HOT DAMN- SUMMER IN THE CITY

It's in the 70's today. I'm fine with that.

There's an alarming number of people in the city of Chicago (and elsewhere around the midwest, to be sure) that seem to love themselves some hot-ass weather. I am not one of them. I'm built mainly for indoor tasks- sorting things, counting, sitting and looking at things.

I grew up in the midwest (Iowa to be exact, which in parts currently resembles the elaborate sets constructed for the Kevin Costner epic Waterworld, only with a farming theme. Oh, and no one drinks their own pee.)

I've never fully understood why anyone would want to live in the cities here solely for climate reasons. You visit places like Seattle, or London, where it's never terribly hot or cold, and then you visit a place like Chicago where something like 10 months out of the year are either hotter than hell (but not a pleasant dry, baking heat- a thick, gooey suffocatingly humid heat), or Absolute Zero cold (where everything, animate or non collectively says "fuck this".)

During the remaining 2 months of fair weather, people completely lose their minds. And during the transitional days, this mass insanity shows itself no place better than in what people choose to cover their bodies with before leaving the house.

Contrary to what some native Chicagoans might try to tell you, this IS the midwest. Though there are not as many hearty, field-hand types here as in other parts of the area (Chicago undoubtedly has more Bally's Total Fitness locations than the rest of the midwest combined) there are still a great many people in this city whose physique resembles nothing greater than Grimace, the purple dome-like character created by McDonald's in the 1970's to frighten children into eating cheeseburgers.

As soon as the temperature has warmed to a not-terrifying level (let's say...55) the streets are flooded with people in inappropriate clothing. And for every pretty girl in a thin, low-cut dress, there seem to be ten folks who look not wholly unlike vast, hairy Michelin Men wearing nothing but a tight fitting, spaghetti sauce stained under shirt, threatening and upsetting shorts and open-toed sandals letting their thick layers of shoulder hair just a-blow in the wind.

I don't want to see that.

Though it may have something to do with my modest Catholic upbringing (though any remaining symptoms of those days have passed long ago) I feel it is my duty as an American to keep the innocent from bearing witness to my large, exposed self, even as I am sweating profusely, most prominently from my head, making it appear as though I am much hotter than I actually am.

I will not even wear shorts. No one should be forced to see my giant, hairy tree-trunk limbs as they take me to go buy a cup of coffee. It's merely common courtesy.

One would think this to be a lesson in common sense. But no.

Say I decide to go to the grocery store to buy apples and a drain strainer. As with any boring task, my only interest is to make my way to the store, get these things, and get out. But alas- what should be looming in front of the apple shelf but an enormous Silverback of a man in a tent-like, yellow sweat-stained sleeveless shirt advertising some kind of motorsports, armpit juices spraying directly into the fruit trays laid out for public consumption, making sure to take his sweet time in rolling each piece of fruit around in his meaty ape paws. I am helplessly relegated to the broccoli section, averting my eyes from his armpit-y self, hearing the apples scream silently in my head.

Fuck that.

If you're involved in manual labor laying black top or elbow-deep in the soil growing food for the rest of us soft, malleable city folk, please do whatever you need to do to keep from passing out from the heat. If anybody makes a stink about your exposure, give them a swift punch to the throat. I can personally guarantee that anyone who sould raise a guff is not going to fight back.

But if you are a soft, malleable city dweller, please take note:

Be proud of who you are, sure. Just please don't make me look at it.

COME MR. TALISMAN...


It's Friday the 13th- the day when the Boogie Man rises from the grave, hides under your bed, and dry humps all of your luck out of you if you fall asleep. And then he dances. He dances because (as his name would suggest) he is a fine dancer with impeccable rhythm.

The only other day he can come out is Halloween, but, as we all know, every year Satan pins him up against the shower wall in the locker room of "The-Land-Where-All-The-Evil-Myth-Creatures-Live" and has his way with him... slowly.... which is as it should be, because that's Satan's special day, God damn it..

At least that's what I was taught as a child.

And if you're under the age of 6, you can believe whatever the hell you want. If you want to believe tacos are magic and pigs are made of bubble gum, you just go right the fuck on and believe it.

But sadly, in our often ass-backwards little wonderland we've built for ourselves, there are still honest adults who manage to hold down steady jobs and have families who believe in bad luck,evil spirits,werewolves, and Michael Jackson.

Don't get me wrong- I'm no scientist. I believe there's an afterlife, and maybe just for that I should be drug into the street and openly mocked. Perhaps that's what more civilized, advanced societies do out there in the cosmos (yeah I believe in that, too)- they relentlessly brow beat the stupid and weak into admonishing their beliefs, and, should they refuse to recant, they are eaten whole. Because why let all that sweet, sweet meat go to waste?

I recall once a few years ago, it was pouring down rain and I was stuck waiting for a bus (go figure? Nothing like having the warm, humid Gorilla pee feeling of a CTA bus to look forward to when you're stuck in the rain.)

For the better part of 45 minutes, it was just me and one woman waiting who, to look at her, seemed to have her wits about her: well dressed, kempt, and intelligent about the eyes. Not 10 minutes into rainy, cat-in-the-bathtub hell, water spraying directly into my eye sockets, I hear:

"JESUS SEND A BUS!"

This continued at regular intervals (i.e. every 20-35 seconds) until, 45 minutes later, a bus comes loping up over the horizon.

"ALLELUJA! THANK YOU JESUS! JESUS SENT THE BUS!"

Now, I hear someone out there asking, "What does this have to do with that swell dancing Boogie Man?" I don't personally draw a line of distinction in this case.

But- let's say in this instance, Jesus is a real physical person working for the Chicago Transit Authority. He is shift leader at the bus depot, and is in charge of monitoring driving activities for the bus line, making sure the drivers are making all necessary stops in a timely fashion. If that were the case, this would still be a stupid thing to shout at a fellow public transit user.

To illustrate my point, let's say the REAL shift leader at that depot is named Robert Gonzales, Sr.

"ALLELUJAH! ROBERT GONZALES, SR. SENT THE BUS!"

I could now retort: "Well, in a sense. But actually, Robert Gonzales, Sr. is merely a cog in a very complicated organization which, when all parts are functioning properly, provides efficient public transportation."

So- in other words, saying "Jesus sent the bus" is not wholly unlike saying that your neighbor's dog, the pope, Godzilla, or a loaf of bread sent the bus. I would like to think that if Jesus was up there in heaven on his God, Jr. throne, he would have better things to do than worry about whether or not me and this insane woman have ample transportation. Also, I would think that if the Son of God WERE running the public transit, he'd be doing a slightly better job than making people wait 45 minutes for a bus.

So what's the point in this mostly worthless story? This can be applied to any "luck" or supernatural bullshit situation.

"Don't get an apartment on the 13th floor. It's bad luck!"

Is there inadequate water pressure on the 13th floor? Are there sinkholes? Roach problem? Is that where the landlords keep their collection of blood thirsty asps?

"Don't walk under that ladder!"

Unless the ladder's top rung lines up perfectly with my forehead, or there is currently a man wielding paint cans falling from it, fuck off.

"A black cat has crossed your path!"

Better that than a Mormon trying to sell me a bible, a crack addict insisting I give him a 5 spot, or god forbid, a flock of drunken Cubs fans.

"It's Friday the 13th!"

Ahhh....whatever. Tomorrow's another day.

AN ABSCESS MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

If you've been to this site before, you might've noticed I've made an executive decision and deleted everything that was up here. You also might notice a fair amount more writing than usual...

Well, dammit... I'm shaking this whole thing up.

After what is swiftly encroaching on the 2 year mark, I've decided to use this site as my own personal soap box, as so many others before me have. That is what this blogging deal is all about anyway, isn't it? Bitching?

When I first heard about "blogging," I had two immediate reactions:

1.) "That's a really stupid name which sounds like desperately un-fun tech guys trying to be wacky"

and

2.) I thought of all those mid 90's websites that would come up on early search engines (Webcrawler, anyone?) with captivating titles like "The Steinburgs Go to Cabo in '97" and "Ways to Groom Your Ferret" with janky, stock flash animation, neon backgrounds and poorly uploaded, blown-up-to-pixelated snapshots of things I couldn't really imagine anyone but the people who took them giving two shits about.

So- I balked.

But- I make cartoons (cartoons that I don't really EXPECT anyone to give two shits about) and this free blog deal seemed like the cheapest and most appropriate way to get them up on the web without too much effort on my part. And that's really the ultimate goal, because I am lazy as fuck.

Unfortunately, at this point in my life, it has become clear to me that I am not a Dynamo. I wish I was- Dynamo's have a sweet ass ride in this life- goin' about, just doin' things and never really seeming to have to try too much while getting superhuman quantities of shit done.

Alas, I am a laborer. And a shitty one at that. I labor. I toil. And I complain about what comes out.

So- I've decided to pull up my stakes, say "fuck all" and use this as a forum to blather on about whatever silly drivvel should happen to waft into my rather sizeable head. I figure at this point, I've cornered enough friends and loved ones and ranted nonsense at them while lit up like a hobo garbage can, why not give my bullshit a noble aim? So here I am, all set to improve my ranting skills in a writing-type environment. Here you will find record reviews, show reviews, movie reviews, rants about public transportations, and perhaps an occasional lengthy raving on the blight of the American yuppie.

And oh yeah- there will be comics, too. In fact, if my meager efforts are going correctly, the hard copies of those very comics just might be what's sent you here. And if that's the case, thanks for taking it the extra step. I hope you like what you see.

But there will be more than comics- show posters, side projects I'm working on, sketches, what-have-you, will all be thrown up here as well. unfortunately for those of you who have been here before, there will be a repeat or two. But hang in there- I have a lot more stuff waiting in the wings.

The main goal is still to force people to look at my comics. But why not dress up that sandwich with a healthy dollop of open discourse?

The way I see it- if you don't want to read all this: don't. Much as I, long ago, a wistful overweight teenager, sat on Webcrawler mentally damning the assholes clogging up the internet with pictures of a seabass they caught while on a much better vacation than any I've ever taken, now I sit here, a sullen overweight man, and clog my own portion of this internet toilet of ours with my own particular brand of dreck.

So... I guess what I mean is...get the plunger.