My Journal
It’s that time of July again. Time when a favored few leave the dark confines of the workaday world to trek to California and join with other like-minded souls in the spirit of fantasy and friendship. Their destination? Only the most exclusive address on the West Coast. If you don’t have a pass or know someone on the inside, you just aren’t getting in. Within its sequestered walls, artists, writers and performers mingle freely with industry bigwigs, while the rest of the world looks on dubiously, muttering: “What’s going on in there?” It’s a place for dressing in costume, for carefree revels, and for gleeful, hedonistoc indulgence. I am speaking of course, of the Bohemian Grove Encampment. But for those of you not attending that, there’s always good ol’ Comic Con. I’m only appearing on Saturday this year, so if you want to say hi or get something signed, please take note of the two places I’ll be that day:
I have maybe three minutes as Deuce and Mugsy devour their dinners to set down a couple notes… BLACK CANARY & ZATANNA – BLOODSPELL arrived on shelves this past week. So far most folks seem to dig it. Joe Quinones’ beautiful artwork adds a lot of character and class to the story. BLOODSPELL was always intended to be a light-hearted romp and pretty much everyone has embraced the carefree tone of the book. Maybe someday I’ll write a darker tale, but my thought process was geared for fun when I started writing the book, what, gad! Eight years ago. If you want to check it out, I’m sure your local comics store has copies, or you can buy it on Amazon.
Mother’s Day weekend 2103, I was at a fancy Manhattan restaurant with my mom, sharing caviar and quail eggs. We talked about family, about people we loved and lost, about my brother and sister-in-laws soon to be born twins and made plans to see each other at our upcoming family reunion in two months. We laughed a lot.
Rughh…I hate being sick. Hey, join the rest of the world, Sneezy. Yakkin’ up green goo is not high on most people’s to do list. Growwl…when I’m sick I lope around the house half-in, half-out of a Detroit Lions hoodie, snarling like a badger and acting much less pleasant…I either eat too much or I don’t eat for days…had an orange jellybean a half hour ago, that’ll do me until Saturday…I stare at a half-finished script featuring one of my all-time favorite cartoon characters, and all I can think about is draining that full bottle of ZzzQuil…hibernation mode looming…cartoon character tells me to get head out of ass, power thru and finish script…sometimes the ability to will these creatures into reality more a curse than blessing…did I say that out loud? No, only wrote it. Good, I start to ramble out loud, people will lock me up. Postman brings unexpected delight…advance copies of the Black Canary/Zatanna GN. Joe’s artwork sparkles. Book is an incredibly nice package. Thank you, Joey Cavalieri, miracle worker. Just remembered, have to Fed Ex one to Mom ASAP…on go the pants, down go four or five Tylenol, lurch toward the door…wait, don’t have book…cartoon character hands it to me saying: “Lighten up, bitch. Life is good.” I fight the urge to vomit into its smiling face.
About fifteen years ago I was listening to a lot of Western music. That’s Western, before it mutated into Country/Western and finally just Country. Western to me was everything from Gene Autry and “Tumbling Tumbleweeds,” to Western Swing as performed by Bob Wills, Milton Brown or Spade Cooley, to just any old ballad about doomed gunslingers and strawberry roans. Sadly the “Western” element has all but vanished from contemporary Country music, but all I had to do was toss in a CD by one of those artists, or catch a “Riders In The Sky” concert and I’d be back on the rhythm range once more, at least, in my imagination.
So I went to See’s Candy yesterday to get Easter goodies for my mom. I normally dread See’s at Easter week — imagine 400 moms, grannies, aunties and the random male or two (usually sent by a mom, granny or auntie) fighting like Tartars over the last box of Scotchmallow eggs. The last time I attempted it, I shoved through the throng far enough to grab a lone milk chocolate rabbit, threw a wadded-up twenty toward the young sales lady cowering behind the counter and ran. Did not stop for the customary free See’s sample, just ran.