Postcards! Elk's Run! Buy My Books!

When you go to your comic shop today, make sure you tell them to order a copy of Postcards! It's currently being solicited in Previews, order # APR074039. I'm going to make some handy-dandy order forms you can hand to your retailer later tonight.

If you don't go to comic shops, you can still pre-order Postcards: True Stories That Never Happened on Amazon (or go to your local B&N and request a copy).

We have lots of great stuff coming up. A contest where you can win some original art from the book, published conversations with creators from the book to be featured at Blog@Newsarama and CBR, plus plenty of other interviews and features in the works.

So, that's Postcards. Elk's Run is in bookstores RIGHT NOW. It'll be in comic shops NEXT WEEK. I got my copy yesterday - it's gorgeous. Despite the fact that I edited this book, and was intimately involved with the material, I gave it a reread and I have to say, it rocks. It's nice revisiting a book months after you completed it and realizing it's really as good as you've been saying it is. Elk's Run is also available on Amazon, if you want to be lazy about it.

And that's that. Buy my books!

The Rest of the Family

When you come to this site, you read stories about Hooker Hands and pants shitting and you likely say to yourself, when does he get to the stories about cute kittens and purse-sized dogs? Well, today’s the day, ladies and gentlemen, when I introduce you to the kids.

That’s right, the kids. Because I’m cheese for my pets.

I’ve talked about the pets I’ve had before Robin. A cat as a child that tortured me. A bird that I named after my adopted Grandma Fran that died almost instantly. The goldfish that we couldn’t kill. The beagle that was killed by his vet. And then LJ, who’s still alive – good ole, dumb as a sack of rocks, LJ.

Robin had some pets back in the day, too. A cat called Mittens. Usually, when you call a cat Mittens, it means they’re cute. This guy was an outdoor cat, though, that would drag dead mice and birds into Robin’s room as a kid. She had a dog, as well, but I forget his name. One year for his birthday (a late birthday – shortly before he died) they let him sit on a dining room chair and eat cake. From that day on, whenever the family would sit for dinner, the dog would take a chair and growl at anyone who tried to move him. Robin also had a rat named Sidney but we’ll get to him.

By my count, that’s seven pets total. In the eight years that Robin and I have been together, we’ve owned ten pets. So, let’s go…

The Bird

We lived in Southwest DC for six months. I picked out the apartment, Robin hated it. We’d often travel into neighborhoods we’d rather live in and one day we found ourselves in a pet shop in Bethesda. In this pet shop there was this well-groomed, well-mannered Quaker Parrot up for adoption. We asked the employees about the bird and they told us that the owners haven’t been home much and haven’t had time to dedicate to the bird. He’s eight years old, and Quakers usually live to around 25.

We liked the guy, we took him out and he sat on our fingers and our shoulder. His name was Quaky and we really couldn’t change it because the only thing he knew how to say was, “I’m Quaky.” It’d be awkward if we changed his name to Julius or something. So, we decided to adopt Quaky.

He was great. He’d fly around the house, land on our finger, say, “I’m Quakey,” in case we forgot. We really liked the guy. And then he turned on me, took a chunk of my finger off, and I stopped liking him almost instantly.

Apparently, Quaker Parrots tend to bond to one person and one person only, and usually a female. He viewed Robin as his mate and I was his competition. Because of this, he attacked me whenever he had the chance. We ended up clipping his wings, obviously.

Robin still loved him until he started biting her, too. He doesn’t attack her – doesn’t fly at her face like he does to mine – but he sure as hell doesn’t let her hold him. We decided that he’s just a mean bird. That’s why his previous owners really gave him up.

We tried to soften him up a bit but nothing worked. There are currently two trains of thought in the house. Mine is that we failed, and someone else will do better. Robin’s is that someone else will put him to sleep. As with all things in our household, Robin’s logic wins, and we still have Quaky. On the bright side, he only has ten years left.

Only. Ten. Years.

The Rats

Once we realized that the bird hates us we decided to get a pet that’ll love us. This was while we were still in Southwest and we weren’t allowed cats or dogs. So we got rats (Robin’s idea). Robin’s first rat, Sidney, was a cute little guy – she had him when we first started dating. I wasn’t really down with the “rat thing” but I would let her crawl on me and I’d pet her because, honestly, I wanted to get laid (not by the rat).

So, Robin goes to a breeder and gets us two rats. Macy and Cole. Macy is the lovable, lick-your-fingers type and Cole was likely a butch lesbian. She ran on the wheel all day and would, occasionally, mount the other rats and hump them. Vigorously. We didn’t stop there – Robin hooked up with a breeder that had a dumbo rat (big ears) named Dilly and a blue-haired rex (bluish hair that looked permed) named Penny.

It was fine, they all had their own personalities and they were low-cost pets. I even took an affinity towards Penny – she’d sit at my desk while I was trying to make comics and I’d feed her treats.

The problem is, rats get sick. Real sick. Especially females. Dilly was the first to get sick. One day we see her jumping around her cage and gasping for air. We take her to the vet. Now, we’re new at this. We don’t know about prices or any of that stuff. We take this rat to the vet at night. They take her in, put her on a ventilator, and observe her. The following day they’re giving her meds, back on the ventilator, etc, etc, etc, and they put her down. It was sad – Robin was crying. I was a little choked up, mainly because Robin was so sad. But I started crying when I saw that bill – it was a touch over a thousand dollars.

For a rat. That cost us fifteen bucks. Even Robin, the animal lover, thought we might have gone a bit too far with the treatments. So, we made a pact – every rat gets one chance. Unless their chance involves ventilators, then we say goodbye.

Macy and Cole got tumors; those were reasonably priced to remove and counted as their one chance (we had a better vet now, too). Macy had a respiratory infection that we gave her medicine for until she died. We put her to sleep. Cole ended up dying the exact same way. When there was only Penny left we adopted a fifth rat, Dipper. The only male of the crew – he was a cool dude but Penny got a tumor shortly after we adopted him, which we removed, and the respiratory illness to follow. She died while we were taking her to the vet.

That left Dipper. When we adopted him, he was about two years old. He lived for a year and died peacefully, never a problem. We decided that if we ever get another rat it’ll be a boy. We never got another rat, though, and I think that was a good decision. They were just way too expensive.

The Cats

We were only supposed to get one cat. We adopted her from the shelter. Her name was Crystal but we weren’t having any of that so we just call her Kitty. Some cat-lady croaked and twenty-some-odd cats were dropped off at the shelter – Kitty was the last one. She was nine when we adopted her, she was friendly as all hell, and she’s been in this non no-kill shelter for several months. The way we saw it, we had to adopt her, because no-one else was going to. She has a mullet, she sleeps in bed with us, and she’s clumsy as all hell. A good cat.

Robin was volunteering at the same shelter when she met our second cat, Rogue. Rogue was around seven. Lovable and petite. We took her home; she took a couple of months to get integrated, Kitty would kick her ass constantly. She meows a lot, she wakes us up as soon as the alarm goes off or one of us opens our eyes, and she keeps the other cats in line. All good.

We decided to stop at two cats.

Our third cat, Frisky, was two years old when we got her. She was my Grandma Fran’s cat. Her son got it for her to keep her company/keep her busy; Grandma Fran had Alzheimer’s. When Grandma Fran died, her son said he was going to put the cat to sleep. Robin and I wouldn’t have that so we took the cat. Frisky was hiding in the walls of my Grandma Fran’s apartment and we managed to flush her out. My father drove her down to DC. She got along fine with Rogue but Kitty gave her a hard time. She jumps around a lot, she’s afraid of everything, and I’ve never seen her bat back at any of the other cats. With a cat like that, three doesn’t seem so bad.

Our fourth cat was a foster that we decided to keep. Ashes. She’s a terror but she keeps things interesting. She’s a three-year-old punk, she attacks everybody, and whereas her ass is occasionally handed to her by Rogue, she keeps Kitty and Frisky on their toes. We kept her solely for the entertainment value. We’ve learned how to keep her in line if we need to – when the Nerf gun comes out she knows she went too far. But she’s always the first to greet us, she likes to play rough, and she doesn’t upset the status quo too much.

Four cats. No intention of getting a fifth. Robin’s not allowed at shelters anymore.

The Dog

And then there’s Becky. Robin manages the largest pet sitting service in DC. One of her clients died and left behind a nine-year-old rat terrier. Six pounds, she’s smaller than all of our cats. Her name’s Becky – Robin brought her home to see if I liked her.

I don’t like small dogs unless their beagles or bulldogs. A dog should be at least twenty pounds, that’s how I see it. This dog had large, beady eyes and ears that poked up. Hardly any fur and bad breath. She had a burn on her back - when she was spayed they kept a heat lamp on her for too long. She was just a beat-up, mangy looking dog.

But she loves to play fetch. Seriously, fetch for hours. One day we were having a barbeque and everyone there kept throwing the ball for Becky. She kept fetching that ball UNTIL SHE PASSED OUT. We had to take her upstairs and put her into a tub of cold water to revive her. She fetched until her body shut down.

I was a big fan of the fetching, so I let Robin adopt her. The integration was tough, because I wasn’t too down with some Becky-things, but Robin was patient me. For instance – Becky won’t go outside if it’s cold. Especially not if it’s snowing or raining. You just end up dragging her around. She won’t go to the bathroom. So we had to get her sweaters and booties.

Well, I wasn’t going to walk around with a dog wearing a sweater and booties. I refused to, actually. The first time she pissed on the rug changed my mind about that one, however. So, now I walk her with a sweater and booties.

But, like I said, it’s all about the fetching. On a hot summer day I sit on the lawn in a beach chair with a 32 of Delirium and a good book. I put some water out there for Becky and every five minutes I give the ball a toss. We stay out there like that for hours. Sometimes I’ll use the whiffle-ball bat to get the ball going nice and far. I get to practice my hitting and Becky gets to stretch her legs. It’s the perfect partnership.

She loves cheese, she loves barbeque, and she demands the attention of pretty girls. She’s a good dog.

And that’s the extended family. We currently have five animals – the cats, the bird, and the dog. No plans to get any more.

And I definitely think we’re done with the rats.

This is the End

The whole purpose of this blog, when I first started it, was to tell stories about growing up in Brooklyn and going to school in Boston. January 2006 I extended that mission to include stories about moving to DC/starting a life with Robin. The year before January 2006, I wrote 260 stories. A new story every Monday through Friday. The year since, I wrote about thirty. I admit – this blog became a tenth priority, at best.

But I want to kick it up a bit more. With the first year, I had a definitive ending in sight. I graduated BU – I moved out of Boston. The End. I always felt that, by including DC stories, I really never had anywhere to go with them.

Well, now I do. And I’m going to start at the ending and tell you all about my recent engagement to Robin.

Robin and I have been together for almost eight full years. This June, by our calculation, will mark the start of our ninth year together. And we just got engaged two weeks ago. It’s not like I never considered getting engaged before. Robin and I were both resistant to marriage at different times. A collection of reasons. We’re too young, our commitment to each other without legal obligations says more than anything else, we don’t want to have kids yet, anyway – we always had excuses on hand.

Not like the excuses ever really satisfied anyone. My parents would occasionally rib us a little – Robin’s mom would occasionally have too many drinks and flat out ask me when I was going to propose. This was usually funny, unless she did it in front of Robin’s father. Then it became uncomfortable.

Internally, I kept setting deadlines for myself. The first one was: “I’ll propose once we get out of debt.” Well, we got out of debt. Robin and I were having some issues incorporating our families into our lives and I said to myself, “Well, after we get the family stuff ironed out.” Well, we all get along fine now. It became a joke; I’d laughingly tell my friends, “We’ll get married after I get my first helicopter.”

The final deadline I set for myself was, “We’ll get married after I sell my first book.” As someone who wanted to write his whole life, I knew the odds of me ever selling a book were slim-to-none. And then I sell Postcards to Random House, biggest publisher in America, a literal dream-come-true.

And I said to myself, “Fuck, maybe I should propose.”

I decided to do it in Italy. Of course, I wrestled with my decision for several months. I kept finding reasons why Robin and I will never work in the long term. Important stuff like “she doesn’t like comics” and “we can never share a bottle of wine because she doesn’t like reds.” I fought through all of these issues and picked out the perfect ring…

…and the ring was well into the five-figures. And just like that I had another excuse – I needed to be able to afford this ring. Cash. I convinced myself that this was the only ring for Robin, the only one she deserved. I was being a good boyfriend. There was another, more affordable, ring I liked but I would not settle for second best.

For my birthday Robin took me out to this wonderful Italian restaurant in Georgetown. After several glasses of wine (I was drinking Chianti, she was drinking chardonnay, of course) Robin says, “You know – I heard Venice is a great city to get engaged in.”

It’s funny how one sentence can get you to instantly stop playing games. For the first time in our eight years together, Robin and I jibed. We both wanted to get married at the same time. I got real serious, real fast – so serious that I got angry at her for “ruining my plans” – and I managed to convince her that I feel we’re simply not ready for marriage yet. I laid out some issues we still need to work through. And, since it was my birthday, she couldn’t get mad about them.

It was perfect – and she left that restaurant convinced that I had no intentions of proposing.

I ordered the ring that night. It was from a jeweler in Florida specializing in antiques and replications that a broker found for me. It was a replica 1910 Edwardian inspired platinum ring. A good rock in the middle and a crown of smaller diamonds clasping it into place. The crown was an important feature, one that I was specifically looking for. Robin’s my princess, she knows it, and she always tells me to buy her a tiara one day. I made sure that her engagement ring had a tiara embedded into it.

Getting the ring was a bit of a nightmare. I wanted it fast because, if it sucked, I could return it and get a new one. I paid extra for rush-resizing (I sized it by using one of her existing rings) and rush-delivery. That was on a Wednesday. I should have received shipping notification, at least, by that Friday. I was in New York that weekend and decided to call the jeweler. I got some lady on the line that was telling me to calm down and if there was a problem, they’d call me. I reiterated that I needed the ring by next Thursday at the latest and she said she understands that.

Now it’s the following Wednesday. I leave for Italy on Friday. I still don’t have a ring. I still don’t have a tracking number. So I call the jeweler again and get the same chick on the line. She “remembers me” and tells me, once again, that if there’s a problem they’ll call me. I ask to speak to shipping. She transfers me, I’m on hold for five minutes, and then a guy gets on the line, probably not from shipping, and says, “Mr. Rodriguez, we’re so sorry. We’re sending the ring overnight right now.”

I got the ring at my office the next day.

I also ordered this crystal/Faberge Egg looking ring box. For some reason, I got it in my head that Venice was known for their Faberge Eggs. The plan was to go to some market, put this ring box amongst a sea of Faberge Eggs, and say, “Hey, we should get one while we’re here – how about this one?” She grabs it, opens it up – surprise! Engagement ring!

Imagine my surprise when I get to Venice and I don’t see a solitary Faberge Egg.

My improvised plan was essentially, “Fuck it – we’re in Venice.” Because, honestly, being in Venice, in-and-of-itself, makes for a great engagement story.

We went to dinner at a place called Trattoria alla Madonna. It was off the beaten path a bit. Nothing flashy – the place where the gondoliers went to eat after getting off of their shift. There was an American there, Mike. He asked us how we knew about this place and I told him it came highly recommended. Mike comes to Italy twice a year and he proceeded to give us recommendations for restaurants in Florence while helping us with the food choices on our menu.

I played football in high school; I realize when someone’s throwing a block. As Robin’s back is turned towards Mike I pull the Faberge Egg out of the pocket and put it on the table. Robin turns back around, sees the egg, and asks, “What’s this?” She opens it up, sees the engagement ring, and asks, “What’s this?” I ask her to marry me. She says, “Really?” I say, “Yes.” She says, “Are you sure?” I say, “You know, you’re freaking me out a bit.” She starts to cry and says yes, I put the ring on her.

I apparently convinced her that I was never going to propose to her. Also, she thought the Faberge Egg had sugar packets in it.

The ring doesn’t fit. I resized it at least a size too big, I gather. She has to wear it on her middle finger.

After dinner we walked over the Rialto Bridge to a wine bar situated right at the base and called our parents and siblings. Everyone was excited. Everyone probably knew about it, too.

My family certainly knew. I had to call Robin’s brother to get her father’s cell phone number so I can ask permission, so Robin’s family probably knew. I also told a lot of my family and friends as well as a bunch of coworkers at my day job and in comics that I was going to propose. So, it probably wasn’t much of a surprise to anyone.

At any rate – we’re engaged. I want to get married next Spring, Robin wants to finish school first before she even starts planning the wedding so she’s thinking the following Spring. At any rate, it’s going to be one hell of a party.

Where have I been?

On the MySpace page, mainly. But, this is supposed to be my storytelling site and I do have some stories to tell starting next week.

A lot has happened since the last time I checked in here. I got engaged to Robin while in Venice (photoset). Postcards has been acquired by Villard. Elk's Run is coming out very soon. I have a lot of interesting things cooking.

Anyway - next week. I'll be back posting up some stories starting Monday. I have about six I want to tell.