Pilgrim, there's things a man's just gotta... choke down whether they stick in his craw or not. Things ya can't hide from nor put behind ya. I thought ya knew that. But lately, ya... Hell, ya got yerself a cozy little place with yer mom an' all these new folks, an' ya been doin' just what ya gotta an' not one inch more. Ya bin treadin' water. An' that ain't what I expect from ya!
- Garth Ennis, "Jesse Get Your Gun"

"Icy Cube, Where are You?"
If anyone knows where a young black man can get a decent hair cut in this town, I'd sure appreciate a little lining up.

"Closing Pandora's Box"
I consider myself a fairly closed person.

It's one of the many misconceptions I have about myself, because while I tell Poor Mr. Jones the intimate details of my bowel movements, as well as wear my heart on my sleeve, I'm somehow convinced I'm a hard person to figure out, and somehow.

Sometimes I share something so personal, it freaks me out for, like, a week. I've been trying to put one of these ugly moments of overshare behind me recently, but it doesn't seem to be taking. I still feel vulnerable, and as of yet, I've yet to regain the illusion of mystique that helps me face the world. So, in a vague, illogical attempt to get my cool back, I've decided to share something I've only told some of my nearest and dearest:

At one point in my life, I thought that I would be a monster reincarnation of James Joyce.

"ReJoyce"
I know, I know. There's nothing more cliche than an English major so full of themself that they think they can compare themselves to one of the greats of modern literature... Chezroni once told me that he decided to be a writer after he read Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I responded by confessing that I wanted to be a writer after I saw the film version of Little Shop of Horrors and thought to myself Man, I've got to write a story about man-eating plants taking over my Parochial school.

In my defense, I came to this Joyce decision during the worst semester of my college career (that's right, Fall Semester 2002), and it made sense to me because Joyce struggled with his Irish identity, just like I struggle with my Black identity. And we're both lapsed Catholics. But what really had me convinced was the fact that Joyce was born in 1882, and I was born in 1982. I thought I was the spirit of the Grand-Artificer reborn a century later, kind of how Stephen Hawking was born exactly 300 years after the death of Galileo.

Latin class and Catholic guilt aside, however, I've come to realize that my assessment was indeed made in error. And not just because Joyce wouldn't have been caught dead trying to write Peter Parker, Spider-Man -- though I will refer you to the words of Tom Robbins: "Life was Finnegans Wake, to be sure, except for those times when it was Marvel Comics." No. What made me finally recognize the true depth of my destined mediocrity is this: My birthday, as you well know, is July 4. Joyce's, on the other hand, was on February 2. Do you realize what that means?

It means that if anyone was born to write Ulysses II: Electric Boogaloo, it's Kate Jeffries.

Good luck, Kate. That's one big eye patch to fill. I can't honestly say I envy you. After all, what kind of ass says to himself "You know what, I think I'll write a 600-page book in a language I'm gonna make up and give a generation of pretentious bastards something to do"? Apparantly an ass like you, Jeffries. An ass like you.

"The Tarnished Angel"
I'm not sure, but I think Erin Tuttle gave me a halo today.

What does that statement say to you? It says to me that maybe it'd be best if I stopped drowing myself in this sea of demon superheroes and soulful vampires and got back to the good old Spider-Man obsession. "With great power comes great responsibility." Those are words you can live by. "Non serviam," will drive you mad.

NEXT:



"The Return of the Swing!"