That's the nature of this place. That's what life on Mars is all about. It ain't that the universe is cruel or unkind. It's just that it can't afford to get sentimental. That's why the judgement has to be stern. The energies at work in everythin', they gotta be pure. Nothin' unworthy. No crap. Geburah's where the world gets the @#*& beaten out of it.
- Alan Moore, "Promethea: Life on Mars"

"If I Knew the Way I'd Go Back Home"
I'm sure this is a pretty stupid question, but let me ask it anyway:

How long do I have to stay out here before I can realize that the big city ain't for me, move back to my home town, buy a bowling alley, and go after the prom queen?

I'm thinking I could by the Strike and Spare on 40 Highway. That's gotta be, 50 bucks tops. I can refit the proshop into my writing office. Hell, maybe I can even set up a little drafting board for Prewitt to draw or something. And when I'm not doing that I can hit on Amy Walburn.

Wait. Where the hell is Walburn these days? Somehow, I doubt it's Missouri... But hey, it's my crazy fantasy.

I'm about to steal a line from Warren Ellis, but I don't know how else to say this:

I hate it here.

I hate the fact that there is a Forest Ave. in every township in Bergen County, but it's never the same street. Same with Palisades and Grand Avenue. And there's a River Road right next to River Street. Who planned this shit out?

And I hate the fact that everyone I talk to here asks me what there is to do in Missouri, as if it's a fucking wasteland or something. "What is there to do there? What kind of movies do you guys show out there? Ya'll love Bush, right?" The only good thing about this condescension toward the midwest is that I'm sure it'll give me a perfect opportunity to take a dump on someone's carpet. "Sorry," I'll say, "but I don't believe in no damn magic terlette machines."

"Kelly's Hero-Worshipper"
I might get a chance to interview Joe Kelly.

I don't have a good track record with interacting with this man. I met him -- briefly -- at the Wizard World Chicago Comic Book Convention in 2000. For those of you that don't know the story, it was very similar to the meeting depicted in the obligatory scene of "Little Brown Boy Blues," only I was the fanboy, not Noah.

Not my finest hour. Not my finest hour at all.

There was even an odd and ugly stretch in my college years when the prospect of a drunken e-mail to Kelly seemed like a splendid idea to me. The fact that I never went through with it is both fortunate and proof to me of the existence of a loving and benevolent God...

I have assured my handlers that, should I be given the opportunity, any interview I do will be professional -- well, as professional as an English major with no holdings in the fourth estate can manage in this workaday world. This probably means "Hey, you want to be in this movie I'm writing?" needs to be eliminated from my list of potential questions.

"Another Cookie Cutter Love Story"
The other day, a fortune cookie told me that it's time I asked that special someone out on a date.

I was really excited... until I realized that there is no special someone these days.

"That Voodoo That You Do So Well"
Okay, whoever made a little Clark voodoo doll, let me just say, I'm very impressed.

You clearly know your witchcraft. And honestly, I'm very flattered. I'm sure that a project like this takes a considerable amount of time and effort. I hardly feel worth all the trouble.

However, if you could pull that pin out of my lower back, that'd be great. Seriously, I'm sorry for whatever I did. You're killing me here...

"Wonder Woman Vol. 2 #20"
I thought I saw Myndi walking in Englewood today. The fact that it wasn't actually her depressed me in a way I can hardly fathom.

"Cock-Knocker, Shit-Talker"
I'm finding the whole writing thing difficult.

I seem to vacillitate between bouts of outrageous creative confidence -- in which I'll, say, reimagine Martian Manhunter the way God or Alan Moore (same difference) intended -- and days of crippingly low-self esteem where this voice keeps saying "You can't do this, who are you kidding?"

Each period -- be it ripe with confidence or plagued by self-loathing -- lasts about two to three days, so I go back and fourth throughout the week.

I suspect this happens to a lot of people. In fact, it wouldn't really bother me if I was actually writing during those bursts of confidence, but I'm not. I'm just thinking about writing. Maybe writing an outline or setting up an initial scene, but not much more than that. Unless you count that Prowler script or the revisions on "Little Brown Boy Blues," and you shouldn't. I don't.

Sure, I can dream up a story idea -- it occurred to me the other day that Tamara Easter could easily be a former adult film actress, as it could provide (a) an interesting explanation of how she got pregnant and (b) a simple reason why the son of pron mogul would hire her to work at his comic book store -- but for some reason, I find myself unable to sit down and actually write it. I've become one of those people who talks a good game, but just can't play worth shit.

I'm constantly blathering on and on about my killer jumpshot, but I can't fucking dribble.

(Holy crap. Did I just make a sports analogy?)

I think it's Scenes from the Next that did this to me. I've never really forgiven myself for leaving it undone. I mean, it's not like I've completed every story I ever started, but I never left a stick-figure comic unfinished until I abandoned Penny Lane and Steve Urkel: Spider-Man to face the Little Black Duck and his alien afro alone. Just give me two weeks and some uni-ball pens. I'll do it. I swear. Just give me my soul back.

Beware the Ides of February.