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.