oleander holly
crimson feet of collie
beautiful and lovely
my baby
the only one
who really understands me

floating hand in hand we
whisper in the moonlight
and say that i'm
the things you want to see

coda and her star child
goddess of the moonlight
hold me in the morning
and tell me i'm
the only one alive
who really understands you
tell me pretty stories
say you understand me
my baby
the things you want to see
that I could never be
in love

hold me in the morning
tell me pretty stories
say that you're the only one
my baby
but I could never be
in love
- Ben Folds, "In Love"

"The Little Black Duck Valentines Day Special"
A few months ago, I mentioned that the only Christmas story I've ever written was, in fact, "Clarky Clarkington III Kills Santa". Well, the only Valentines Day story I've ever written is "Clarky Clarkington III and the St. Valentines Day Massacre."

Of course, it wasn't a love story. One of the thieves crucified with Christ orchestrates the destruction of O'Hara High School to bring about the Apocalypse. Clarky saves the day by shooting two angels with sapphire bullets of pure sin. The Anti-Christ swears revenge, creating a vendetta so strong, it survives into the Little Black Duck series. And every panel's narrated, whether I have something important to say or not.

I don't talk about the Clarky Clarkington III series much because, well, it sucks. In my inquiry letter to Marvel, I mentioned that I had, in fact, completed 2500 pages of stick-figure comics, explaining that doing so had taught me everything not to do in graphic storytelling, and I was referring mostly to the Clarky stories.

I admit, The Little Black Duck stories are barely readable. Well The Little Black Duck is basically everything good about Clarky Clarkington III without all the crap, so as you can imagine, Clarky Clarkington III is pure shit.

That said, it's kind of a Valentines Day tradition for me to reread "The Valentines Day Massacre," and the fact that this won't be possible this year is somewhat troubling to me...

"Out of Love"
Well, it's that time of the year when The Grim Specter of the Sainted Valentino -- whose tortured soul has wondered the earth for a thousand years -- finds his spirit strength at it's annual apex, and uses his fearsome ghastly powers to haunt the hearts and minds of man and woman, raining venom and hate on the heads of the wicked and righteous alike... or something like that.

Every other year, I make a fool out of myself on Valentine's Day. Luckily for me, this is an odd, off-year, and I have no less-than-grand romantic gestures to pull out of my ass to blow up in my face, leaving a mess of fecal matter clumped in my eyelashes.

(Jesus. What's with all the weird imagery today?)

Anyhoozle, many an off-year has been spent lamenting the fact that nobody "loves me like that" and on and on, but this year, I thought I'd float a different notion out into the electron ether of the world wide 'net...

Maybe I've never really loved anybody.

My concept of love has always consisted largely of liking the same TV shows and... um, that really seems to be about it. Somehow I get the feeling there should be a little bit more, like mutual respect, a feeling of safety and security, or maybe the slightest amount physical attraction, but no, looking back on it now, that never seems to have been a priority at any level. And it seems to me now that all of the semi-relationships I have had were based largely around liking the same TV shows.

And you know what I've realized? I like watching TV by myself. It's simply divine to watch an episode of Smallville without someone asking who did the damn theme song. It's nice to watch Ed in my pajamas -- everything seems so far less drastic.

Moreover, I cannot conceive of a time in which an actual relationship, with the mutual respect and safety and all that crap will really appeal to me. Because I've come to loathe small talk, and all the successful relationships I've seen seem to involve a lot of smalltalk.

Of course, it's an off-year, so who knows how long that feeling'll last. This time next year, I'll probably be leaving roses on the doorstep of some girl who regularly watches Jack & Bobby or Justice League Unlimited (extremely unlikely) and running away.

You know, making a fool out of myself... But hey, how else are you going to stop The Evil Ghost of the Sainted Valentino from killing the first born of every family? I mean, if calling Scooby Doo and the gang of the Mystery Machine isn't an option...

NEXT:
"If I Knew the Way I'd Go Back Home..."