unemployed

Now, this is something I had not expected. 

On September 21, 2011 I was terminated from employment at a company that I will not name. My reasons for allowing the company that terminated me their anonymity is so that I can speak freely and without possibility of reprisal or any nastiness that would befall. Now being among the millions of unemployed Americans in the United States, and not being fully able to avail myself of top legal counsel, I don't want to find myself standing in front of a judge pleading ignorance of libel statutes in the state of New York. What I will say is, and I'm sure most who are unemployed right now will agree, being unemployed sucks.

It is on one hand a bit liberating, and of the other fantastically sobering. It cuts into very harsh relief that your ability to sustain yourself, and those that you are responsible for, has been curtailed drastically.

I've lived and worked in this city for a number of years, more than I can count. Actually, not more than I can count, but more that I am willing to count. And I have never regretted one moment of one year that I have lived in the city. I love New York. And will love it every moment that I'm here for however long that will be, because this is the city that both I adopted and adopted me. However living in New York City, one of the most expensive cities in the world, it is without meaning to gild the lily at all, it's hard. Harder still when you're unemployed, harder still in an economy that heaves and wheezes with every passing day, and every significant world issue that crops up.

New York is very much like the country we live in, on a form of life support with an extraordinarily capable physician, overworked and underpaid nurses, yet with the administration (House and Senate), whose ineptness borders on making the Keystone cops look like a seal team that finally caught Osama bin Laden.

But I digress. The company I work for, foreign-owned run by Americans was a 10 year exercise and education in both personal responsibility, maintaining one's cool under pressure, working with the handicapped, anger management, grace under fire, and most importantly how will avoid throttling grown adults until they soiled themselves. So with those lessons learned I would say that I came away with the better of the bargain. I did not throttle someone until they soiled themselves, although there were many times where an odd smile would appear on my face as I sat in my cubicle, a smile and sure most found unsettling. But it's better that than having the hands of a large black man laced around your throat while he gleefully laughs as your face turns purple. 

I have to say, I'm not a violent person, I am infinitely patient but not overly tolerant. I have my moods once in a while, as everyone else. I wake up in a funk and salvage my day as best I can and do something that is positive and upbeat. I am exceptionally goofy at times, I find humor in just about everything, I have been known to be both sarcastic and satirical in the same sentence, and I am a man of infinite with and jest. But there are times where the lack of regard, and mutual respect attacks my tolerance and leaves me fuming. As I write this blog the words of Harlan Ellison are ringing in my head. 

If you don't know, and you really should, Harlan Ellison is one of America's greatest fiction writers. The man is responsible for some of the most powerful imagery that I've ever read, he and his work bear the integrity of being the last sane man on the planet, and his integrity speaks in both his writing, and his lectures, and in every quote he has ever made that has ever been televised or recorded. And he has remained a devout man of integrity from the very beginning. I love his work, I love his beliefs, I think he's brilliant, and he can be the most eviscerating commentator on both society bad writers, and the inability to tolerate hypocrisy in any form. 

Now having said that, I'm thinking of any number of rant he may have gone on, on any subject that was brought to him and the level of anger and honesty in his voice is astounding. But it's the most pure thing I’ve ever heard, it's like a punch in the face. No holds barred knuckles to flesh to bone, hits you instantly and you get it. And if you don't get it that you're not the type of person that should ever listen or read Harlan Ellison. 

So as I'm thinking about my job, as I'm thinking of the things that I would do on a daily basis, and on the methods that I would use to ease my temper on a daily basis, I think back to the times where I wasn't so successful. My fist would beat the Formica of my desk and rattled both the computer and my cube mate, and I would get up from my desk search for a hot cup of coffee, or some form of sweet pastry, and try to calm myself. And those instances would happen more frequently, especially when those who supervised me would lose what little fortitude they had, and effectively soiled their panties and we have the Smalltalk in the office.

A singularly one-sided conversation pointless on nearly every level yet it gave you a chance to stretch my legs, so there was some benefit to it.

But I'm digressing again. 

That being unemployed sucks it is not something that I would recommend to anyone if they can avoid it, it is a vacation that you really would love to end, and there are no boat drinks, there are no shapely stewardesses, waitresses, or native girls wearing biodegradable yet tastefully made costumes. 

There are no endless stack of multicolored chips and the din of several thousand electronic beeps bops and whistles in the background. It's not the kind of vacation I think most people know that. 

The search for work continues daily unabated, and stark contrast the numbers of telephone calls returning with optimistic news continue abated but not with optimistic news. And you fight to hold back the worry and the concern, and you watch far too much CNN and CNBC and other news shows to scrabble through the messages to find some nugget of hope that the economy is going to rapidly turn around.  

And the country will not be run by Republican nimrods, and that those same Republican nimrods that are currently in office will do something to aid the people who put them into office in the first place. And that the wanton posturing of seemingly perplexed GOP's, will cease being a fashionable and they will actually do the work that they are being paid for. 

Again I digress. 

The point being I am currently unemployed, tirelessly looking for another position that will at the very least afford healthcare, and allow me to remove one thumb from the dam, and take one worry biscuit off my plate, and relax a bit. But for now I will write, I'll resume my attempts at the various projects that I tried while I was employed, I will pursue the small businesses that I initially started, for it is almost easier to start your own business then to find a job in this economy. 

So that's it for now, no more digression, no more aggression, just bright hopes for a new year to those I love and the world.

NYCC, or Four Days that will live forever.

I'm nervous, excited, sleep deprived, and in need of a nice pastrami on rye with whole grain mustard.

October 14th is rapidly approaching, and the reason that date is so significant, is because of The New York Comic Book Convention. For comic books geeks, cosplay adventurers, and fanboys alike, this event is our version of the mecca that San Diego Comiccon is for East Coasters. However, that's not the only reason, for there are several reasons, this event is gloriously anticipated.

The trouble with listing those reasons, is that I could ever encompass what NYCC means for anyone other than myself. So that's where this blog will journey.

I love comics, as anyone who's known me for longer than two minutes can attest. I've read them all my life, spanning both child, callow youth, and now adult. My dream to be in the comic book industry was the reason I trundled my well worn duffle bags, filled with art supplies and guitar strings, to NYC, with only 300 dollars, and a return bus ticket in my pocket, back in 1993.

Now we fast forward to 2011, and the unfortunate truth is is that it's taken awhile to get to this point, where I'm actively pursuing a career in comics. And now that I am, the comiccon has taken on a new meaning for me. And the further interesting bit, is that this year will only be my second time attending this event.

Being a comic book fan for more years than I'm willing to tally, I'd never attended NYCC. I'd not gone even as a fan. All things considered, I was far too occupied with living the life of a young man in NYC, which anyone who's lived that particular kind of life can tell you, that while it's exciting, it can suck away years, before you're even aware they're gone.

It wasn't until 2009, when my mother asked me to attend a comic book convention with her, in Novi, Michigan. My first ever Convention experience was the Motor City Comiccon, where I met Doug Jones (who's now one of my mother's favorite actors, and knows her by name...yeah.. my mom's awesome), and spoke to one of my comic book idols, the late Dwayne McDuffie. Who I'm not ashamed to say, I stalked for the remainder of the convention, attending his panels and hanging out at his booth. And it's all due to my mother, and Dwayne McDuffie, that my passion for comics, was re-ignited, and burns as intensely as it ever had before.

During the interim, I've fostered collaborations with artists, to join me on the path to a career in comics as a writer (I'd originally started as an artist, but I'm now a victim of an incurable for of worditis, and it's grip is unbreakable), and together with those artists, I believe we've done some incredible work for non-professionals. This, and my insatiable appetite for all things iFanboy, the fervor for this upcoming NYCC, is now at the level of, a small child waiting on Santa Claus.

So, with October 13th looming, and with NYCC hanging in the air, like a gigantic candy filled pinata, I'm bouncing in my chair with childlike anticipation. The excitement of meeting my writing and artistic idols, legends in the industry, eager wannabe's (like myself), and publishers alike, will culminate in a series of days, that will live forever for me. I can't wait...cya there.

Preview Pages for "Tattoo Lake" - Unlettered

The following pages are from a comic book pitch, illustrated by Joseph Laney,and written by yours truly.

THE WILD HUNT - Pitch Pages

THE WILD HUNT- Pitch to Image Comics. Written by Eric Bass, Masterfully Illustrated by Ibrahim Moustafa - Pages 1 - 5, plus Cover Mockup.

In Brief, to my defense.

The entries into this particular blog have, on occasion, been remarkably brief. From the random commentary on the assault to my olfactory senses. To the sporadic riff about my love of movies and bringing my daughter into the Marvel collective.

And most times, I'm writing these entries, in areas where writing in one's blog, is expressly verboten. I will no divulge where, that would be telling, but if you know me, you know from whence I write. And knowing that I should be doing other things, sadly does not offer a secret thrill of, getting away with something. Blogging clandestinely, isn't the same as having a romp in the bathroom of a movie theater, or stealing a piece of candy from the display case. It's this studious, hunkered down, looking more at the keys than the screen, type of thing, that requires (to a lessor or greater degree) uninterrupted space and time.

When you're writing, you don't want to field a barrage of questions about, JQuery, or HTML Validation, or having the "it's time to clean your fridge, because the condiments are battling the thing that used to be salami" argument. These are things that don't sprinkle, they dowse you with muse abusive distraction, that you can't shake rapidly, or at all in most instances.

So why do I write in places where interruptions will come at me like hordes of sugar crazed pre-teens, and I'm wearing a gumdrop suit?

It's a need. I need to write, I finally achieved that "golden level", where writing is like breathing and if I don't do it, I gasp and suffocate, expire and die. Well, not so fatalistic, but I would not want to be around me, when I haven't written anything, and the craving to do so is upon me. You'd have a better time with a tweaking crackhead, than you would with me and the muse is back. She's dry and willing to cooperate, provided we seclude ourselves, fortified with donuts from the "The Doughnut Plant" and coffee from Starbucks.

In brief, to my defense, they're in the neighborhood.

Cabblog 07.07.12

Well, the cab ONLY smells of tacos AND feet. To which on this hellishly hot day...is a blessing.

Cablog 06.29.11

BOOTY FEET...BOOOOOTAAAAYY FEEETS!

That's really the only way to describe the odor!!

Bedtime Blog 6-28-11

In a few short hours, I'll rise to go to work. Where the most creative thing I'll do, is have conversations with a co-worker, about self publishing, and writing good stories.

We'll also talk about the daily battle against conflicting urges, one to do the work we earn a salary for, and the other being, the urge to work on our own endeavors. Work will undoubtedly win out, yet the urge to dive headlong into that which brings us joy, floats just out of reach, on the recycled air, like the hint of sweet fruit, on deserted isle.

Hard not to get all "prosey" when you're sleepy. G'night Blogknockers.

The mind is the only muscle, you can excercise, while doing nothing.

Although the title would lead one to think otherwise, this is not a missive about sloth. Nor is it an essay on laziness and the mental benefits obtained therein. It intimates how an idea hit me, and what I was doing,m when it did. Like most of my idea, they come in the midst of me doing something mindless, or repetitive, or pointless, like watching television. And while watching an episode of "Law & Order: SVU", my mind mused on the possibility of writing short stories, and posting them on my blog. Now, I don't want to do this for notice, or exposure...
(which in someways flies in the face of writing a blog entry about writing short stories, that aren't for the purpose of exposure...can you see the cyclical insanity this generates?)
...I want to do this to get them out of my head, and if anyone wanted to read them, especially my friends and family, here they would be, for all to see, ad infinitum internetis. So, in the coming days, weeks, or months, I intend to post whether weird, interesting, amusing, dark, depraved story enters my brain, and post it here. I'm hoping that in so doing, I'll become a better writer, and in turn, write better. And so on, and so on, and so on...

My life as a writer yields beauty.

I'm not sure if I'm the only writer/artist, who sees the intrinsic beauty of this picture. But I for one think its truly beautiful.

Movie Blog 5.5.11

Sitting in the theater, waiting for Thor to start, my daughter (14yrs) is writhing and squirming in her seat and musing about the various distractions on the screen. She, not knowing the full measure of the bliss, patience can bring, is being tortured by each passing minute. In an attempt to ease her suffering, she decides that a quick nap will give her the relief she can't find in nearly devouring the contents of her popcorn bag.

So in a theater filled with fanboys, curious NYC literati, and budget concious single parents, I sit, gleefully waiting for one of my comic book heroes to come to life, smooch Natalie Portman, and kick some booty. Life at times is quite good.

Aspiring Black Writer/Aspiring Writer??

I never gave race, in comics, much notice. I noticed there weren't that many black heroes, yet the few there were, were magnificent. I never knew, the color of the skin, of my favorite writers and artists. I only knew that the work they were doing, was what I wanted and needed in my life. It's really as simple as, focusing on their imaginations, talent, and ability to transport the reader, to places of incredible fantasy.

Now, as an adult, working toward a career in comics, the subject of race sidles around the corner, and politely asks me to pay attention. And while I'd always paid attention, I'm now taking notice, and two moments, ignited that response.

The first was when I met (when I say met, I stood before his table, babbled my adoration, introduced my mother, shook his hand, and "stalked" his for the entirety of the 2009 Motor City Comic Convention) Dwayne McDuffie. From the briefest of encounters, I got humor, humility, mentoring, graciousness, and "good home training" (he was awesome to my mom), he was an incredibly dent guy.

The second moment was somber and grey. I'd heard from my mother that Dwayne McDuffie had passed. The moment felt similar to hearing aliens had landed, or that Atlantis was rising from the depths, it felt unreal, yet it was as real, as real gets. And at that time it wasn't a matter of losing a dynamic and thoughtful BLACK voice in American Comics, but one of the most brilliant, versatile, honest voices in the industry. The integrity in his writing is evident in the hundreds of vocal fans, that openly mourn his passing.

In the months that followed, I would see tweets and blog posts, about his role as a black writer in a predominantly white genre, as well as commentary on the state of black characters in mainstream comics. These were thoughtful essays about he man to be sure, written by individuals who I believe to be ardent fans of his work. Yet, in the majority of the writings, the subject of him being "a prominent african american writer", and each time I would read anything referring to his ethnicity, I would bridle. I cannot and will not attempt to speak for the man himself. I was not a friend, I am fan. We talked for a brief period at my first comic book convention, and walked away inspired, and full of admiration, but I did not know his mind, his personal journey through life, or his hopes for the future.

I will speak for myself. I do not want my legacy to be that I was a black man, who accomplished great things, and touched many people. I want my legacy to be that, I was a man, loved by his family, respected and loved by his peers, did the very best he could at the things he loved and brought him joy, and he was also an African American. I'm proud of my heritage, and my ethnic background, but I'm a man first, an African American second.

Cabblog 03.18.2021

It's BEAUTIFUL here in NYC! The sky is blue, the temp is perfect, and the cab I'm riding in smells like twice baked b.o. and sweaty feet. Ahhh...it's the little things, thay make your eyes tear up.

Sundance, and the freefall of all ideas.

I'm swimming in a chilly lake of cliches. I'm sitting in a Starbucks, sipping on a fine cup of bold coffee, and working on my screenplay for the Sundance Director's Program, Screenwriters Lab.

Now with my knitted cap on my head and finely trimmed goatee on my chin, I look around me and notice at least eight others, swimming in the same chilly lake.

And as I return my attention to my screenplay, which I deeply hope isn't chockful of the same cheesey goodness that the cliche I unwittingly affect, would suggest.

Damn, I gotta find a dive bar, and get in a fight, just to save my soul from mediocrity.

In Memoriam: Dwayne McDuffie

In 2009, I get a call from my mother, wanting to go to a comic book convention, in Novi Michigan, near Detroit. After brushing the the carpet fibers from my jaw, and placing it firmly back where it belongs, I looked it up online. And there found out everything one needs to know about the Motor City Comic-con, except the appearance roster. It was no big deal, I was still reeling from the prospect of going to a comic-con with my mom.

After meeting up with my mother at her Hotel, and getting settled. We went to lunch, had some laughs, and headed to the Con. It was fairly, underwhelming. There were a few notable exceptions, Doug Jones being one, and the other, Dwayne McDuffie.

I’d read everything he did at Marvel Comics (I was and still am, very much a Marvel Maven), and I am a rabid fan of his Static Shock, Milestone Media (at the time Milestone Comics), as well as his work on everything from the animated JLA, to his Ben 10 work. So, it was with a dry mouth and a sweaty palm, that I shook his hand, introduced my Mom, and croaked out my sputtering utterance of fanboy admiration. He was completely aware of my nervousness, and mused reassuringly, and then joked with me about attending a con with such a cool Mom. After stealing 15 minutes of his time, I walked away elated and giddy, because I’d just met a man whose work gave me a place to go, when sometimes as a kid, being in my world, was not a great place to be.

The next day of the Con, I made it a singular priority, to attend his panel. What the panel was, I can’t accurately recall, but it was 30 minutes of Q&A, with a man so knowledgeable about his art-form and his craft, and so very much in love with the medium in which he works, that asking inane, and often, silly questions, just to hear his point of view, was well worth the embarrassment of asking the same question twice.

There is no way I knew him as well as his colleagues, and now, never having a chance to work with him, I will hold onto the coolest moment, thus far, in my burgeoning comics career. The time I met Dwayne McDuffie, and he turned out to be a class act.

Cabblog 01.27.11

A day after the BIG FLAKE, the city and the streets are getting back to normal, and the great gladitorial battle for available cabs begins anew.

As I sit, victorious in a taxi on my way to work, the dejected waifish NY debutant flashes me a look of defeat and disgust.

Although I wonder who the real victor is, as it seems my driver is overly fond of "easy listening". As he sings, in robust tones, to Bon Jovi. And as a short cab ride, will rack up a fee the size of Liberia's deficit, I wonder if walking would not have been more prudent.

Bryan Adams seems to be a particilar favorite, at the moment.

Cabblog 01.26.11

The heat and the funk inside the cab, battled for dominance against the gaping maw of a wide open window.

It's hurting my eyes

Cabblog 01.14.11

There are any number of foriegn languages flying through the air in NYC. All are quite beautiful, that is when they're not being utilized to question the lineage, or the species of one's mother.

The vitriol would be less concentrated on a bus (surprizingly), but far less entertaining.