Let me tell you about my boat...
- Wes Anderson & Noah Baumbach, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou
"Let Me Tell You About My Blog..."
Once again, the NEXT: blurb has screwed me over.
Here's the thing. "Storyboard" was going to be my pity pitch party where I tell you about the various pieces I'm working on (or constantly thinking about working on in many cases). What stopped me? The realization that you probably don't care.
I don't think I write stories for my friends, except, perhaps, for those occasions when I literally write stories for my friends. As you must be aware by now, my current life's ambition is to write the life and times of Hobie Brown, a character most comic fans don't care about. What hope is there that you poor slobs want to hear about it anymore than you already have?
When I'm working on my Spidey vs. Mephisto mini-series, "The Devil and Peter Parker," I'm not writing a story I just know Kate Jeffries will love. I mean, let's face it, Kate's tastes have evolved well beyond a twelve-year-old's fascination with a guy who can stick to walls and wacky lapsed Catholicism. And who wants to hear me wax lyrical on that Martian Manhunter series I don't think I'll be ready to do justice to until I'm older and wiser (preferably, age 33)?
I could easily declare that I write this blog for me and not for you and just go ahead with all this anyway (and honestly, I plan to do just that at a later date), but I don't write this blog just for me. I've tried to keep journals before, but I've always lost interest after a few a weeks. And yet somehow I've managed to plug away at this blog -- and plug away with untoward vigor -- for almost two years, and I don't think I'd be able to maintain that type of interest if it wasn't out there in the world for all to see (though hopefully not my poor mother... I don't want her to know how much I love my profanities).
There's just no way I would have related the events of an entire semester in the form of a letter to the editor of my life as a comic if I was writing a private diary. I wouldn't have written the "Which Past Object of Clark's Affection Are You?" quiz for my own amusement. I couldn't laugh off all my failings as a person with self-deprecation if you weren't out there to get the joke.
(And, you know, I'm a whore for comments.)
Frankly, this blog wouldn't be the same without you, and I just wanted you to know that before I made a serious attempt to bore you to death with the intimate details of my failed screenplay.
Because ironically, while I might not write the stories I want to get published and paid for with you in mind, there's no denying the fact that the people in my life are a constant source of inspiration and quality material. "The Devil and Peter Parker" might not be Kate Jeffries' cup of tea, but when I write the scene about Mary Jane's audition for "Anton in Show Business," you'll never guess who may have been on my mind...
"Let Me Tell You About My Town..."
It occurs to me that I've neglected to mention the wonders of Teaneck, New Jersey.
The White Devil first settled in New Jersey in 1618 at the imperialist behest of the Dutch India Company. After several decades of squabbling with (read "butchering and marginalizing") the pesky natives, the General Assembly of East Jersey established the Township of Hackensack in 1693. This included Teaneck, which didn't become an independent township of its own until 1895.
When my great grandfather retired from his twenty-eight year career with the New York Police Department, he had a house built at the corner of Tuxedo Square and Forest Avenune, and he and my great grandmother moved there in 1979.
On September 19, 1981, my parents were married at St. Cecelia Church in the neighboring township of Englewood, New Jersey. They were as old then as I am now.
In 1988, while visiting the elders of my clan, I watched a digital clock switch from 8:59 to 9:00 and realized for the first time in my five years of life that there were only sixty minutes in an hour... not the 100 minutes I'd assumed.
When my great grandparents died, my grandmother moved into the little red house, and proceeded to remodel it... a project that continues to this day.
As of November 28, 2004, I've taken semi-permament residence in the guest room, which once belonged to my grandfather. I have fuzzy memories of watching old school Nickelodeon with him there during the last years of his life. I've been asked to keep the room tidy, which I've taken to mean as insuring that the door is closed when the room is extremely messy, which is more often than not because I'm still in the mindset that laundry should be done as a last resort, despite the fact that I no longer have to pay to use a washer and dryer. I'm adjusting.
Every other Tuesday morning, my grandmother employs a housecleaner to dust and sweep, and so, every other Monday night, I try to tidy my room as best as I can. Ironically, after she's cleaned my room, I often find that the maid's moved my things in order to dust and she often leaves the room a little less tidy than it was before she cleaned.
On most days, I wake up at some point between 9:00-11:00am Eastern Standard Time, at which point I usually breakfast on cheerios and a cup of coffee (cream and two or three sugars) while settling down to back-to-back episodes of Yes, Dear and the 11am (EST) re-airing of the previous 5pm (EST) Gilmore Girls on ABC Family. I often apply to various jobs during this period via monster.com, though I've recently discovered scattered posting at craigslist.org.
On many days, my grandmother -- who is an active member of her community -- invites me to varied functions which I attend with my usual mix of gratitude and horror. One such event was a Rotary Club luncheon at a steak house in Englewood Cliffs where I was surprised to find a framed print of Andrew Wyeth's famous painting, Christina's World, which was first brought to my attention in the pages of Garth Ennis's potato western Preacher. The image was later burned into my brain during my years of co-habitation with Caleb Prewitt, who owns a print of the painting that was displayed on the wall of our dorm room. What struck me as odd, when I viewed the framed print in Englewood Cliffs was that the grass in the painting seemed lush and green, while it had always seemed dried out and yellow in the dorm room. Christina's World seemed filled with hope in New Jersey, yet lifeless and doomed in Missouri, a notion I found ironic, because on that particular day, I felt exactly the opposite about my own prospects. It's been mentioned to me that, considering my ample freetime, I could easily see the actual painting itself at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. I'm ashamed to admit I've yet to do so.
On days when I have no pressing social engagements, I often go to one of the local libraries. Finally free of the fetters of assigned reading, I've started reading for pleasure with unabashed joy. Then I joined a blog-based bookclub. Our first book was Jeffrey Eugenides' Pulitzer Prize winning Middlesex, which I read at the steady pace of two chapters a day throughout the holiday season. Because of my lack of a New Jersey driver's licence or other state identification, I'm currently unable to get a library card, so any perusal of the materials must be done in house.
This could be easily remedied if I could simply provide a Bergen County utility bill addressed to myself, but since I don't pay any bills here, that's impossible. (This is my gift, my curse.)
I haven't owned a car of my own since I crashed my 1990 Ford Tempo on a stretch of I-70 during a blistery and slippery snow storm in the winter of 2002. As such, I walk just about everywhere. I rarely wore a coat in college. Didn't believe in it. But you can't say no to my grandmother, so I put my coat on when I head out the door. And you know what? I'm a lot warmer.
At times, my travels require me to utilize the New Jersey Transit System, which has taken me into New York City on occasion, and once allowed me to visit the charming hamlet of New Brunswick (notably located in Middlesex County). The buses use a staggered fare system in which a passenger calculates their fare based on how far they traveled rather than simply paying a flat rate as I've grown accustomed to from my soujourns with the Columbia Transit Authority. As a result, I often end up short-changing the drivers, which becomes an issue when I attempt to disembark from the bus, to the consternation of my fellow passengers. Oh, the hilarity never stops!
There's a comic book shop on Cedar Lane where I've purchased the few comics currently in my possession. At night time, when walking home on Cedar Lane, there's a small stretch in which, should you find yourself looking eastward, you can catch a glimpse of Manhattan twinkling in the distance. And if you're of a mind, you might just stop and breath in the cold Jersey air for a moment, gazing across the Hudson River and wondering all the while just how you've ended up where you are and when you're going to get where you're going...
"Let Me Tell You About My Unbelievable Luck..."
THE STORY THUS FAR: It took me twenty minutes to realize I was going the wrong way. In the last couple of years, I'm sad to say, I've kind of lost track of my left and right. Despite this, I've managed to keep a good hold of the cardinal directions. I could always find my True North... until I came to the Garden State. South is North, East is West, up is down and I ain't got a clue. Because of this, I'd pulled onto 4 West when I should have been on 4 East, which meant I was going to be late to the closest thing I've had to a job since I got here, and was going to lose my shot at 50 bucks. But of course, I'm getting ahead of myself...
On my second trip to The Comic Book Store on Cedar Lane, I noticed a flyer asking for avid comic book readers between the ages of 18 and 35 to participate in market research in exchange for cash money and figured this might just be my lucky day. I called them up, answered a few questions over the phone, and got scheduled to join a two-hour group discussion with a promise of $75 compensation for my time. It was still mid-December at the time, and the panel wasn't until January 11th, so I filed it in the back of my head, and moved on with the day to day business of sleeping in and watching TV.
So yesterday, they called to remind me about this thing... twice. The second time, they told me that if I got there fifteen minutes early, I'd be entered in a raffle where I could win another $50, and I'm thinking "Well this just gets better and better." Then they called me again to remind me this morning, and to beg me to still come no matter what, which I find slightly annoying, because, jesus, what am I, stupid? Then, a couple of hours before the panel started, they called again, this time to tell me that they'll pay me $100 dollars to come instead of $75, and the raffle's still a possibility.
It's at this point that I start to ask myself, what do they have in store for me that's so horrible they feel they've got to throw more money at me to get me there?
Still, I'm so hard up for cash these days, if they were planning something horrible -- like, say, having me pose nude with a guy wearing a Spidey-bondage mask -- I can't say I wouldn't go through with it anyway.
So, my Grandmother decided to skip her weekly Mary Kay meeting (perhaps in fear that the Rum Bandit might strike again? I can't really say) and she said I could borrow her car to drive to the market research place in Fort Lee, which is about three miles away. She even took me down there this morning while we're running errands just so I can see how to get there. I had got to get there by 5:15 to get entered for the $50 bonus drawing, so I decided to leave at 4:30 and get there uber early, and I would have, if not for the fact that I've lost all sense of direction.
Which brings us right back to where this little piece began 562 words ago. So, to draw a long prologue swiftly to a close, I pull one of those beautiful Garden State highway U-ies, haul ass in the opposite (read "right") direction, and make it to my appointment just in time.
And of course, I don't win the raffle anyway.
Now, usually, this is the very the-glass-is-half-empty point where this type of anecdote ends. However, this story, so Prewitt-like in its set-ups and unwieldy backstory, is just getting started...
I ended up sitting next to this kid named Dan, and I noticed he was reading Lamb, which you may remember I haphazardly named the best book I read in 2004, and I said "Good book," and he said something like "I'm lovin' it," or whatever. When we all introduced ourselves, I learned that Dan was a freshman creative writing major. At the time, I thought to myself, This is the type of guy I could easily be friends with if, you know, I cared to make friends right now, but looking back now, I think I just really regretted that I'm no longer in a position to make him a FIG kid... and you know, it's probably debatable whether or not I've ever really been in that type of position to begin with.
Anyhoozle, the panel got underway, and it turned out to be completely harmless. I quickly discovered that I was, in fact, the biggest geek in the room. Example: they asked us to bring three books from our collection that we consider our favorites, and I'm the only guy who brought them in mylar bags. Secondary example: they asked us how many comics we owned, and while most people said "couple hundred," I thought about it for a moment and said "I had three thousand the last time I counted, but that was, like, a year ago." Of course, as geeky as all that might be, Dan was a big X-Men fan, so he may have overshadowed the volume of my collection with the depths of his sheer geekery. Don't get me started on the guy who made the odd complaint that he'd heard that Marvel made a gay superhero and "Come on, that's ri-goddamn-diculous." This was after we were asked what type of music we don't like, and everyone was surprised I eskewed country even though I'm from Missouri, because, you know, it's the heart of the uncultured Midwest, afterall. (I should mention that there's a Chuck Klosterman essay that's almost made me regret dismissing the music of the people, but then again, I've rambled on long enough, haven't I?)
At the beginning, the Question Lady told us that there were some people observing us behind one of those two-way mirrors, and as the junket began to wind down, and based on the questions we're being asked, it slowly dawned on me that this research was being funded by Marvel Comics. I first began to suspect as such when we had to play the "Match the Marvel Imprint to its description" game. (I don't wanna brag, but I'm the only one who got 'em all right. Dan was my only real competition, and he got Max and Icon mixed up for peteparkersake! What a rube!) And when the Question Lady asked us if we'd buy a non-comic, Esquire-esque magazine published by Marvel, my suspicions deepened somewhat. So anyway, towards the end of the proceedings, I started wondering just who might be behind that glass.
Of course, by the time it was over, I just wanted to take my money and go. Plus, I had to pee pretty bad. So they gave me my envelope and I took it into the can where I counted with one hand and aimed with the other. It turned out they'd given me $115, and as I made my way out of the bathroom, I was wondering if it was just a nice little bonus for braving the weather or a mistake. That's when I heard Question Lady saying "Wait... there's Lenar!" and figured Aw shit, they're gonna take away my money!
They didn't want my money.
It just so happened that Marvel's marketing director and one of the assistant editors were some of the people beyond the looking glass, and they wanted to know if I'd be interested in an internship. Of course, I said no, because I've got to find a real job and make some money, and I don't got time to run errands for a bunch of losers who've got nothing better to do than make funnybooks...
...
Yes. I'm totally shitting you about my answer.
It's not a done deal or anything, because the guy who makes the intern decisions is out of town for the rest of the week and it's policy for these positions to go to people earning college credit (and I had to go and make the colossal mistake of graduating like an idiot for all the good its done me thus far), to say nothing of the fact that I made a bit of an ass out of myself when I started gushing over the fact that I was actually talking to the assistant editor of Spectacular Spider-Man (and somehow managed to confuse him with a different assistant editor, the type of thing only I could even think of doing), but I might just be able to wedge my foot in the door, and that's a pretty big step for a lazy bastard like me.
I mean, let's face it. This could all fizzle out like so many things I've gotten excited about over the years, but really I'm just saying that for the same reason I always say "crunch" whenever I'm putting a car in reverse: it's my personal belief that Fate really likes to hit you when you don't see it coming, so I always try to acknowledge the worst case scenario in the hopes that Fate will say "Alright, alright. I'll leave you alone for now, but the second you let your guard down, ugmo, you're in for a world of hurt!" Who knows? Maybe this could be it for me...
Do I have any idea how I managed to get two seconds of these guys' attention? I most certainly do not.
Do I have any idea how lucky I just might be? You bet your sweet ass I do.
NEXT:
Storyboard
(fo' rizzle-dizzle)
- Wes Anderson & Noah Baumbach, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou
"Let Me Tell You About My Blog..."
Once again, the NEXT: blurb has screwed me over.
Here's the thing. "Storyboard" was going to be my pity pitch party where I tell you about the various pieces I'm working on (or constantly thinking about working on in many cases). What stopped me? The realization that you probably don't care.
I don't think I write stories for my friends, except, perhaps, for those occasions when I literally write stories for my friends. As you must be aware by now, my current life's ambition is to write the life and times of Hobie Brown, a character most comic fans don't care about. What hope is there that you poor slobs want to hear about it anymore than you already have?
When I'm working on my Spidey vs. Mephisto mini-series, "The Devil and Peter Parker," I'm not writing a story I just know Kate Jeffries will love. I mean, let's face it, Kate's tastes have evolved well beyond a twelve-year-old's fascination with a guy who can stick to walls and wacky lapsed Catholicism. And who wants to hear me wax lyrical on that Martian Manhunter series I don't think I'll be ready to do justice to until I'm older and wiser (preferably, age 33)?
I could easily declare that I write this blog for me and not for you and just go ahead with all this anyway (and honestly, I plan to do just that at a later date), but I don't write this blog just for me. I've tried to keep journals before, but I've always lost interest after a few a weeks. And yet somehow I've managed to plug away at this blog -- and plug away with untoward vigor -- for almost two years, and I don't think I'd be able to maintain that type of interest if it wasn't out there in the world for all to see (though hopefully not my poor mother... I don't want her to know how much I love my profanities).
There's just no way I would have related the events of an entire semester in the form of a letter to the editor of my life as a comic if I was writing a private diary. I wouldn't have written the "Which Past Object of Clark's Affection Are You?" quiz for my own amusement. I couldn't laugh off all my failings as a person with self-deprecation if you weren't out there to get the joke.
(And, you know, I'm a whore for comments.)
Frankly, this blog wouldn't be the same without you, and I just wanted you to know that before I made a serious attempt to bore you to death with the intimate details of my failed screenplay.
Because ironically, while I might not write the stories I want to get published and paid for with you in mind, there's no denying the fact that the people in my life are a constant source of inspiration and quality material. "The Devil and Peter Parker" might not be Kate Jeffries' cup of tea, but when I write the scene about Mary Jane's audition for "Anton in Show Business," you'll never guess who may have been on my mind...
"Let Me Tell You About My Town..."
It occurs to me that I've neglected to mention the wonders of Teaneck, New Jersey.
The White Devil first settled in New Jersey in 1618 at the imperialist behest of the Dutch India Company. After several decades of squabbling with (read "butchering and marginalizing") the pesky natives, the General Assembly of East Jersey established the Township of Hackensack in 1693. This included Teaneck, which didn't become an independent township of its own until 1895.
When my great grandfather retired from his twenty-eight year career with the New York Police Department, he had a house built at the corner of Tuxedo Square and Forest Avenune, and he and my great grandmother moved there in 1979.
On September 19, 1981, my parents were married at St. Cecelia Church in the neighboring township of Englewood, New Jersey. They were as old then as I am now.
In 1988, while visiting the elders of my clan, I watched a digital clock switch from 8:59 to 9:00 and realized for the first time in my five years of life that there were only sixty minutes in an hour... not the 100 minutes I'd assumed.
When my great grandparents died, my grandmother moved into the little red house, and proceeded to remodel it... a project that continues to this day.
As of November 28, 2004, I've taken semi-permament residence in the guest room, which once belonged to my grandfather. I have fuzzy memories of watching old school Nickelodeon with him there during the last years of his life. I've been asked to keep the room tidy, which I've taken to mean as insuring that the door is closed when the room is extremely messy, which is more often than not because I'm still in the mindset that laundry should be done as a last resort, despite the fact that I no longer have to pay to use a washer and dryer. I'm adjusting.
Every other Tuesday morning, my grandmother employs a housecleaner to dust and sweep, and so, every other Monday night, I try to tidy my room as best as I can. Ironically, after she's cleaned my room, I often find that the maid's moved my things in order to dust and she often leaves the room a little less tidy than it was before she cleaned.
On most days, I wake up at some point between 9:00-11:00am Eastern Standard Time, at which point I usually breakfast on cheerios and a cup of coffee (cream and two or three sugars) while settling down to back-to-back episodes of Yes, Dear and the 11am (EST) re-airing of the previous 5pm (EST) Gilmore Girls on ABC Family. I often apply to various jobs during this period via monster.com, though I've recently discovered scattered posting at craigslist.org.
On many days, my grandmother -- who is an active member of her community -- invites me to varied functions which I attend with my usual mix of gratitude and horror. One such event was a Rotary Club luncheon at a steak house in Englewood Cliffs where I was surprised to find a framed print of Andrew Wyeth's famous painting, Christina's World, which was first brought to my attention in the pages of Garth Ennis's potato western Preacher. The image was later burned into my brain during my years of co-habitation with Caleb Prewitt, who owns a print of the painting that was displayed on the wall of our dorm room. What struck me as odd, when I viewed the framed print in Englewood Cliffs was that the grass in the painting seemed lush and green, while it had always seemed dried out and yellow in the dorm room. Christina's World seemed filled with hope in New Jersey, yet lifeless and doomed in Missouri, a notion I found ironic, because on that particular day, I felt exactly the opposite about my own prospects. It's been mentioned to me that, considering my ample freetime, I could easily see the actual painting itself at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. I'm ashamed to admit I've yet to do so.
On days when I have no pressing social engagements, I often go to one of the local libraries. Finally free of the fetters of assigned reading, I've started reading for pleasure with unabashed joy. Then I joined a blog-based bookclub. Our first book was Jeffrey Eugenides' Pulitzer Prize winning Middlesex, which I read at the steady pace of two chapters a day throughout the holiday season. Because of my lack of a New Jersey driver's licence or other state identification, I'm currently unable to get a library card, so any perusal of the materials must be done in house.
This could be easily remedied if I could simply provide a Bergen County utility bill addressed to myself, but since I don't pay any bills here, that's impossible. (This is my gift, my curse.)
I haven't owned a car of my own since I crashed my 1990 Ford Tempo on a stretch of I-70 during a blistery and slippery snow storm in the winter of 2002. As such, I walk just about everywhere. I rarely wore a coat in college. Didn't believe in it. But you can't say no to my grandmother, so I put my coat on when I head out the door. And you know what? I'm a lot warmer.
At times, my travels require me to utilize the New Jersey Transit System, which has taken me into New York City on occasion, and once allowed me to visit the charming hamlet of New Brunswick (notably located in Middlesex County). The buses use a staggered fare system in which a passenger calculates their fare based on how far they traveled rather than simply paying a flat rate as I've grown accustomed to from my soujourns with the Columbia Transit Authority. As a result, I often end up short-changing the drivers, which becomes an issue when I attempt to disembark from the bus, to the consternation of my fellow passengers. Oh, the hilarity never stops!
There's a comic book shop on Cedar Lane where I've purchased the few comics currently in my possession. At night time, when walking home on Cedar Lane, there's a small stretch in which, should you find yourself looking eastward, you can catch a glimpse of Manhattan twinkling in the distance. And if you're of a mind, you might just stop and breath in the cold Jersey air for a moment, gazing across the Hudson River and wondering all the while just how you've ended up where you are and when you're going to get where you're going...
"Let Me Tell You About My Unbelievable Luck..."
THE STORY THUS FAR: It took me twenty minutes to realize I was going the wrong way. In the last couple of years, I'm sad to say, I've kind of lost track of my left and right. Despite this, I've managed to keep a good hold of the cardinal directions. I could always find my True North... until I came to the Garden State. South is North, East is West, up is down and I ain't got a clue. Because of this, I'd pulled onto 4 West when I should have been on 4 East, which meant I was going to be late to the closest thing I've had to a job since I got here, and was going to lose my shot at 50 bucks. But of course, I'm getting ahead of myself...
On my second trip to The Comic Book Store on Cedar Lane, I noticed a flyer asking for avid comic book readers between the ages of 18 and 35 to participate in market research in exchange for cash money and figured this might just be my lucky day. I called them up, answered a few questions over the phone, and got scheduled to join a two-hour group discussion with a promise of $75 compensation for my time. It was still mid-December at the time, and the panel wasn't until January 11th, so I filed it in the back of my head, and moved on with the day to day business of sleeping in and watching TV.
So yesterday, they called to remind me about this thing... twice. The second time, they told me that if I got there fifteen minutes early, I'd be entered in a raffle where I could win another $50, and I'm thinking "Well this just gets better and better." Then they called me again to remind me this morning, and to beg me to still come no matter what, which I find slightly annoying, because, jesus, what am I, stupid? Then, a couple of hours before the panel started, they called again, this time to tell me that they'll pay me $100 dollars to come instead of $75, and the raffle's still a possibility.
It's at this point that I start to ask myself, what do they have in store for me that's so horrible they feel they've got to throw more money at me to get me there?
Still, I'm so hard up for cash these days, if they were planning something horrible -- like, say, having me pose nude with a guy wearing a Spidey-bondage mask -- I can't say I wouldn't go through with it anyway.
So, my Grandmother decided to skip her weekly Mary Kay meeting (perhaps in fear that the Rum Bandit might strike again? I can't really say) and she said I could borrow her car to drive to the market research place in Fort Lee, which is about three miles away. She even took me down there this morning while we're running errands just so I can see how to get there. I had got to get there by 5:15 to get entered for the $50 bonus drawing, so I decided to leave at 4:30 and get there uber early, and I would have, if not for the fact that I've lost all sense of direction.
Which brings us right back to where this little piece began 562 words ago. So, to draw a long prologue swiftly to a close, I pull one of those beautiful Garden State highway U-ies, haul ass in the opposite (read "right") direction, and make it to my appointment just in time.
And of course, I don't win the raffle anyway.
Now, usually, this is the very the-glass-is-half-empty point where this type of anecdote ends. However, this story, so Prewitt-like in its set-ups and unwieldy backstory, is just getting started...
I ended up sitting next to this kid named Dan, and I noticed he was reading Lamb, which you may remember I haphazardly named the best book I read in 2004, and I said "Good book," and he said something like "I'm lovin' it," or whatever. When we all introduced ourselves, I learned that Dan was a freshman creative writing major. At the time, I thought to myself, This is the type of guy I could easily be friends with if, you know, I cared to make friends right now, but looking back now, I think I just really regretted that I'm no longer in a position to make him a FIG kid... and you know, it's probably debatable whether or not I've ever really been in that type of position to begin with.
Anyhoozle, the panel got underway, and it turned out to be completely harmless. I quickly discovered that I was, in fact, the biggest geek in the room. Example: they asked us to bring three books from our collection that we consider our favorites, and I'm the only guy who brought them in mylar bags. Secondary example: they asked us how many comics we owned, and while most people said "couple hundred," I thought about it for a moment and said "I had three thousand the last time I counted, but that was, like, a year ago." Of course, as geeky as all that might be, Dan was a big X-Men fan, so he may have overshadowed the volume of my collection with the depths of his sheer geekery. Don't get me started on the guy who made the odd complaint that he'd heard that Marvel made a gay superhero and "Come on, that's ri-goddamn-diculous." This was after we were asked what type of music we don't like, and everyone was surprised I eskewed country even though I'm from Missouri, because, you know, it's the heart of the uncultured Midwest, afterall. (I should mention that there's a Chuck Klosterman essay that's almost made me regret dismissing the music of the people, but then again, I've rambled on long enough, haven't I?)
At the beginning, the Question Lady told us that there were some people observing us behind one of those two-way mirrors, and as the junket began to wind down, and based on the questions we're being asked, it slowly dawned on me that this research was being funded by Marvel Comics. I first began to suspect as such when we had to play the "Match the Marvel Imprint to its description" game. (I don't wanna brag, but I'm the only one who got 'em all right. Dan was my only real competition, and he got Max and Icon mixed up for peteparkersake! What a rube!) And when the Question Lady asked us if we'd buy a non-comic, Esquire-esque magazine published by Marvel, my suspicions deepened somewhat. So anyway, towards the end of the proceedings, I started wondering just who might be behind that glass.
Of course, by the time it was over, I just wanted to take my money and go. Plus, I had to pee pretty bad. So they gave me my envelope and I took it into the can where I counted with one hand and aimed with the other. It turned out they'd given me $115, and as I made my way out of the bathroom, I was wondering if it was just a nice little bonus for braving the weather or a mistake. That's when I heard Question Lady saying "Wait... there's Lenar!" and figured Aw shit, they're gonna take away my money!
They didn't want my money.
It just so happened that Marvel's marketing director and one of the assistant editors were some of the people beyond the looking glass, and they wanted to know if I'd be interested in an internship. Of course, I said no, because I've got to find a real job and make some money, and I don't got time to run errands for a bunch of losers who've got nothing better to do than make funnybooks...
...
Yes. I'm totally shitting you about my answer.
It's not a done deal or anything, because the guy who makes the intern decisions is out of town for the rest of the week and it's policy for these positions to go to people earning college credit (and I had to go and make the colossal mistake of graduating like an idiot for all the good its done me thus far), to say nothing of the fact that I made a bit of an ass out of myself when I started gushing over the fact that I was actually talking to the assistant editor of Spectacular Spider-Man (and somehow managed to confuse him with a different assistant editor, the type of thing only I could even think of doing), but I might just be able to wedge my foot in the door, and that's a pretty big step for a lazy bastard like me.
I mean, let's face it. This could all fizzle out like so many things I've gotten excited about over the years, but really I'm just saying that for the same reason I always say "crunch" whenever I'm putting a car in reverse: it's my personal belief that Fate really likes to hit you when you don't see it coming, so I always try to acknowledge the worst case scenario in the hopes that Fate will say "Alright, alright. I'll leave you alone for now, but the second you let your guard down, ugmo, you're in for a world of hurt!" Who knows? Maybe this could be it for me...
Do I have any idea how I managed to get two seconds of these guys' attention? I most certainly do not.
Do I have any idea how lucky I just might be? You bet your sweet ass I do.
NEXT:
Storyboard
(fo' rizzle-dizzle)
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