Epic Failure

Since I’m focusing on stories that take place after college (mid-2000 and beyond) I’m going to have to talk all about my decision to get into comics. I’ve floated a couple of stories around over the pass few years but The Moose in the Closet is all about honesty. So you’ll be getting the true story here for the first time and it is FULL of embarrassing fanboy moments, glorified fan-fiction, and hero worship, everything I now preach against.

The story I tell people is how I wrote a script for a sci-fi play called “Ask”, showed it to my boy Guam, and Guam said, “This is a shitty play but it’d make for a great comic book.” I researched comic companies and discovered Marvel was accepting pitches for their relaunched Epic line. I worked long and hard on an issue one script and beat sheets for the next three issues, sent it in, waited a couple of months, and got a rejection letter that was different from any other rejection letters I’ve seen on-line.

The only thing completely true about that story is that I got a rejection letter for a pitch called “Ask”. Everything else is me covering up my embarrassing decisions.

The concept behind “Ask” came from a conversation I had at lunch with my boy Max – we were talking about what superpower we’d like to have, typical lunchtime conversation. I told him that I’d like to be able to answer any question. So, if anyone asks me a question or if I ask myself a question – I’d instantly know the answer.

We got to talking about an idea for a movie that starts with the main character (who has this question-answering ability) deciding he wants to sleep with some Hollywood starlet. He does something like goes out and buys a candy bar. You then follow this chain of events that lead to the gruesome death of the Hollywood starlet’s husband and, at the end of the movie, the guy who started it all is at the right place at the right time and he has sex with the girl of his dreams.

So, he’s essentially the world’s most powerful douche.

It’s a fun concept, I might dig it back up again, and I’m sure if I put some serious energy into it I could make it sing. The version I sent into Epic, however – a twenty-two page script and four beat sheets that I wrote in…

A. Single. Day.

Reread it once. Said, “This is good enough, if they like it they’ll assign me an editor.”

I saw the call for submissions, published sometime ago, and was like, “Fuck – they probably received a MILLION submissions by now!” And I just started typing. Never wrote a comic script in my life. Fuck, never even seen one, honestly. I typed my ass off, printed it out, and mailed that shit in.

I almost instantly realized that I made a TREMENDOUS mistake. I don’t know, maybe that’s what sets me apart from other people – I know when I just did something stupid. I started, you know, learning about comic production and theory at that point. I’ve done stage and editorial writing since college, I knew how to tell a story, but I had no idea how to write a comic book.

Over the next couple of weeks I’m going to focus on the first pitches – pre-Western Tales of Terror. I ended up sending three concepts into Epic and three other sad, sad pitches before finally deciding to go at it another way.

Hopefully we have some fun over these next couple of weeks. I’ll even be posting some of the original pitches – they’re good for a laugh.

POSTCARDS is Bringing the Postcard Back

Between July 1st, 1907 and June 30th, 1908 there were close to 700-million postcards mailed within the United States alone – approximately 8 postcards for each individual living here. This was the Golden Age of Postcards. The low postage and improvements in printing technology made postcards a very simple, attractive, and cost-effective form of communication.

What we’re left with now is thousands-upon-thousands of dusty shoeboxes filled with 25-cent postcards in antique shops across the country. Pieces of peoples’ lives – talks of quarantines, wars, sickly mothers, and secret admirers occasionally being shuffled through but often discarded by collectors because they’re in “bad shape”.

We’ve moved to email. Shaping pixels on a screen with no personality – spell-checks catch our mistakes – communication is instant and free, allowing for meaningful conversation along the lines of:

Jason –
‘sup?
- Josh

POSTCARDS wants to bring the postcard back. A 160-page anthology produced and edited by Jason Rodriguez (coedited by James W. Powell), POSTCARDS tells stories inspired by these glimpses into a person’s life. Why did the mysterious “E” brave a quarantine to see his friend Elmer? Did Earl Shafer ever return from World War II? Did Anna really marry a man with a 12-year-old son, as her cousin suspected? An all-star line-up, including Harvey Pekar, Matt Kindt, Phil Hester, Tom Beland, Stuart Moore, Michael Gaydos, Josh Fialkov, Ande Parks, Rick Spears & Rob G, Robert Tinnell, Neil Kleid, Antony Johnston, and Noel Tuazon, have set out to answer these questions and more.

POSTCARDS is set to be released July 2007, but we can’t wait that long to bring the postcard back. We want your postcards. We want a glimpse into your life. If you have something you want to tell us about yourself, please send a postcard to:

Jason Rodriguez
P.O. Box 17851
Arlington, VA 22201

Include an email address on the card – if something catches our eye we may be asking for permission to post it on the POSTCARDS MySpace page (http://www.myspace.com/AllYouLeave) or Production Blog (http://www.allyouleave.com). If something really gets us excited we may even ask for permission to feature it within a future volume of POSTCARDS. Also, feel free to include your return address – you might get a reply postcard from someone in the book with a little bit about their life or even a sketch.

So pick out some fun postcards and get to writing - purchase proper postage (that’s 24-cents, in case you haven't mailed a postcard within the last couple of decades) - send us a postcard. Send a postcard to your mother or your boyfriend or your friend from college while you're at it.

Help us bring the postcard back.

Business Destinations: Cape Canaveral

The best part about my first job out of college was all the business traveling. Robin was in Boston for that first year, after all, so it was either stay home, alone, or eat steaks and hang out at strip clubs every night, all on the tax-payers dollar. Some destinations were more fun than others (to this day I have a burning hatred in my soul for Aberdeen, Maryland) and some were supposed to be fun but I never had a chance to go out and play.

Fortunately, Cape Canaveral was one of those cities that were supposed to be fun and we ALWAYS found the time to play. And we went there quite often.

We didn’t stay in Cape Canaveral; we actually stayed in Cocoa Beach. Not the most family friendly beach, due to the fact that it’s kind of nasty and the strip is lined with strip clubs, but a great place for a bunch of dudes on per diem. The hotel we stayed at was a resort hotel where all the cruise lines sent people who had pre-cruise overnights. The government rate, for some reason, was retarded low – it was along the lines of sixty-and-change a night if I’m remembering correctly for a place with a huge pool, Jacuzzi, and pool-side bar for socializing. One of the better hotels I’ve ever stayed at on the company dime, the best one likely being some joint in Boca Raton that had an amazing on-site Cuban restaurant and a pimped out suite where the x-rated videos were actually, you know, rated x and not filled with simulated sex (although simulated blowjobs are really funny to watch when you’re drunk).

As far as the work we did out there – we spent the entire time on a Navy base working on a ship that goes out to sea and records the sounds submarines make when they pass underneath it. We’d do all our work in Virginia, bring it there and test it. Sometimes these tests would only take a couple of hours a day and we’d be free for the rest of the afternoon/evening to go boogie-boarding, eat fish plucked right from the ocean, and get some titties in our faces.

On one trip down there all of our shit got lost in the mail – it was delayed by three days. So we had a little vacation down in Cocoa Beach without any stress from work. We were riding go-carts at noon and lying out on the beach for hours. Hanging out at the pool-side bar and getting bombed.

One time at the pool area some chick joins me and a coworker in the Jacuzzi and starts getting super close to us. She’s in town on business, lonely – just telling us all about herself and making sure we know she’s single. Telling us about her trip to the strip club the night before. It was pretty obvious she wanted one (or both) of us. My coworker could tell I wasn’t down, I’ve never cheated on Robin, and it kind of killed the whole mood in the Jacuzzi. She eventually left and worked the pool-side bar instead. Part of me was like, “Fuck – missed opportunity at a three way” but then the other part of me was like, “Oh – with two dudes, though.” Probably why it was easy to turn her away.

Across from the hotel was a huge adult bookstore. I’d make my way there the first night of every trip and get some porno mags to keep in the bathroom. It was always weird going there, because it’s almost a guarantee you’ll see a coworker there. Fuck, sometimes you go with one, you know? And there’s nothing more awkward than finding out what kind of porn your boss likes, let me tell you. My boss – skinny white dude with glasses – apparently loved black chicks.

Brown sugar, baby. Brown sugar.

The food was great, too. Fresh fish was all I ate for dinner. For lunch we went to Frankie’s for Buffalo wings – 10 levels of hotness. I was able to comfortably eat level-7. I tried level ten’s sauce once and almost died. For the fish – I was all about the mahi. One time I ordered it and the waitress said they were out. She then looked out the window and said, “Hold on”. Two minutes later I see her outside the window, buying mahi off of the back of some guy’s boat. I get that shit on my plate about a half-hour later.

And then there were the strip clubs. The one we went to always got packed. Every fucking night. And I’d know because we went every fucking night. One time we went with the VP of the company. This was our third night on the trip, some coworkers and I went the previous two nights. Anyway, this fucking guy walks in like he owns the place – telling us he’s going to show us how to party. Two minutes into the excursion and I’m sitting in the corner getting a multi-song lap-dance from two girls at the same time. Taking turns, rubbing up on me and each other, giving that little giggle strippers do to drive mother fuckers NUTS. Eventually the VP, who spent the second half of the night sitting at the stage and wasting dollars, tells us he’s going to go back to the hotel. I have a stripper sitting next to me as I remind him not to be late for work the next day.

Light weight.

The funniest part about the strip club is that locals would troll the floor and try to give lap dances for five bucks. Nasty women, no teeth and bad breath. Some people would even take them up on the offer. What the fuck, for ten bucks more you get that stripper skin and that smell – oh god that smell – I don’t get the folks who’d rather have grandma ride them for five bucks less.

Cape Canaveral was always a good time. It was the model of consistency. And it’s always nice to establish the baseline before spending several weeks on the OTHER places I’ve visited.

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Spain: Back Home

It might not seem possible, but the trip from Spain back to the states was about as horrible as the trip from the states to Spain. I was leaving a day earlier than Robin but we were both scheduled to land in Boston at the same time. Figure that one out.

Robin went with me to the airport. We make our way to the British Airway counter for my flight to Manchester only to find out they canceled my reservation. Since I ended up getting a direct US Air flight to Madrid (as a result of my US-to-Manchester flight being cancelled) and missing my Manchester-to-Madrid British Airway flight, they assumed I booked a round-trip ticket just to take advantage of the fact that it’s cheaper than getting a one-way ticket. And that’s against company policy.

I spent a good ten minutes repeatedly going over my story – about how my plane was cancelled and they put me on a direct flight and yada-yada-yada. British Airways finally decided to reinstate my ticket; I breathed a sigh of relief, kissed Robin goodbye, and made my way to my plane.

I get to Manchester and make preparations for what will become my 10-hour stopover. I purchase some food, a new book (Catch-22), a couple of magazines. I make my way to a bench in the 24-hour section of the airport and just start reading. With about 5-hours to go before my flight I decide to take a nap, tie my duffle bag to my arm and use it as a pillow, fasten my book bag to my legs and tuck it into my crotch – I catch about five hours of sleep on an airport bench.

It was a very, very, very uncomfortable sleep.

I sleep most of the way home, land in Philly. I have one more flight to Boston which is, of course, delayed. A couple of hours later I’m in Boston – hanging out with Robin and her family.

The next day we pack the U-Haul truck. Our new apartment back in DC, which Robin hasn’t seen at this point, is already pretty crowded – I had no idea how we planned on fitting a second moving truck filled with shit in it.

We’re about to get on the road – Robin’s father pulls me aside and tells me that if I mistreat his daughter he’ll kill me. That was fun.

We begin the seven hour drive – stop off in Connecticut to visit my Uncle Chris and Aunt Jacinda – they just had a baby, Jack, and it was our first time seeing him. I didn’t tell Robin that my entire loud-ass Puerto Rican family was there – she was a little pissed that I surprised her with that one, mainly because she wanted to be there for a half-hour and then get back on the road.

Instead we were there for about two hours.

We get back on the highway and have a smooth trip into DC. I drove the truck from Jersey on. I only had my permit at the time (I didn’t get my license until I was 25) and this was my first time driving on the highway although I told Robin I’ve done it a “bunch of times”. I’m a dick; I think we’ve established that already.

By the time we get to the apartment it’s too late to unpack the truck. We go straight upstairs and Robin sees the place for the first time. I put up these “Welcome Home” signs and what not; she seemed to have liked that. There were also dead roaches in the sink; she didn’t like that at all. Overtime we’ll both begin to hate the apartment, but Robin can always claim she hated it the moment she saw it.

The next day we unloaded the truck and started unpacking boxes – ready to get this whole “new life together” thing started. We even bought a mattress – for the past year and a half I had nothing but the futon. New life, new mattress – we took the U-Haul truck to Costco and picked one up. We also picked up a variety of roach killing products, none of which made a difference over the six months we lived in that place.

After unpacking everything Robin decided she wanted to walk around and see the neighborhood. She quickly realized I moved us into the ghetto. About seven blocks north was the Mall, the Air and Space Museum, to be exact. That was cool – Smithsonian trips and classes were a quick walk away. But a block south was government subsidized housing, a ghetto strip mall, and this weird ice-cream truck that only came around late at night, no markings on it, and now kids going up to it.

Luckily we only ended up spending another five months there.

Spain: The Rain in Spain…

Spain was great – I loved Spain despite the horrible trip out there. Madrid is a gorgeous city – I met the people who were putting Robin up for the several months she was out there, shared a hookah with her friends. We shacked up at a hostel right downtown, private room with a balcony – not much for amenities but we had plenty of bars and restaurants around us.

Did the touristy thing – saw the castles and the churches – drank sangria, discovered Spanish calamari is nothing like American calamari. Visited the erotic museum where some perverted old man hung out at the final exhibit which, I believe, was the porno exhibit. Cuban restaurants with sexy Cuban entertainers, drinks that were served out of volcanoes, a late night cafe that served up hot cups of fudge with your churro.

I fell in love with Madrid. I thought it was the greatest city I’ve ever visited (not saying much, considering this is my first real vacation)…until we went to Barcelona.

We flew out to Barcelona – the airport in Madrid was a mad house and when we finally went to get our boarding passes they told us that they were out of seats so they needed to bump one of us to first class. Robin obviously wanted it but I decided to be a bit of a dick, complained about my horrible trip to Madrid to begin with, and got the upgrade. It was an hour flight or so, you know, whatever. She was only pissed for about five minutes.

We get to Barcelona – we’re staying in a hotel right by the water, not at all far from the beach. We check in, change into our bathing suits, and walk right to the waterfront. We purchase some beers from a vendor, pick out a spot, and lay out. When in Rome, as they say – Robin takes off her top and I find it to be a bit of a turn-on. I mean, there are plenty of tits exposed on the beach but Robin’s where nice AND she didn’t have hairy pits – part of me imagined the guys were checking out my lady and that made me feel a bit like The Man.

But that’s what Barcelona was – a bit of freedom for us, a place where no-one knows us, where we’re taking our first vacation, we both finished with college and we have money for the first time in our lives – no worries. And we did whatever the fuck we wanted.

Every night we ended up at the same restaurant, eating mussels and paella and watching the street performers while drinking bottle after bottle of wine. We went to the aquarium – the beach everyday – we even went to a Six Flags park out there. It rained the whole time but we had a blast, rode all the roller coasters, stayed for the fireworks.

I fucked up on the last night, though. Pretty badly.

I was drunk. A lot of you who read this blog have shared drinks with me – most of you have seen Jason the funny drunk, only. The one that cracks-wise, makes fun of people to their faces, and occasionally rips the underwear off of my body without taking my pants off. Some of you, unfortunately, have met the completely irresponsible, violent, and depressed drunken Jason. He’s not a nice guy.

He came out that last night in Barcelona. We called some street performers to our table; they were a guitar/singer combo from California. We bought them wine, shared our food, and exchanged stories. They had some friends come sit with us, girls and guys – we all had a great evening. But it was a weird evening – I think signals were crossed the whole night and at different times different people were expecting different things, the alcohol not helping at all. I don’t know what was supposed to happen but I know what did happen – Robin and I went back to the hotel and she passed out.

And I got angry. Really fucking angry.

I became fixated on the stupidest thing – watching the sunrise. When Robin was in Ibiza she told me that her and her friends danced all night and watched the sunrise. To me that sounded like fun, and for some fucking reason, I wanted that.

I had a bit of a problem back then – I used to equate fun with sex; a fun night is one where you have sex. If you’re having fun it means you’re having sex. If I ended up not having sex, like that last evening in Barcelona, I’d attempt to substitute it with something else, usually the first thing that pops into my head. I don’t really do that anymore, thanks to a couple of therapists, now I associate a lack of fun with not having sex. It might sound like the same thing but for me it makes a huge difference.

Anyway, background aside, I was obsessed with this fucking sunrise. I stayed awake for hours, lying in bed, breathing heavy, until finally I woke Robin up and told her that I wanted to see the sunrise.

She had no idea what was going on but here I was, dragging her ass down to the water.

The sunrises – I don’t know what I was expecting – fucking angels to come down from the heavens or some shit, but it certainly didn’t fill this fun void I was having. So, instead, I started to tell Robin I was having second doubts about her moving to DC with me.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Jason Rodriguez, and I’m the biggest asshole you’ll ever meet.

(Or was the biggest asshole, anyway).

Fuck it, though. If I wasn’t having fun, no-one was having fun.

Robin told me she didn’t feel the same way and somehow maneuvered out of the conversation and got me back to the hotel and into bed, which was probably a good call. I have to hand it to her – she puts up with a lot of my shit. There we were, together for over two years, she’s a week away from moving to a brand fucking new city to live with me, we’re on a vacation, and I’m giving her the break-up prelude. But she knew I was drunk and stupid and just found a way to get me to shut-up and see if I felt the same way in the morning.

I didn’t, obviously.

The next day we were back to Madrid. The last couple of days in Madrid were uneventful – just beer and eating, really – we were beat.

Robin and I – here we are, seven-plus years together – I grew up a lot, thankfully, but I almost threw it all away one morning in Barcelona. Luckily for me, Robin’s too strong of a woman to let that happen.

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