When last I lived in this City, I was considered an Eligible Bachelor. Women would hurl themselves at me without my having to drug them first.

But now I am Old. Pieces of my body are moving around. I am no longer Pretty. Gravity tugs at my ass, my paunch and my painfully heavy testicles. I have not had sex in more than three years. When I do finally torture, medicate, or hypnotize someone into manipulating my bits, the police will find our remains blasted into the walls with ballistic semen.

And I am forced to suffer this in a city where I can fall in love eighty times a day just by stepping out onto the street and opening my eyes.

You will all pay.
- Warren Ellis, I Hate It Here

"Waiting for My Real Life to Begin"
How great would it be if I just disappeared one Wednesday afternoon, having told Brent Jones, Part II that I was going to get the new comics for the week?

How wondrous would life seem if nobody saw or heard from me for a month or two, and then suddenly this blog changed templates and was retitled "I'm Gonna Walk the Earth like Caine from Kung Fu", complete with entries about my misadventures on the long walk to Pella, Iowa (settled by the Dutch, don'tchya know), which recounted how I got arrested, tried, and almost hung in a backwater town thirty miles north of Columbia, or how I spent a week living in the abandoned Fazoli's in Kirksville, or how I got mixed up in a convenience store robbery north of the Missouri-Iowa border?

How much would this blog rock if instead of my constant whining about Joe Kelly's lastest issue of JLA or what movie I saw over the weekend or how much I enjoy Everwood (complete with pithy little one-liners like "Intolerable Cruelty is aptly titled," or "Treat Williams is just that... a treat!"), every entry was another highly amusing and action-packed anecdote that started "I was piss-drunk in [insert random American city here]..." and ended with "... so eventually I just said 'Fuck it,' and I pummeled the hell out of that snot-nosed brownie scout anyway."

How awesome would it be if I didn't come back until May, and I had a beard and 37 tattoos... one for each random chick I banged in a bathroom at various Denny's locations scattered around the country?

(Is it strange that I'm more excited by the prospect of growing facial hair than having sex?)

I tell you, chums: There's a whole world of adventure just waiting out there, and I'm stuck here with the likes of you.

In case you can't tell, I'm a little restless these days.

"It's For You"
Anytime the phone rings, I'm hesitant to pick it up. It's like Russian Roulette. Four times out of five, it's Kate or Caleb or my mom, or someone else I'm fine with, but every once in the while, there's that grievous head wound. On Monday, said fatal-shot-to-the-head came in the form of a j-student named Jane whom I've never met but is in a bind to do a profile for her magazine class and was told by Melissa Maynard that I'd be a good person to do one on, because I've spent a considerable amount of time creating graphic novels that are in no way fit for publication.

Now, I know you're thinking to yourself I know you, Clark. You're the type of guy who loves the spotlight. Don't try to bullshit me. You love the attention. And while this is all true, I do have some concerns. Keep in mind, the last time someone did a profile about me, they set themselves to the nigh-impossible task of making me sound more lonely and pathetic than I actually am... and succeeded admirably. My weekly trip to Rock Bottom Comics was described as me "plopping down twenty or thirty dollar sums to satisfy my comic book fetish" or some such crazy shit. (Fetish? Really? Was there no other word that could possibly have been used? One that didn't have such a sexually perverse connotation, perhaps? Maybe? There's something there...)

Yeah, so anyway, I wish I didn't have a phone. And I'm pretty sure I'm never going to plug in that answer machine. I thought about using it for screening, but really, that's too much effort and a little too elitist for my taste. I always imagine that when you're screening and you do pick up, and the person realizes that you're screening, anytime they call you afterward and get the machine, they're thinking Oh my god, that asshole could be sitting on his couch listening and laughing at me. Who the hell does he think he is? and then there's all this unnecessary tension for no damn reason.

Seriously. I'm scared. What if Karl calls again?

"Black Like Me"
I finished my short story last Tuesday morning. And at six in the morning, having come from the other side of night, it seemed perfectly okay to name a story which I'd tentatively titled "The White Tiger and the Spectacular Sucka-Man Fistfight in Jersey" after the one line that I'd really wanted to take out the second I wrote it: "What if the Amazing Spider-Man was Black?"

I know. Isn't it just awful?

My regrets were doubled when I came to my workshop class on Wednesday, confessed that I hated the title, and one of my classmates said, "Aw no, man. I like it. It really makes you think... What if he was black?"

I cringed with such great force my asshole puckered.

Despite this, I was fairly pleased with how the story turned out. I accomplished the three goals I set out with: (1) I got a big laugh or two when I read the story in class, (2) I got no complaints about how my female characters were flat or sexist, and (3) Kate told me she got a little misty-eyed when she read it, but really, that's easy pickings.

However, one reviewer felt that "What If the Amazing Spider-Man was Black?" didn't defend black gangsta culture to the degree that this white suburban politico-poet felt it ought to be defended and that comic book sentimentality has no place in the harsh reality of the African-American urban experience, but my god, who the hell did he think he was talking to? I could go on forever about my thoughts on race in America, but to be honest, I'd much rather make my "token black guy" jokes and do the silly negro dance and try to engender the belief that this country's focus on skin-color-as-cultural-indicator is crazier than Michael Jackson.

The story isn't even about race. Really. It's about how much I wish they hadn't cancelled Black Panther. Swear to Stan.

"I'm Nobody, Who Are You?"
Have you ever met someone you'd really like to get to know, but never did?

Example: There's this girl I've been aware for as long as I've been in college. I find her captivating. We've never had a conversation, and I don't think we ever will. I'm fine with that.

I only mention this because for the longest time, I thought the same thing about myself. Throughout high school and the first couple of years of college, I was convinced that I had no idea who I was and never would. It was like I was observing the strange and idiotic mishaps of some other schmoe's life, and the whole time I'd think to myself, This Clark guy's interesting, though clearly self-absorbed. I wonder what he's really like?

Eventually -- and I'm not too clear on when this was -- I realized that the question of who I was wasn't nearly as difficult a question as it seemed. I can now confidently say that I know who I am.

I am, among many things, a whore for comments.

"A Whore for Comments"
I swear in the name of whatever cult god you pledge your allegiance to -- be it Jesus, Allah, Buddha, or Stan Lee -- unless I get enough comments begging me not too, my next blog entry is going to be an essay about how the movie Bubble Boy changed my life...

NEXT:
Bursting the Bubble