THE DEVIL'S CALORIES

          (Obviously these are the Devil Days of February...)
          I go through periods where I'm pretty disciplined about working out.  But then something interrupts my groove and it's a sudden mudslide into donuts, cookies, and lots of cheese and other carbs.  On my way down I grope for something to hold on to, to keep myself from sliding to the very bottom, but all I manage to grab are chocolate bars and extra pounds.
          Lately I've been grimly determined to correct my many wrongs by spending time on the treadmill.  Once I worked up to it, my daily goal became to burn 666 calories, according to the treadmill's readout.  (Maybe not entirely correct, but possibly close?)  I grit my teeth and think of it as "burning the Devil's calories."
          I feel very accomplished every time I reach that goal, which has been a lot lately.  There is much at stake.  But I'm not sure who the triumph is for or against.  Am I keeping the Devil AWAY by burning 666 calories?  Or am I HONORING the Devil?  I figure it's a good thing either way I imagine it.  Maybe if I only burn 665 and 1/2 calories, the Devil wins my soul and drags me to Hell?  By reaching my goal I either please him or defeat him, and either way I'm safe, right?
          The flaming pit yawns hungrily beneath me and I MUST reach 666 calories or the treadmill will bang open like a trap door and down I'll go... 
        

DEVIL, DEVIL, WHO'S GOT THE DEVIL?

          We watched M. Night Shyamalan's "Devil" last night.  (Netflix)  I'd really been looking forward to it.  I would also like to mention that I just checked the spelling of his name and I got it correct on the FIRST TRY.  Gold star, please. 
Stuck in an elevator with the Devil!
          Anyway, when it was over Anthony made a dismissive "meh" sound to illustrate his opinion of it, but I was like, "Well, I liked it!  I thought it was pretty good!"
          Anthony had guessed the "twist" about halfway through the movie, and was unimpressed with the way events played out, and the lackluster devily effects.
          The more I thought about it, the more I realized that when I said I "liked" it, and that it was "good," it was by my new and evolving Shyamalan rating system, which isn't really based on how good the movie is, but rather how much or how little I'm disappointed in it.  Because I know going into it that I WILL be disappointed. 
          Shyamalan started out strong with "The Sixth Sense," and "Signs," the latter being only mildly flawed but forgivable because of some really freaky and effective scenes in the first half.  But it was all downhill from there, hence my new rating system.  For example, I was tragically disappointed by "Lady in the Water," and seriously pissed-off with disappointment over "The Village." 
          "The Happening" left me cold, but was of a less furious disappointment, more of a mildly frowning, "Hm.  That's it?"
          So "Devil" actually had a pretty cool concept and a few creepy scenes that might have been chilling if you didn't know you were going to be let down by the end.  If Shyamalan had perhaps turned the concept over to better writers, it could have been very interesting.  Therefore, for a Shyamalan film, it was sort of good.
          But somebody better make a REALLY good Devil film soon, one that is seriously scary.  Is that even possible in this jaded era?

MY OWN DAMN CALENDAR : February

"Cupid VS the Bee of Hate"

          For this month, even though I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd go all out with the pink and the hearts and the angel wings.  Not sure why I drew Cupid as sort of a koala/Care Bear, but it made sense at the time.
          Naturally there has to be a yang to Cupid's yin, hence the Bee of Hate.

          The casual observer might ask, "Are they pooping hearts and death's heads?"  I perceive it as more of a being propelled by a stream of hearts, and being propelled by a stream of hatred. 


LET'S GET PHYSICAL

Here is the current state of my hair, my right foot, and my fat ass:

HAIRCUT
          I'm actually kind of proud of this.  Last weekend I got fed up with my hair being too long in back, but knowing that every time I go to an actual hair stylist and tell them what I want, they deny me.  I just want it left long in front, and short in back.  The stylists always tell me that you can't do that and make it look right, but I'm gay.  I have my own ideas about these things.  Can they not just humor me?!
          Anyway, I started thinking about it, and a cutting plan formulated in my mind, involving sectioned-off locks of hair, cutting each section a certain way.  So I did it.  I used my little-girl barrettes to do the sectioning, because I like the absurdity of a 39-year-old dude with little kitties, balloons, and plastic daisies clipped to his head.  By the time I was done I was quite pleased.  Even my detail-oriented husband approved, although he did have to even up a little bit of the back.

BLOODY FOOT
          Yesterday as I was leaving work I kept feeling what I thought was a sharp rock in my right shoe.  It hurt like a mutha, but I didn't want to have to take my shoe off at work, or in my car.  I just wanted to get HOME.  By the time I got home and in the door, it REALLY hurt.  I took my shoe off to find my sock had a bloody hole torn in it.  I was whining and moaning, so Anthony took my shoe and discovered there was a piece of BROKEN GLASS wedged into the sole on the inside.
          I could have DIED.  But he pried the broken glass out, so I guess I'll survive the next time I wear those shoes.

MY FATTEST ANGLE
          In the mirror this morning before work I discovered what is undeniably my fattest angle.  It had a lot to do with the pose, too, and the fact that I was wearing unfortunate khaki pants, with a light blue dress shirt tucked in.  It's my ugliest work outfit.
          I found that by turning to sort of a 3/4 angle, and keeping one foot behind the other, and kind of slouching and letting it all hang out, I could make myself look truly bloppy and horrendous.  Just a big beige sack of potatoes on a stick.  With fabulous hair.

FIRE SAUCE

          I keep noticing this stray packet of Fire Sauce in the floorboard of my truck.  It's on the driver's side, right by the door.  Who knows how long it's been sliding around there under my feet.  It's definitely an accident waiting to happen. 
          Yesterday I arrived at work with my man bag and a big box full of books from the used book store for the library.  Normally I don't even think about actually throwing the Fire Sauce away, but for some reason it occurred to me while my hands were full that I should probably do that.  I poked at the packet with my foot, and sure enough it was full.  (I don't even use the stuff)  But since I didn't have any extra hands, dealing with the Fire Sauce was beyond my problem-solving abilities.
          So there it sits, waiting for me to accidentally burst it and then curse myself for being so lazy.

MY OWN DAMN CALENDAR

          Like usual New Year's came and went and I suddenly realized I hadn't picked up a new calendar.  By that time it was all Jonas Brothers, barns, and bikini girls in the 50% off bargain calendar racks.  I decided to make my own calendar.  It's a little belated, but here's January:
"New Year's worm is fierce and focused"

ROYAL HISTORIAN OF OZ #5

          I have to write a "catalog description" for each issue of any comic book I'm working on.  We used to be limited to 50 words, but now we can go over that, which makes it a little easier.  It's still a tricky thing to do, condensing something complex, nuanced, and rich in detail (or so I like to think) into a bite-sized paragraph to instantly grab someone's attention in the midst of a giant catalog full of garish, dynamic comic book plots.
          Anyway, it's time to turn in my catalog description of the 5th and final issue of "The Royal Historian of Oz."  Here's what I came up with:

The Royal Historian of Oz #5
Written by Tommy Kovac
Illustrated by Andy Hirsch

It's time to mobilize! Scraps the Patchwork Girl has been possessed by the soggy ghost of the Wicked Witch of the West, and wrested control of the powerful magic on display in Jasper Fizzle's Oz Historical Library and Museum. Ozma and her immortal friends join forces with Frank Fizzle and travel to the mortal world (with the help of a giant space/time continuum-crunching friend) to right the tangled wrongs of two worlds. Is there any way for Jasper to redeem the Fizzle family name in the eyes of the citizens of Oz or the literary snobs of the Official Oz Society? The pen may be mightier than the sword, but how mighty is a rickety old manual typewriter?

THAT WHICH SHALL NOT BE NAMED

          I never listen to radio because I hate everything on every station.  Hate DJs, hate callers, hate 99% of music that gets played for mass consumption.  The radio in my truck is tuned to KROQ just because... well, that's what I grew up with in the '80s, back when 50% of what they played was passably listenable.  Now if I catch even a snippet of their programming, it's usually Linkin Park (HATE) or some totally tired and thoroughly played-out Red Hot Chili Peppers, or Sublime (also HATE).
          Anyway, to continue with my tirade, the other morning I was driving to work and thought maybe I'd briefly check in with the world at large, so I paused my iPod and allowed the radio to take over.  You know, just in case we were under attack, or Godzilla was headed my way, or there was something I truly needed to be aware of.
          At first they were talking about the Foo Fighters (rolling of eyes, yawn...), then without any noticeable transition (I swear!) they were speaking live with one of the retard guys from Jersey Shore.
          At first it was like being bitten by a snake.  I froze, paralyzed, my eyes wide with horror.
          The poison began to spread throughout my system, filling me with nausea, loathing, incredulity.  Why does such a thing exist?  How could any loving god create such a thing and allow it to take over the way it has, so that seemingly EVERYONE on the planet is familiar with this hideous... THING.  I understand the concept of guilty pop culture pleasure, and partake of plenty of that myself, but surely there must be a limit.  Some things must not be allowed to continue...
          Why wasn't I turning it off?  Why was I still listening?  And why didn't Kevin and Bean give us some kind of warning, so those of us who are more sensitive could have dodged the deadly pop culture poison in time?
          Then abruptly, like a dark cloud moving aside to reveal the sun, I realized I really WASN'T interested in what the retard from Jersey Shore had to say.  Not even the slightest bit.  It didn't seem entertaining even in the most guilty, bottom-of-the-barrel kind of way.  The constriction in my chest loosened, and I poked the button to switch from radio to iPod.
          Whew!            

CHRISTMAS CRAFT MANIA

Fancy!
          Being a crafty sort, I enjoy the challenge of trying to use only things we already HAVE for wrapping and stuff.  Plus we're poor, so the more money we save, the better.  We printed out our own Christmas cards using a drawing I did of Krampus & Santa, and it ended up being an odd size. 
My drawing of the Krampus battling Santa

          I made templates and cut envelopes from scrap paper, even fancy lining from scraps of Christmas wrap. Double-sided tape is my friend.
Variety!

          Here are some more hand-made bows, but I changed things up a little by using scraps cut from discarded library books, and even some packing paper.
Awesome, right? Destroying library books is fun!

         



THE PONIES OF CHRISTMAS

          What would Christmas be without my collection of special holiday edition My Little Ponys?  Here we see them gathered around a magical color-changing Christmas tree candle.
There's an angel pony, a reindeer pony, and several over-dressed fashion victim ponies
          When the lights go out it's all crazy 'n' shit.  They'll all have hangovers in the morning.
         

THE NEW MARTHA

          Check me out, I figured out how to make one of these bows by HAND.  Using strips of paper and double-sided tape.  The method came to me in a heavenly cloud and a flash of angelic light.  And a voice said, "Let it be so..."
          Here's a close-up:
          Anthony thinks I'm insane for doing this, especially since we have several boxes full of pre-fab bows ready to just peel and stick.  But shouldn't I win an award for this?

"NUTCRACKER" WASN'T ALREADY GAY ENOUGH?

Is it... Tom Hulce in "Amadeus?" -or... a Cirque du Soleil "clown?" -or... an escapee from the gayest Mardi Gras ever?
          Nope.  It's supposed to be Godfather Drosselmeier from Nutcracker, based on the book by E.T.A. Hoffmann.  And sure, that's a pretty strange story all on its own, but THIS is just plain alarming.  Unsettling, even.  The image above is from a flyer I saw tacked to a restaurant bulletin board in the Inland Empire, advertising a local production of Nutcracker.  This version of Drosselmeier looks like he just took a buttload of Ecstasy, is probably wearing sequined high heels, and probably still has shards of a shattered disco ball still scattered throughout his fright wig.  I'd say we're lucky if he's even wearing pants.
          I will not be attending this production, but then again I don't even like musical theater in the first place, whether they're dancing or singing, or some foul combination of both.
          I do, however, enjoy this horrific image, because I'm a horror fan.  I love horror novels, horror movies, and the better horror genre magazines.  To me, this image would be at home next to a poster of Hellraiser's "Pinhead," or perhaps Freddy Krueger, or even the Wayans brothers in "White Chicks."
"One... two... Wayans comin' for you..."

IN THE DREAMHOUSE: Tidal Wave Canyon

          Last night I had a long, arduous dream about being part of some survival trek over a mountain range.  There was a whole troop of us scaling this rocky, uneven terrain, and I was exhausted, my legs aching from trying to find purchase in the crumbling slope.  I was really anxious about my speed, wanting to make sure I wasn't in last place, so I kept looking behind me.  Most of the time I was in the very middle of the line of people, but I wished I could have been studly enough to be at the front.  I was self-conscious about my puffing and straining, worrying that my legs (or heart) would just give out before I made it to whatever our goal was.
          When we finally got through that part of the journey, we ended up in a vast red canyon, with no sign of civilization anywhere.  Only in a dream could you climb a mountain range and find a canyon at the top.  There was also a bunch of towering palm trees, which quickly became very important.
          A huge tidal wave was headed our way, the wall of rushing water stretching up farther than we could see.  The only way we knew to possibly escape being killed by it was to scale the palm trees and hang on for dear life.  We climbed as fast and as high as we could.  My tree was very skinny, and bowed low with my weight (too many Reese's Peanut Butter Christmas Trees?), which worried me since I needed to be higher than the water after it settled.
          The wave hit and we all blacked out from the force of it, each of us clinging to our individual palm trees.  When I awoke, the water had mostly drained from the canyon, but I was perplexed about how I survived drowning in the initial deluge.  Even in the dream it didn't make sense to me.
          Susan, an old friend from school, had the tree next to mine, and she had also survived.  After that, though, we all went our separate ways.
          Then came a period of rebuilding after our ordeal.  I wandered through the canyon, finding small groups of people from the original survival team that had splintered off into sub-groups.  Each little enclave seemed to be building houses right into the canyon walls, kind of like the cliff-dwelling Anasazi.  Most of the new communities told me they had first asked permission from the local native tribes, before building their houses.  But the last group I came to, and for some reason decided to stay with, had NOT asked permission.  Instead, they had built their housing using very raw materials, trying to mimic the color and texture of the canyon walls, and carved native animals into their furniture and household items like clocks and kitchen ware.  They were hoping that if they simply showed enough respect and reverence for nature, it would be enough to keep the native tribes appeased.
          I was nervous about that.  It just seemed stubborn to me, and I was considering seeking out these mysterious natives, none of whom I'd seen any trace of on my travels, on my own. 
          But then I woke up. 

NATALIE & DER PUNKIN'SCHNITZEL : The Last Days

          There they sit, unaware of how much Anthony and I love roasted pumpkin seeds.
Der Punkin'Schnitzel (on floor) and Natalie (seated)
          A few weeks ago my mom & stepdad had a Halloween party, and we all gathered to decorate pumpkins.  We got all crafty with it because it was a little too early to actually carve them, hence the felt, google eyes, etc.  Anthony created Der Punkin'Schnitzel, and I birthed Natalie.  Painfully.

INSERT THE STRIPS!

          While perusing my old notebook, I came across 3 pages full of notes that really baffled me at first.
The Skelebunnies and their Woobies
          I’d made notes about a “Skelebunnies” storyline involving some sort of contest in which the adorable little Devil Woobies are all competing, and being judged by Satan, the Skelebunnies, Buttwing, and the demon Terry Piggy-Tinkle. (That’s not the weird part)

Buttwing
           I’d also noted that Henry Ford was an anti-Semite, and jotted something about babies being thrown to their deaths out of hospital windows. WTF?!

Henry Ford, anti-Semite
          This was immediately followed by something about a giggling, screechy, hyperventilating teenage girl flirting with some teenage boy, and naked Jews being marched into a gas chamber, and something mostly illegible about “starvation & insanity.”

          I gasped, horrified. I did NOT remember planning to make grim Holocaust jokes in that Skelebunnies story! The Holocaust is not funny, and I have never thought it was, I swear! What had I been thinking?! I tried really hard to figure out how I might have thought all these elements would fit into a funny little Skelebunnies story. Sometimes (okay, most of the time) my Skelebunnies material is of questionable taste, but there are LIMITS, aren’t there?

          More notes followed about Woobie-judging, and lining the Woobies up by distinguishing marks and ph balance. Bits of dialogue I scribbled in quotes read, “I like to keep things fresh!” and, “Insert the strips!”

          Reading over the notes, I wondered if maybe I’d taken Nyquil before writing all that. The penmanship is uncharacteristically messy and lurching, kind of spiky. Was I having seizures? How could I have forgotten such an incident?

          Then finally I spied a note I’d jotted at the beginning of the three perplexing pages, which says, “Museum Of Tolerance, 4/14/’08”
Hitler, party-pooper
          I heaved a sigh of relief, finally remembering that I’d been a chaperone on a field trip to the Holocaust Museum, and took my notebook along to give me something to do while on the bus ride (which explains the crazily spiky writing), and of course being a nerd I felt the need to take notes about stuff we learned at the museum.

          I never finished that Skelebunnies story, perhaps because it got all jumbled up with Holocaust crap in my head and seemed not so fun anymore.

          Hitler always ruins everything.


666 NASTY

          I needed a notebook to use at an appointment today, and ended up grabbing one that I started in 2007, and had taken to various different conferences and outings.  While flipping through it, I discovered this entry made during a writer's conference:
          I remember I was thrilled to find such fiendish vandalism in a place that's clearly supposed to be elegant.
          I think "IT'S YOUR TURN" is a threatening sort of challenge that I'm just not devilish enough to live up to.  But I appreciate the encouragement.

PLATFORMING

          We recently started receiving "Writer's Digest" magazine in the 7th - 12th-grade school library where I work.
          I eagerly started flipping through it, finding all sorts of interesting things.  An article on "Flash Fiction" (just a hip new term for short-short fiction), information about various literary markets, and some profiles of new first-time authors.
          I noticed that they used the same questions for each of the 3 or 4 new authors, asking who they are, what they've written, and what their "Platform" is.  I was puzzled by "Platform," and stopped to read each of those answers.
          Apparently "Platform" refers to your public following, or how you attain your public following.  It's all about built-in fans/readers, which is something publishers totally look for.  So these newly-published writers were all talking about their blogs mostly, and shit like Facebook, Twitter, and MySpace, I guess.  However they regularly connect with readers, and drum up NEW readers.
          So "Platform" in the publishing industry doesn't seem to refer to what you're trying to say and/or do, your viewpoint/convictions (as it does in politics), but rather just HOW and WHERE you say it.  As long as you're saying it a lot.
          For example: Kim Kardashian's "Platform" would be her reality show(s), Twitter, and probably Facebook, MySpace and every other form of media.  A publisher would probably look at Kim Kardashian and say, "She has a GREAT platform, a huge built-in audience, YES, let's DEFINITELY publish her book."
          (Does she already have a book?  I know that retarded bitch from the Hills does, and several other brainless celebutantes who have other people write shit for them.) 
          Sigh.  What was I saying?  Oh, yeah-- "Platforms." 
          So I guess I better work at blogging more, and trying to pay attention to what OTHER people are blogging or posting on Facebook or whatever.  Talk about a necessary evil.  We just saw a report on TV last night that something like 7 out of 10 Tweets go un...  What do you call that?  Un-Tweetbacked?  Un-responded-to?  Anyway, the point was that nobody cares about anybody ELSE'S Tweets or blog posts or Facebook posts, we tend to just care about what WE'RE saying.  And if we ARE responding to other people's chattering, it's only in the hopes that they'll respond to OURS.
          This is no surprise to anyone, but I guess we have to keep on doing it, especially us creative types who need to appease the literary and art publishers. 

SPECIAL

          I had totally forgotten to mention this to anyone, but last weekend at APE (Alternative Press Expo) in San Francisco, one my fans said a very cool thing to me. 
          I was a Special Guest, courtesy of SLG, and the other Special Guests were Lynda Barry, Dan Clowes, Tony Millionaire, and some other notable creators.  I felt honored to be amongst such good company.
          A girl came up to me while I was sitting at the SLG table signing my books, and said she was so excited to see my name in the list of Special Guests.  She had been looking through the other names and didn't recognize ANY of them, until she got to mine, and said, "Oh!  Tommy Kovac!  I know who HE is!"
          This is flattering because some of those "other names" are WAY bigger art stars than I am.  But I guess it depends on your point of view, and what you're into.  Anyway, that was very cool, and I thanked her, and told her she should check out Tony Millionaire's work, because if she likes my stuff she might like his, too.