For All the Skyrim Ninjas

Steve Jobs Thinking Pose: Outpacing the Mona Lisa in Most Views, One Click at a Time

This is the only picture of Steve Jobs you will ever see again.

And he isn't even holding an iPhone. For shame.

Frosted Flakes -- Supporting Irresponsible Parenting Everywhere

Fuck this guy. Who makes his kid field grounders all morning before eating breakfast? What type of father is Kellogg's supporting here? The Nazi Sports Dads?

There's one with them playing football before breakfast too. Freakin' Frosted Flakes.

A Ho-Hum Routine and the Tire Douche

I set my alarm each night for exactly one hour before I need to be at work the next morning. This leaves me exactly enough time to not get a complete breakfast, miss most of Sports Center, and make it to work with a little less than two minutes to spare.

This system allows me to do things like, but not limited to: complain about being tired or having low energy levels all day;need a lunch because I didn't have a good breakfast; not know anything that's going on in the sporting World until someone brings it up.

Yesterday began no different than any other day. Wake up at nine for work at ten. Eat a single cookie, hold on longingly to the second one before putting it back, all the while telling myself that this was the place the battle would be won, this cookie would be the first of many victories. (I feel you should know that I am currently eating an ice cream.) Get dressed, take one last wistful look at the clock. Leave.

A ho-hum morning to the tee. I threw myself into my little Oldsmobile with typical abandon, put on my music and morosely pulled out of the parking spot.

The differentiating factor this particular morning was the UPS driver--who I imagine had, much earlier than I, gone through his own ho-hum morning routine and was now in a mental state that fell somewhere between utter anguish and happy pink butterflies. The point of that metaphor? He was taking up both lanes.

Being the astute morning driver we all know me to be, I reacted about ten seconds too late and flung myself up and over a (maybe) six inch curb. Something that should of, at worst, made my car complain the rest of the drive to work. "Dick move, Dave. Dick move." Yeah, it would have been annoying. But I would have understood.

Instead, my tire exploded like an overripe watermelon. It would be safe to say that it handled the situation poorly.

So instead of getting to work two minutes early, I got to work fifteen minutes late. And then, as my shift came to it's seemingly unreachable conclusion, I had to call my roommate to come pick me up, who, like any good mother, was at the door waiting and waving as I left the building.

Florida seemed to know exactly when I'd been forced into an outdoor situation, and immediately reacted with what I'll loosely call a "fierce heat." As I've long associated mind-numbing with cold weather and boring people and hate the word "sweltering."

As with most flat tires, I had to replace this one. In so doing I had to locate a spare, locate the jack, get the car up on said jack, get the wheel off and the spare on, the only difference between this and any normal flat-tire situation? It was like a rookie league pit crew. I had about thirty minutes to get the car into the shop and get it fixed.

This undoubtedly doesn't sound like a problem to most of you, but for me, changing a spare without a book telling me exactly how is a lot like putting LEGO's together without a guide. Sure, it'll look the same, but I always end up with fourteen extra pieces and a building that tilts to the left the ten-percent of the time it isn't tilting to the right.

Inevitably, we (my roommate was there for the whole ordeal, because he cares) beat the clock with two minutes to spare, an appearing theme in my existence, and got to the tire shop exactly twenty minutes after my appointment. But an hour and a half before close.

The guy, who I will jokingly (not really) call the Tire Douche, "spit his game" at me, as it were, for the next ten minutes. Wasting time as, at this point, I would have bought whatever the Hell he told me to. Instead, he pulled a super exaggerated "Captain Morgan" pose. He managed to get his leg all the way up to a counter that was a little higher than my waist. As if he wanted to say. "Look bro, I'm taller than you. Also, my cock is in your face."

Good times.

About an hour later, I made my glorious return to the land where Tire Douche ruled as King and finished paying for my tires, alignment and subsequent soul harvesting. He spent about twenty minutes reassuring me that I had done the right thing in getting tires. He did this despite me, after minute one (more accurately, second ten) telling him, "Yeah, they were not in good shape."

To which Tire Douche responded, "Good shape? Dude, you should play the lottery, I'm freakin' honored to be in front of you right now, man. You should have died!"

Awesome. But, he was right. There were small pieces of asphalt stuck in the glaringly obvious fibers sticking out all over the damn place. In places the tread was so destroyed that you could count the layers the road had chewed through. My tires essentially looked like they had been made of felt rather than rubber. Like someone threw out a couch and I said, "Fuck yes, I want that on my car."

Maybe I just care about the roads comfort more than you.

Internet Dependency

THIS IS A QUICK POST ABOUT INTERNET DEPENDENCY:

I have it.

Everything I've written about, thought about, or talked about in the past week has somehow spiraled it's way back around to the inconceivable, seemingly intractable fact that I do not have internet, yet.

Yet is not in italics because I'm not quite sure if there is hope anymore.

And then I read this and realized how true it was. Damn it PvPonline and always being one step ahead.

Internet Table

Day Twenty-Five Without the Internet:

I've eaten the Cat5e cable. It was sinewy and tasted like dried up joy. I haven't seen Epic Meal Time in two weeks. Reading online cartoons seems like a fever dream I had once...years ago.

I can no longer pay my bills without calling and leaving a message, like some relic of a bygone age. I am a technology Neanderthal. I'm using my phone as a phone--watch as the children throw rocks and me and feed on my suffering.

I tried writing--to pass the time, until I remembered that I had thrown my keyboard against a wall earlier, cracking it open like a piggy bank in a classic cartoon. I had hoped the internet would fall out through the shattered keys and broken plastic and I would gather up its fluffy goodness in my arms like so much spilled Styrofoam packing on a long since forgotten Christmas morning.

Sadly, it did not. I still have no internet.

I'm in a local Ice Cream Store, Neighbors, owned by a friend of a friend of a roommate. I'm sitting here, considering squatting long term (in a bid for future ownership,) growling at passerby as they look enviously at my table. The table with the power chord. It is mine and you cannot have it.

This seat is where the Internet is and it is now mine.

I am the uncrowned King of Internet Table. Fear me.

Political Bear

May the Fourth be with You

I wouldn't normally throw down two cartoons in one day. But I felt that in honor of Star Wars day, I'd knock this one out as well. Star Wars was a huge part of my youth, and the Extended Universe (Movie Snobs can shut the Hell up) is what got me into reading and writing in the first place.

Bear Society

The Royal Wedding -- Who is it Hurting?

Waterworld and all of it's likenesses are trademark of Universal Studios.
If anyone wants to buy a print of this comic at some point in the future...I'll have to go back and actually draw Kevin Costner. In his Waterworld garb. Yes, it would still be a Universal trademark, but it would be an illustrated Universal trademark.

Starbucks, you Sly Devil

I have always been a proponent of the bookstore coffee shop. It has the two things I need most in my coffee drinking experience, namely: coffee and books.

Borders was long a favorite of mine, despite a shoddy store set up, awkward management decisions and horrible business savvy, it just always felt like home. It had a cafe that felt open and fun, it had a clientele that could be talked to, with and about. It was conveniently located. And oh yes, they had a large comic and graphic novel section.

I would just go to small, Mom and Pop coffee shops, or use my one dollar refill cup at 7 11 if it wasn't for the comics. That sweet sweet, panel art and writing combination I love so much. I became a Books-A-Million club member, simply so I could hop online, drink coffee, write blogs and read comics. Books-A-Million, you may not know, has the worst cafe known to man. Maybe eight possible drink selections, half as many table, and the same three old guys talking about "when lacrosse wasn't played in schools around here." I guess they're from the North.

I had long been without a cafe home, as it were. And far from negative, this "homeless experience" has been quite productive. I've worked on my art. I've developed new comic ideas. I opened a freakin' Twitter. I wrote application letters, unsuccessfully applied to jobs, talked to random passerby in a desperate attempt for human contact. I have done these things and done these things well.

And then...

My wallet may never be the same. And I don't even like Starbucks' coffee.

Easter Candy

Error There is no Error

I was trying to watch Burn Notice: The Fall of Sam Ax earlier when this screen came up.

The "Error: There is no error" of cable television.

If you haven't had the joy of that particular computer related error it looks like this:

I would find this situation amusing if it happened to someone else.

Or during an episode of Jersey Shore.

Twitchy

I have three dogs (according to my father, that's one dog too many,) like all dogs they have their own unique quirks and personalities. They can be summed up by their nicknames: Itchy, Twitchy and Bitchy. Obviously these aren't their real names, but in the interest of protecting their identities their names are being withheld (that and I like calling them Itchy, Twitchy and Bitchy.)

Their roles in the house seemed set in stone up until about two years ago. Around that time, I figure a very invasive, very bitey breed of flea must have started a family in our backyard. Twitchy, who up until that point had been a very solitary creature, so named for her undying fear of loud noises, gray skies and passing blue birds, became a member of the household.

She'd always been quite playful, and up until our accidental acquisition of Itchy, made a point to play at the same time every day. Six AM. Like evil clockwork. Once the little mutt was introduced to the household she became a lot more interested in inter-canine affairs and found her way out of ours. Until, of course, the (assumed--I've yet to find evidence) flea invasion.

Scratching became her drug. Every opportunity found her face in yours, just long enough to make eye contact, her eyes intoning a deep desire to be loved. Just as you reach out to pet that adorable face, she would swing her body around and throw her ass into your outstretched hand. The ol' bait and switch. I fell for it for quite awhile before she realized she needed new methods. She began just standing there. Ass leaned up on your leg. Making weird moaning and yipping noises. Clearly upset and not above showing her displeasure. Eventually she would begin nipping at you. Encouragingly at first, desperate within seconds of you not scratching.

Her drug were fingers and there was no way out. When Twitchy was a puppy she had what we called her "War on Entertainment." It was a brutal campaign of attrition where the only plausible solution seemed to be outspending her rate of chewing.

She went after anything that reeked of amusement. Television remotes, DVD cases, DVD's, books, video game controller chords, pillows, reading glasses and the occasional slipper. In fact, once she found an object of aforementioned joy and relaxation, she would tirelessly toil away at it's destruction until only a few measly fibers or filaments of it remained to bespeak it's existence. Case in point, she once got after a book of my father's. He caught her in the act and somehow managed to get her to refrain. He put some Scotch tape along the binding, put it back on the shelf, and went about his business. Within an hour he was back in his room, presumably doing dad things, when he found her destroying what he found to be the same book.

An idea struck. He taped the book up again--with a lot more tape. By the time she finally lost interest in said book, he had taped it up over a dozen times. He'd added pages from our printer, he'd hidden it in places he was sure she wouldn't find it, but he always made sure it was within her reach--and more importantly, her smell. We learned a valuable lesson that day--sometimes on book must die, so that many books may live.

We began applying this to all of our objects. Within months you could find taped up glasses and remote controls, sewed up pillows and slippers with toes sticking out.

Twitchy eventually outgrew her predilection to eating anything remotely fun. She discovered a fierce love of just holding things in her mouth and running around like a five year old being chased by a wasp. At some point she must have been holding such a thing, for example, a sock, when my mother, bless her, decided she needed said sock in the laundry.

I can see my mother, standing in the laundry room, staring at Twitchy as she wagged her tail excitedly, menacingly. Two thoughts must have entered my mother's head:
A) Chase the dog around for the next ten minutes to maybe get the sock from her in some kind of working order.
B) Present dog with a better option, i.e. a cookie for a sock.

So, as is to be expected, my mother bartered with a four legged creature whose whole thought process was most likely "this feels soft, yeeeey." It should have been a pretty story with a happy ending, for dog, sock and mother. But instead, a monster was born.

You see, Twitchy is the smartest of our dogs. Which, I realize is a lot like saying "he's the fastest offensive lineman on the team." He still weighs 350 and isn't chasing down a frisbee in a breeze, much less a corner back running a 4.2 forty. But, all metaphors aside, Twitchy developed a system. She began hunting socks with a zealotry. When no socks were available she began to substitute in underwear. And every time her reward was the same. A cookie for her troubles.

Within months I was missing over half of my sock pairings. I was wearing gray with black and short with long. My sister had changed her style to "tastefully tacky" due to the sudden lack of a neon green twin to her already ridiculous sock choices.
We began to make sure everything was off the floor. Our rooms weren't necessarily clean, but the laundry was put away.

Twitchy began to take trash from the wastebaskets, she began stealing caps off of bottles you were currently drinking out of. Napkins that still had hands gripping them. If and when she got a hold of these objects she would immediately sprint away joyously, just to return within a few moments, object still in mouth, shaking feverishly waiting for her treat.

And that's how I'll always remember her--happily wagging her tail holding onto one of my possessions. Not like she will be in the next few minutes-that is to say dead, if she doesn't give me my !@#$ing sock back.

You Scream, I Scream, We all Scream for a Good ol' Face Stabbing

Now I'm all for a horror film (I'm really not) but at what point did they become humorous? Outside of the Scary Movie franchise, humor + horror does not a happy equation make. The trailer for Scream 4 has more laughs than horror. And I'm struggling to figure out why. No, Scream was never a very scary franchise. The guy is just a normal man in a robe making prank calls...that end in vicious stabbings, so I suppose that part's a bit scary. But, it never had that Halloween "this guy is untouchable and we are all f*cked" kind of vibe.

But, what seemed to happen (of course without watching the movie) is that somewhere along the line, someone forgot how to hire for slasher flicks.

Anthony Anderson: the New Face of Horror

I suppose you can only go so far with a guy in a mask, and there's always been an element of humor in the Scream films (to me watching Scream felt a little like I imagine getting stabbed in the eyes and or ears repeatedly would, but I had friends that enjoyed it) otherwise Scary Movie wouldn't have worked in the first place. The trailer just took me in the wrong direction. Laughing at serial killers as they switch gets flipped is one thing--laughing as you watch them joyfully, and bloodily, rip through a dozen coeds? Quite another.

Congratulations are in Order

If they don't name him David, maybe they'll go for my second idea, Darth Davgen.
Future Dark Lord of the Galaxy, parts known and unknown.

How the Commercial Really Ends

Call me a cynic but these Cheezit commercials are bit ridiculous. I'm all about the personification of food, if your goal is to make the consumer base feel like cannibals and or murderers...did no one in the Ritz Marketing Department think about what the logical next step of this ad was? Well, I did. A lot.

Which brings me to Domino's Pizza. They're putting a survey on a box, and they think that will make years of bad tasting pizza and health risk chicken okay. A survey on the box? What the Hell good does that do the customer other than make the company look really good to the Lowest Common Denominator of Consumers?

Do you know what you do with boxes? You throw them away as soon as the food is no longer in them. In the trash. That's where these vaunted surveys go. How is this helping anyone? Least of all the company. Oh wait, it isn't. Because they don't care.

Domino's doesn't actually need to be a company that cares about what you (the consumer//customer) think. They need to be a company that is perceived as a company that cares what you think. If they really gave a shit about what we thought about their food they'd give away free pizza and ask opinions. Put the survey on coupons for a free pie, etc. Instead, they put it on a chicken box and make a big show of the "lead chicken chefs" pretending to be scared for their jobs because of the one 50-something mother of six who actually cares enough to fill out a used, grease filled box, and mail that f*cker back.

A Novel Idea

This is a decidedly regular conversation between me and my friends. I'm often reminded of the most annoying stat in professional sports: Quarterbacks "yards in dropped passes." I like to think that I have millions of dollars in unpublished (unwritten) novel and movie ideas. One day I'll find one I love so much that I actually start writing it.

I hope.

Productivity Hit

This can loosely be described as my "work computer." I realize that calling it my "work computer" implies an at least 3:1 work to fun ratio, but thinking thoughts like that is what brought you here in the first place.

This is the Nefarious, Notorious Interweb Monster. I call him Gaaaaahgle. Because he is scary, and reminds me of a word that starts with "g" and sounds like "oogle."

It might sound like I'm blaming the internet and all that pertains for my problems getting work done--because that is exactly what this is. Me, blaming the internet. My very limited self-discipline has nothing at all to do with it.

Nothing.

I'm Going to Miss the Green Beer

I'd like to say that my past few days have been fun, but (and isn't there always a 'but?') they haven't been. I worked everyday this week (surprisingly exciting in the current climate) and injured my knee playing basketball (again, and again 'surprise.') All that really means is I can't go out on St. Patty's day, which may or may not be the worst thing ever. If I just go to sleep it won't be a "thing," however if I stay up reading all the inevitable drunk "I'm now here" facebook posts for the rest of the night, I may want to kill myself by midnight--or all of the people posting said posts. With their damn smartphones in one hand and their beautiful green beers in the other.

Depression always gets more severe when people inadvertently rub their stupid happiness in your face. My neighbor, bless her heart, invited me to the beach (with her hot friend--of !@#$ing course) as soon as I got into my car to go to work. My friend met these three smokin' hot girls that are into...stuff (yeah, we'll go with stuff)...just as soon as I got into a relationship. ROBIN RETIRES AND BATMAN IS IN THE MARKET FOR A NEW ROBIN, NO, IT'S COOL BATS, I JUST STARTED WORKING FOR THE GREEN ARROW, THE GREEN !@#$ING ARROW...(For those non-comic lovers among you who read my blog, the Green Arrow pretty much sucks, he's like the shiny green opposite of the Dark Gothic Badass that is Batman.)

I think you see where I'm going with this. I'm upset that I'm not Robin (you may see this is an awkward thing, that is to say: not wanting to be Batman, but rather his sidekick. I don't know if you know this but, Batman is barely mortal, he sleeps like two hours a day (yeah, not happening) and has collected more scars than Jay Leno has collected motorcycles (and chin surgeries--that thing can't possible be real.) His job kind of sucks. But Robin? Occasional kick-asser take-namer, gets his own sweet ride, a room in the manor, and access to a massive fortune, yeah, sign me up.)

My mother, taking pity on my gimpiness decided that today would be a good day to go see Battle: Los Angeles. Or as I like to call it Independence Day 2: Lose the Airforce, THROW IN THE MARINES, HOOAH. it's a long tagline, I know. I'm not going to deny it's awesomeness--or really break down the movie for anyone (just in case)but, come on. We all knew what was going to happen. I'm especially pissed with the previews. All of the heartbreaking, eye opening scenes were in the previews. Way to let us all know ahead of time who was dying.

Which brings me to my closing point.

Batman should be in Independence Day 2. Come on Will, make this happen for me.

Batman Makes it Better

I've been thinking about this really hard. I've gone over the facts. Hell, I've checked them twice. I even psychically looked in on all the leading literary minds, and they too, subconsciously agree: No story wouldn't be better with Batman.

I came to this realization in the middle of a Star Wars comic I was reading while aggressively sucking down a frozen cappuccino (thank you for the plug Books-A-Million? No thank you for the coffee.) I was watching (reading, what do you call reading a graphic novel these days?) Cade Skywalker (Luke's grandson? Great Grandson?) open a can of jaded-Jedi whoopass when it struck me that, if instead of his predictably blue friend fighting alongside him, Batman filled the role of "ass-kicking teammate," that this book would be at least 163% better. Scientifically speaking, of course.

Epic space battle? Yeah, he has a jet for that.

Hard core action mystery thriller? His cape is made of shadow.

The Great Gatsby? Come on, Bruce could get him all the invites he needed. Why didn't Nick look him up?

Romantic Comedy? Relieve some tension with a mugging and subsequent Batman throwdown. Add Batgirl and or Batwoman to relieve the tension that would inevitably follow when the lead female role falls irrevocably in love with the Caped Crusader (who for some horrible reason, no longer wants to be called that. Bad decisions.)

Documentary Film? Finally. A narrator you can trust. Batman not only doesn't kill, he doesn't lie. And homeboy has gadgets, he'll get to the bottom of whatever it is we're interested in. Want to know if Bigfoot exists? Well, if he does, Bats has him on speed dial. He probably bought him the damn phone.

The real problem is making sure that the Batman insert isn't too grandiose. Half the great novels would never have happened it Batman was around. The Kite Runner would have actually been about running kites and Caesar would have missed his last words.

I'm not saying it wouldn't be a challenge, just that it needs to be done.

Tell me Alderaan gets destroyed if Batman lived in that Galaxy?

No. Hell no. Batman knew Palpatine was going to do his Sith thing before he did. Sorry Anakin, you're still a Jedi in my world.

The point of this post is that I'm a huge Batman fan. And recently read the 'Return of Bruce Wayne." Loosely titled so because Bruce Wayne is Batman, and has returned. Through time.

If you're thinking about asking me, "Hey, Dave, do we get to see Batman as a pirate?"

The answer is yes, yes we do.

The "I WANT TO DO THAT" Syndrome and a Few Common Mistakes

I go through this crap every time I read, see or hear something new. I call it the I WANT TO DO THAT syndrome. Some people may know it as the "I COULD totally DO THAT" syndrome, (I get that one whenever I look at something written by James Patterson--no matter how unrealistic I'm being) or even the, "OKAY SO I HAVE THIS IDEA--IT'S LIKE A CROSS BETWEEN FAMILY GUY AND BATMAN (Not the circa 1960's Adam West one--but like Nolan--you know...serious) syndrome.

What's worse is the fact that I'm a socially dependent creature. I can't do anything alone.

Friend: So what are you doing?

Me: Uh, just sitting around. Thinking about stuff. Just a normal day over here with Dave--definitely not pooping.

You might ask, what about the blog, Dave? Yeah. I've pitched quite a few new ideas to various friends who are always completely under-enthused about the entire process. An average conversation might go something like this:

Me: So, I have this idea for a blog. It's like a dueling blog, see?

Friend: No.

Me: Oh well, it's like a humor blog, or something like that, where we both talk about whatever, and just refute each other and there's this whole back and forth--

Friend: I meant "no." As in "I don't want to do it."

Sometimes I actually manage to get a friend on board for a project and we intend to work on it, we really do. But we make a continuous series of mistakes from the time we decide to partner up, until the time of our inevitable self-defeat.

Common Mistake Number One:

Friend: So, where are we meeting to work on random project.

Me: I was thinking random coffee shop?

Friend: Sounds great.

No. No it's not great. It's a coffee shop, damn it. What are we thinking? Let's list the ways we're wrong to do this:
1) Coffee shops have people.
2) Coffee shops therefore have girls.
3) Coffee shops normally have coffee.
4) Coffee often leads to a desire to get up and do other things.

Like drinking alcohol, sometimes with girls. Which leads me to our second most common mistake.

Common Mistake Number Two:

Talking about ideas at bars.

Who are we kidding here? I realize that alcoholism and depression are the two leading causes of successful writing, but no one is ever depressed when drinking socially with a buddy. You can try, but inevitably the buzz overtakes you, you begin to lose hold of whatever idea it was you were so desperately clinging to. Maybe it's the girl on the other side of the bar with the drooping v-neck and "hug me" chest. Maybe it's the bartender, giving you completely undeserved extra rounds "on the house" (parenthesis: she wants a big tip.) Maybe you're just sitting next to some really cool dudes and a game is on.

Who knows? The point? You aren't talking about working, how to begin working, or even the idea that set you off in this work related comedy of errors in the first place.

Common Mistake Number Three:

Going into the project with an unclear idea of what you actually want to do.

We all want to do something. Something big, creative. Something with pizazz. Mainly, something that will get you rich.

This is not enough to go on. Outline first, collaborate later.

It's like my father always says, "David, if the buddy system worked, you wouldn't still be fat."

He didn't really say that. But, if the buddy system worked?
I wouldn't still be fat. Hell, I might even be rich.

But probably not.

The Power Chair and a Dead Battery

Surprise, I'm behind on my blog again. I have this idea for a larger blog project (on this blog,) but the amount of drawing it involves is frankly, quite daunting. On top of that I've spent the past two weeks working and working. Which is troubling and outside of my normal routine. Normally I just pretend to work and drink coffee--imagine my surprise when the coffee was gone--and I was still working. Mainly I've just been applying to jobs and writing letters and emails to people, essentially begging for jobs or further education. Of course my problem turns into a whole new monster of actually knowing what I want to do, and all the things I'm applying for not being that. I suppose money, to a certain degree, outweighs happiness, I just don't know when I became this person. Probably when I realized I was turning 25 soon and had real life to attend to. I'm not trying to start a pity party off here, nor am I making excuses. I'm writing my excuses out for you--they pretty much made themselves. (Self-coalescing excuses, they're possible, I swear it.)

My goals for today were exceedingly simple, I made them that way in some vain hope of actually getting them done. Write a blog (check,) write a few emails to various editors to maybe get some freelance work (check,) write a reference letter for...

And that's how it actually happened. My computer shut off in my face. Of course it did. Because technology, against commonly held beliefs and petty things such as logic, is actually zealously against the idea of progress. Anything I own works fitfully at best. It doesn't even have to be advanced technology for this problem to come into play. For example, my shower very rarely, if ever, hits that Goldilocksian sweet spot. Instead it seems to have two settings:

"Holy sh*t that's cold."

And "Aaaah what the mother !@#$--"

Both of which just end up being painful.

So needless to say (but I will, oh I will) my computer shut off again. So there I was, alone in a cafe, staring at two men as they typed away furiously on their fully powered, plugged in laptops. And I hated them. I hated them so much. But they had the Power Chairs, and I was just a man at a cafe table. Weak and without working, powered, technology.

I think the term "power chair" may confuse some people. It's not exactly a throne, nor is it one of those scooters that promised old people independence and fulfilled life long dreams.

No, it's a simple chair, near a power outlet. So I can do work. Like an adult.

As you can see by this blog actually being finished and posted, I eventually got the power chair. Maybe it was because he was finished with whatever he was doing, or maybe it was because I was staring at him angrily from a few feet away. Who knows, but he left, and I, with Gollum like speed, placed my ass in the best seat in the building.

I won't lie. It's not that comfortable of a chair.

Elegiac, Hauntingly So

My Borders shut down recently. I know, let the depression sink in for a moment. if you aren't sad it's because you hate me and want to see me suffer. As you may have guessed, I've spent many of the past few days searching endlessly for a new place from which to read, drink coffee and avoid writing, while drinking coffee.

My search was essentially a huge failure. I got into my car feeling very gung-ho, and got as far as about two blocks away before I came upon a Starbucks and gave up immediately. I mean, they do have coffee, tables and internet. That's like my three basic needs right there. I can deal without having books to browse--or at least I can bring my own.

Imagine my surprise upon entering said Starbucks discovering that they are planning a remodel (were, it started today.) So even the place I didn't want to go to in the first place is shutting down. I'd call it bum luck but I see the common factor--me. I was about to embark on another epic quest of block-traveling import when my mother suggested "Books-A-Million" to me. Yeah, she said, it's right down the street.

I don't know if you know this but--I grew up in Books-A-Million. I used to ask to go there everyday after school. I was very serious about this store. It had Joe Muggs coffee (Frozen cappuccino? Yes, please.) and a copious amount of comics not to mention an entire section of Star Wars books which were kind of my thing.

Then, in what would become the story of my life, the store shut down. That is to say, became Full Sail University. Shortly after that I (my mother) discovered Borders and life was good again, or so I thought. I--in my beautiful ignorance--did not realize that companies aren't necessarily permanent, no matter how much love and attention you give them.

Not until my reemergence into the beautiful world that is Books-A-Million did I realize what I had been missing. First off--the frozen cappuccino? It tastes like childhood. They have a humor section that is easily four bookcases long and a comic/sci-fi section that stretches into eternity, into the beautiful light of fake knowledge and imaginary galactic lore. I have found my happy place, and it is a terrifyingly corporate bookstore. My inner hipster is crying, but as I still have pants that go down to my very non-flip flop shoes, I figure I can get away with it.

It even has a "last chance" section with books costing 1, 2 and 3 dollars. Where you can find such killer titles as "Elegy Beach." A book that is said to be "hauntingly elegiac." It doesn't exactly make me want to read it--but if that's the kind of review I can be expecting, you can be expecting me, right here, every other day.

Plus the store is pretty much devoid of people my age--maybe I'll get some work done.

Daytona and Stuff

I went to Daytona this weekend, and before you ask, I did not attend the Daytona 500. To be fair however, being in Daytona during the race is very similar to actually being there, as you can hear absolutely everything that goes on at the speedway from anywhere in the near vicinity (for example, neighboring countries.)

I went to visit a few friends to whom the word "NASCAR" means "loud noises" and "insufferable traffic." Although, giving it the moniker of "insufferable" is being incredibly generous. To put it mildly, it was difficult going anywhere. So, while I'd love to regal you with awesome beach tales and drunk humor, we basically played video games all weekend.

As you can see, the scary traffic monster is keeping me from a building, some would assume it's a house. Don't, it's a restaurant. The traffic didn't care about my hunger. It was all "Walk, punk."

If I was the proud owner of a helicopter, I imagine I could have played "Spot the Road." The game where the question "What do we do with the Helicopter today?" is answered. Islands? Mountain ski resorts? Ridiculously hot women? Nah, spot the road in Daytona, bitches.

I suppose I could finish this post by lamenting the incredible loss of money that occurred this weekend (it was only 50 bucks all told, but, guys, that's like 25% of my current net worth) but instead, I'll say this: If you want to do anything like blogging professionally, you will probably have to use Social Networking tools, like Twitter or Friendster. I left my Twitter account alone for all of two days and it very obviously felt horribly abused.

I realize "Dave (me)" looks really thin in this picture. Don't hate my self-image.

I'm going to do my best to get into a multiple post a week rhythm, but working on the comic website is slowly, possibly irrevocably, driving me insane. And every time I'm in desperate need of something comically newsworthy to talk about in a post, some tragedy inevitably happens that makes throwing anything other than personal humorous stories out quite difficult.

I'll sign off tonight with best wishes, thoughts and prayers, for everyone in New Zealand and Libya at the moment, as said people recover from (or continue to go through) their separate tragedies/issues.

Live Well

I'll get to my 'regularly scheduled' content in a moment--or rather I'll start writing it soon, but I wanted to get something said first.

Yesterday, a friend of mine, Matt Moran, passed on. He was a friend (a great friend) to many. He was young and no one expected his death, no one really believes it. It's unsurprising how very--effected--we all are by this tragedy.

As it always seems to be, he was one of the good ones. And I don't mean that in some cliche 'only the good die young' kind of way. He was truly good. He made life better for those around him, he made it fun. He lived with passion and if nothing else, we should take away from his life--not his death--that we can follow his example--we can live well.

I say this all the time in some vain effort to convince myself to do better that 'life is for living.' Matt knew that. Sometimes I think that I don't. If you have dreams, goals, passions--you need to pursue them. This concept of 'Tomorrow' or 'the Future' ... next year, next month, whatever it is...it's a not a guarantee. It won't always be there. Life can be as fleeting as it can be beautiful, and at some point you have to pursue it--reach out and grab it, as it were.

Matt loved the water, and the woods...Nature really. But I remember a conversation with him where he talked non stop about the lake and how much he loved being on it. The beach, the lake you name it--he loved the water. He said that to me a lot. The reason I bring this up? Matt loved the water--and he spent a lot of time on the water. He was always there.

Find what you love and do it. Learn from Matt--have something you love and have it be said when your time comes--that you did that--what you loved.

I hate to quote Serendipity here--but it is one of my favorite movies, but there is a quote (a real quote) in it that makes sense in times like these:

"You know the Greeks didn't write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died: 'Did he have passion?' "

Onto happier and brighter things.

And for Matt--thanks for everything, rest in peace.

Sleep: It's for the weak.

I have long had the problem of not getting to sleep on time. In fact, that sound's reasonable: "not getting to sleep on time." It's like I'm lying to you and saying I got to sleep about an hour late and that's what ruined my day. I don't get to sleep at night. That's the problem.

Around four or five AM every night I'll finally get my proverbial shit together and get in bed. The problem with beds being that they are often near televisions. I have learned, over the course of the past few years, that late night television scheduling doesn't always suck. After 3 AM you can still watch Family Guy, Metalacolypse and reruns of Numb3rs. Eventually, I talk myself into turning off the television, normally around the time I hear my sister leaving for school--or depending on where I'm sleeping, friends getting ready for work or class. This is about the part of the night (morning) where the self-loathing really begins to sink in.

This particular morning was not haunted by siblings, friends or roommates. Rather, it was grandparents. I would (despite the inherit danger of doing so) assume. This weekend was the neighborhood garage sale, and only grandparents show up to garage sales at 6:30 AM. My dogs found this process very interesting, so interesting in fact, that they felt everyone else should know about it--now.

There were moments where I (mistakenly) thought I could find a quiet gap of silence to slip into and fall asleep. I guess the lag between yard sales for the strolling customers was just large enough to taunt me with moments of quiet. In one such gap work called. I substitute teach a few days a week and the system requires you to type in a series of numbers indicating whether or not you are willing and able to work. Hitting "two" means you aren't available.

I hit "two."

My house phone is also attached to the subbing system--in case I legitimately miss a call, I can still pick up the hours. I do not have a house phone in my room--for to hit "two" with.

My mother, however, does. She hit "one."

At this point sleep is just another day dream, something that exists for other people--those people. Underprivileged people such as I do not deserve to sleep.

This is when I begin repeating to myself, over and over, my mantra.

Sleep is for the weak.

I am not weak.

Just very, very tired.