this). She wanted to wait until she was 18; I guess I can appreciate that. Of course, she turned 18 the last days of December but I had this crazy notion that I’d make it right for her, first time and all, and after waiting so long what’s another month and a half, right? So we got the nice hotel, danced all night, set the mood at the hotel and I was done in about two minutes. Five minutes later we went again and that time it lasted about three minutes. You see, you can’t make it special when you haven’t had sex in almost a year.

And then it’s on the Mass Pike, heading west. You see the school one last time, all the dorms and the university buildings – that one last look at PJ Killroy’s, my favorite bar, and then it’s nothing but Newtons and Framinghams and Walthams and Peabodys.

After ten minutes I wipe my eyes and start talking again, the car ride feels like it takes forever but once we’re back in New York all I can think about is the coming move to DC.

All I can think about is Robin.

Beginnings: Moving Out

Three more stories to go before The Moose turns into an “at most two times a week of whatever the hell I want” type of blog – for now. Couple of things before getting down the business…

First off, I posted a little bit of information on the World’s End Production Blog that gives some insight into the editing process and how it’s the kind of job you adapt to depending on the project and the team. I don’t know, if you’re interested in what editing comics is like that’s a good place to start. You can also read the Plot to Page piece I wrote for the Elk’s Run Bumper Edition – layouts on that done by the amazing Jason (Jaco) Hanley.

Speaking of Jaco, he’s busy doing some promotional material for me to bring to New York Comic Con regarding my super secret project. Since the decision to go ahead with the super secret project won’t come down until April (so, yes, this might not happen…but I think it will) I really can’t say too much about it but trust me when I say I can't fucking wait to blab my ass off about it.

And, finally, before story time – my fellow Moose in the Closet has some comments for all of you on the similarities between her site and mine. You know, despite the obvious differences like how mine has stories where I piss all over myself and she has stories about panties. (I’m just getting a kick out of the whole thing – it’s like Bizzaro Moose.)

Story time, savor the flavor, only three of these to go…
_____________________

Don’t remember much about high school graduation, mainly because nothing memorable really happened. Midwood was a competitive school, I think I finished up with a 92 or 93 average and my class ranking was something along the lines of 125. No awards, no special honors, got my diploma, took my pictures and called it a day.

By this point I was already set to go to Boston University and had a handle on who else was going – there’s a comfort zone to moving on when you know what’s coming next in life and you realize who you’ll likely never see again (upcoming ten year reunion aside). You give your hugs and jot down the phone numbers and email addresses and say goodbye and never look back.

You know what I remember about graduation? I remember it was held in Brooklyn College and we marched out to “Consider Yourself” from the Oliver Twist musical. Is that some kind of weird ass tradition I never heard of?

Consider yourself well in
Consider yourself part of the furniture
There isn't a lot to spare
Who cares, whatever we've got we share

I mean, what part of that song really signifies high school graduation?

The day of year book signing was much more fun – the book passes through many hands, cryptic things are written that make no-fucking-sense ten years later.

Jason, it was fun chilling these four years. We’ll always have B.P.O., right?
No. We won’t always have B.P.O.. The person who wrote that didn’t even leave a name, as if B.P.O is enough for me to know who it is. As if when I’m fifty I’ll look back on the book and say, “Hey, I wonder whatever happened to Jimmy and his plans for B.P.O.” I’d like to think B.P.O. stands for “Butt Plug Optimization” and I do hope “Jimmy” remembered it and is still working on it, only because I’d want to talk to him at the reunion and see how far he’s come. Currently, butt-plugs require way too much lube – it’s an expensive hobby.

There were certain people who I didn’t ask to sign my book and every time I saw these people outside during the signing there was a very awkward pause. M was one of them, at this point R already confirmed that she was indeed cheating on me, excuses have run out and I couldn’t deny it anymore. So there was never a proper goodbye, never some phony message scribbled down in a high school yearbook reminiscing over the good times we shared – I don’t know, I guess I was never an overly sentimental guy.

Over the summer there was orientation for college. I already told the story of the dope smokers I rolled with, getting the party started right.

My parents threw a going away party for me where The Moose was spawned in the wee hours of the night. Earlier in the evening family members gave me cash and well wishes, a couple of days later my father packs the car and it’s off to college – the first member of the Rodriguez family to make it.

They help me settle in; hang out for a couple of days. I’m making friends but already relying too heavily on R. The parents leave, my mom makes me promise I won’t smoke – ten minutes later she catches me smoking when they realize they left something in my dorm room.

I get drunk that first night and throw up all over the place.

Take the lumps – many a night doing the typical freshman thing of walking around Allston, looking for the party that your friend’s friend’s brother’s girlfriend is supposedly throwing. I’ve walked up to many barren houses, windows dark, and rang the doorbell – the middle of the boondocks, no party in sight.

Smoking dope, meeting “dealers” who are essentially kids with an extra ounce of weed they sell at a 200% markup but it’s not like you’re getting the shit anywhere else. Eventually find that guy that sells dope, heavy drugs and magic cards – sophomore year is over from that point on.

Try to keep in shape, remind myself I was an athlete in college while putting on twenty pounds over the first year. Going jogging with Mormon Josh and waiting over five minutes for the elevator – we’re on the fourth floor – realizing it’s a lost cause and we’re never going to be who we were in high school again.

A couple of fights – a couple of drunken almost hook-ups or attempts at hook-ups that caused me to be paranoid about what R’s doing when I’m not around. I used to read her email and then spend the night depressed, wondering what happened to get me so paranoid. In retrospect, the Hooker Hand wasn’t a huge surprise after all.

Nothing was, really.

Getting the job – I was so fucking proud to get a job in the dining hall; everyone else thought I was a bum. I was the grill man for the first year – I even had my own burger on the menu. The Jurger – a burger with pineapple and bacon, all grilled in teriyaki sauce, topped with muenster cheese and served up on a toasted Kaiser roll with spicy curly fries. It was one of the most popular items in the dining hall. The vegetarians loved me to, they called me the Stir Fry King because I wasn’t skimpy with the baby corn like the other grill men. I’d come home smelling like grease and my roommate would be playing video games, spitting his dip into a Snapple bottle which chain smoking Marlboro Reds.

Fighting with the mom – almost every conversation had me getting annoyed for the stupidest reasons – feeling guilty over it. Called her one night at around 11PM and just talked with her – it was freshman year, more than halfway through. I finished watching a movie that always reminded me of her (and I won’t say the name because I’ll never hear the end of it – never). Just got me upset – I don’t know, at myself – we had a nice talk. But it never really stuck back then, there was always something – smoking, not talking to Elizabeth enough – always some shit that I was getting mad at her for when I was the one being the idiot. My poor dad caught in the middle of it all and trying to keep his cool.

The newness rubs off quick and makes way for laziness and repetition. Get drunk on Fridays, smoke dope on Saturdays, study on Sundays, smoke dope Monday through Thursday. Arguments with the girl get worse as time goes on, I remember cursing at her several times, actually telling her to go fuck herself – I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone else to go fuck themselves and meant it – it’s not what I say, it’s not how I roll.

But everything was fine.

Friends from high school dropping off quicker than you ever imagined – even people who went to college with you slowly move away – the ones who went elsewhere never had a chance. Distance only makes the heart grow fonder for the first year, after that it becomes too much work to deal with.

Looking back at college, it amazes me how fast I adapted, how fast I fell into a routine and how fast I stopped giving a shit. Beyond that, it amazes me how one thing flips it all on its ass.