My first music video for FFR!
Tuesday, May 27
Fugitives From Reality: Episode XXX "PAWT II"
Preview:
...
Final part of the Please Ask, We'll Tell comics. Storyline continues with Episode 31! Enjoy!
Sunday, May 18
10 Days with no internet...
Makes Batty a dull boy.
In this time I:
In this time I:
- shot one long ass comic
- made a terrible batch of banana bread
- made a good batch of banana loaf
- started lookin' for a real job
- haven't bathed all that much
Preview:
Sunday, May 4
Right now...
... I have this deep-gut feeling that nothing really matters anymore. Its kinda surreal, really. Its a littler hard to express this feeling without sorta cracking open my memory and pouring things out that I don't exactly want on the internet in any shape or form.
I've done things I'm not proud of, and things I have done that I should be proud of I'm not because they're somehow inexorably tainted by the unproud things. I'm not as good a person as people hold me out to be. I am and not the summation of my zodiac symbol. I am not my Father. Although at times I seem to be more like my Mother.
Unnatural compulsion to do the wrong thing at the wrong time. Tricked myself into thinking I've gotten better, getting better. How can I still be 9? How do I think I can go back to that time almost 20 years ago.? I remember being 9 and already wishing I could go back and start things over.
Now that I think about it all this kind of lines up. Guess I was alot more sensitive to what was going on at home at the time then memory leads me to believe. The only time my Dad ever cried was one Christmas when my Mother gave him a stereo, first time he actually ever was gifted something not out of obligation or spite but out of love. The next time it was because he found out I was screwing up so bad at school and I had no reasonable answer for him.
That was like 13-14 years apart.
Been so insulated over the years, I pretend to lament not having friends, not having money, not having a brother. But only to realize I am solitary. I actively decided not to pursue girls in high school and women in college. There was always strings attached to any friendship I had... its why I had less than fingers on one hand.
Find myself writing about the misery of others. Sure they're outlandish and fantastic, but the characters are miserable. No notion of heroics in their deeds, its always out of survival. I write no heroes... only victims of circumstance. I torture and degrade them almost out of sheer disregard for humanity entirely. And people laud this.
Seem to crave a mind numbing life so I don't have to think or act, just react. Can't sit around and do nothing but can't balance work politics and a social life either. Too much intermingly, this I learned from life at my first long term job.
Not meant for this world, I trust and distrust. Playful and serious. Curiosity versus efficency. I am self defeat.
Is it Dr. Faustus or Trent Reznor, I ask myself. What did it that brought about today. No, its myself. My utterly bemused - bemoaned attitude. I put things off, only showing ingenuity when I have no other recourse but to succeed or fail spectacularly. Blaming all else but myself. Fault in relationships, family, school, works, others, but never myself, unless its only myself in earshot.
How can I overcome this spiral? The drain swirl of existence? When everything is out to pull me down, including myself? Become exactly what I dislike. Slothful, undynamic, full of greed and spite. Loving not even myself. No Devil's pact. No connected friends to cling unto.
Does it even matter that I didn't flinch or really care for the last 7 years of events that have impacted the country? Of course not, I'm here. They were there. Never flown. The microwave reminded me for 7 years at least once a day until it was moved at out casual sight. I lament that move more than the event. The colon flashing between the numbers. Numbers that mean nothing to me but everything to thousands upon thousands.
I get that feeling that I'm horrible, just like when I used to wonder if I was racist for my harsh dislike of black penis in the pornography I'd view. How does that equate? Visual pornography and national tragedy? Let alone the scary idea that I care none for a single one of the candidates spending half a billion to be turned from dark hair to snow-on-top in less than 4 years.
Yes, interracial pornography, terrorism, and decisions haunt my thoughts. At a time when reality on television is ad-libbed less than what passes for quality commercial riders.
I'm challenged in my courses this semester. My British literature class, the one I should not have had to take, in particular. I can do the work. I'm doing it right now, in my way. But damn if its not cutting it close. Hoping the situation of time will cause him to break and accept what I give him. I live on the razors edge, its almost exhilarating. I hadn't had heartburn for 15 years until recent. Thats something.
Fear of Success? Its what my training and studies scream out to me at the moment. And I doubt it all... in spite of all the lauded intelligence and "potential" (yes potential, that word is giving me a burning sensation in my throat right this very instant).
The 80's and 90's education system was stocked high with bullshit. So very high, in the sky. Slogans, keywords, phrases, patterns, bubbles, and graphs. Memories and television and movies taught me what a classical education was. Never received one. Versed in the fine art of consumerism. Fit my stereotype and run with it.
Fought it.
Failed it?
Live up to it, maybe.
Lazy, uncaring, self absorbed, consumer minded. Jingles, Simpsons' quotes, pop trivia. That remains.
1215 Magna Carta. 1066 Battle of Hastings. 1492, Columbia House sent me 4 for the price of 2.
Waste.
But never wasted.
No drugs. No drinking. No sex. No violence.
Swearing. Pilfering. Lying. Machiavelli would be proud. So-so, Sun Tzu.
I'm why my Dad married my Mom. Mom swears she could raise me alone, intended. Dad stayed because of his own upbringing. Father to his child. Not abuser to his burden.
Everything half finished in life for me. Not man, not even half a child.
I wear a mask, everyday, to everyone. When I used to talk aloud I felt both alone and together. Don't anymore, everyone tells me I'm better this way. No, everyone really means to say they are made to feel better this way. I'm still alone.
Wonder what life alone would really feel like?
No pets, no family. Just myself, nothing to my back. Thats the scariest sensation of all. When in a game and I have no wall to my back. Exposed, open space, threats possible from any direction but none clear nor present. Just the... potential.
Fear. The mind-killer. Fear lives while I have a wall to my back. While I sloth through life with support.
How would one survive without support? I hear about people struggling with their lives, but independent. Doing what needs to be done. And here I jabber on about lies and manipulation to keep myself forever half-child when full-children many years my junior lie strewn on strange lands the education system never prepared them to even spell.
Should I go? No support but a spot of training and then shoulder to shoulder with people who'd kill for my oppurtunities? Who are killing to survive so they can have a chance at a life I often, inside my mind as to not speak aloud, fear to assume. Sexless, escape-less, half-child.
No abuse. No torture. Only lazy somewhat genius drowning in self doubt and memories of poverty. Victim to apathy and socio-economic-geopolitical machinations of a malevolent force of pride rooted in the hearts of people who wish me the fortune to work for them or hold a rifle and take the first hit.
What is life? What is purpose?
God.
I feel better now.
Sleep.
I've done things I'm not proud of, and things I have done that I should be proud of I'm not because they're somehow inexorably tainted by the unproud things. I'm not as good a person as people hold me out to be. I am and not the summation of my zodiac symbol. I am not my Father. Although at times I seem to be more like my Mother.
Unnatural compulsion to do the wrong thing at the wrong time. Tricked myself into thinking I've gotten better, getting better. How can I still be 9? How do I think I can go back to that time almost 20 years ago.? I remember being 9 and already wishing I could go back and start things over.
Now that I think about it all this kind of lines up. Guess I was alot more sensitive to what was going on at home at the time then memory leads me to believe. The only time my Dad ever cried was one Christmas when my Mother gave him a stereo, first time he actually ever was gifted something not out of obligation or spite but out of love. The next time it was because he found out I was screwing up so bad at school and I had no reasonable answer for him.
That was like 13-14 years apart.
Been so insulated over the years, I pretend to lament not having friends, not having money, not having a brother. But only to realize I am solitary. I actively decided not to pursue girls in high school and women in college. There was always strings attached to any friendship I had... its why I had less than fingers on one hand.
Find myself writing about the misery of others. Sure they're outlandish and fantastic, but the characters are miserable. No notion of heroics in their deeds, its always out of survival. I write no heroes... only victims of circumstance. I torture and degrade them almost out of sheer disregard for humanity entirely. And people laud this.
Seem to crave a mind numbing life so I don't have to think or act, just react. Can't sit around and do nothing but can't balance work politics and a social life either. Too much intermingly, this I learned from life at my first long term job.
Not meant for this world, I trust and distrust. Playful and serious. Curiosity versus efficency. I am self defeat.
Is it Dr. Faustus or Trent Reznor, I ask myself. What did it that brought about today. No, its myself. My utterly bemused - bemoaned attitude. I put things off, only showing ingenuity when I have no other recourse but to succeed or fail spectacularly. Blaming all else but myself. Fault in relationships, family, school, works, others, but never myself, unless its only myself in earshot.
How can I overcome this spiral? The drain swirl of existence? When everything is out to pull me down, including myself? Become exactly what I dislike. Slothful, undynamic, full of greed and spite. Loving not even myself. No Devil's pact. No connected friends to cling unto.
Does it even matter that I didn't flinch or really care for the last 7 years of events that have impacted the country? Of course not, I'm here. They were there. Never flown. The microwave reminded me for 7 years at least once a day until it was moved at out casual sight. I lament that move more than the event. The colon flashing between the numbers. Numbers that mean nothing to me but everything to thousands upon thousands.
I get that feeling that I'm horrible, just like when I used to wonder if I was racist for my harsh dislike of black penis in the pornography I'd view. How does that equate? Visual pornography and national tragedy? Let alone the scary idea that I care none for a single one of the candidates spending half a billion to be turned from dark hair to snow-on-top in less than 4 years.
Yes, interracial pornography, terrorism, and decisions haunt my thoughts. At a time when reality on television is ad-libbed less than what passes for quality commercial riders.
I'm challenged in my courses this semester. My British literature class, the one I should not have had to take, in particular. I can do the work. I'm doing it right now, in my way. But damn if its not cutting it close. Hoping the situation of time will cause him to break and accept what I give him. I live on the razors edge, its almost exhilarating. I hadn't had heartburn for 15 years until recent. Thats something.
Fear of Success? Its what my training and studies scream out to me at the moment. And I doubt it all... in spite of all the lauded intelligence and "potential" (yes potential, that word is giving me a burning sensation in my throat right this very instant).
The 80's and 90's education system was stocked high with bullshit. So very high, in the sky. Slogans, keywords, phrases, patterns, bubbles, and graphs. Memories and television and movies taught me what a classical education was. Never received one. Versed in the fine art of consumerism. Fit my stereotype and run with it.
Fought it.
Failed it?
Live up to it, maybe.
Lazy, uncaring, self absorbed, consumer minded. Jingles, Simpsons' quotes, pop trivia. That remains.
1215 Magna Carta. 1066 Battle of Hastings. 1492, Columbia House sent me 4 for the price of 2.
Waste.
But never wasted.
No drugs. No drinking. No sex. No violence.
Swearing. Pilfering. Lying. Machiavelli would be proud. So-so, Sun Tzu.
I'm why my Dad married my Mom. Mom swears she could raise me alone, intended. Dad stayed because of his own upbringing. Father to his child. Not abuser to his burden.
Everything half finished in life for me. Not man, not even half a child.
I wear a mask, everyday, to everyone. When I used to talk aloud I felt both alone and together. Don't anymore, everyone tells me I'm better this way. No, everyone really means to say they are made to feel better this way. I'm still alone.
Wonder what life alone would really feel like?
No pets, no family. Just myself, nothing to my back. Thats the scariest sensation of all. When in a game and I have no wall to my back. Exposed, open space, threats possible from any direction but none clear nor present. Just the... potential.
Fear. The mind-killer. Fear lives while I have a wall to my back. While I sloth through life with support.
How would one survive without support? I hear about people struggling with their lives, but independent. Doing what needs to be done. And here I jabber on about lies and manipulation to keep myself forever half-child when full-children many years my junior lie strewn on strange lands the education system never prepared them to even spell.
Should I go? No support but a spot of training and then shoulder to shoulder with people who'd kill for my oppurtunities? Who are killing to survive so they can have a chance at a life I often, inside my mind as to not speak aloud, fear to assume. Sexless, escape-less, half-child.
No abuse. No torture. Only lazy somewhat genius drowning in self doubt and memories of poverty. Victim to apathy and socio-economic-geopolitical machinations of a malevolent force of pride rooted in the hearts of people who wish me the fortune to work for them or hold a rifle and take the first hit.
What is life? What is purpose?
God.
I feel better now.
Sleep.
Friday, May 2
Kids These Days... No Respect
Okay so I finally got around to opening up a trade package from a kid from the Figure Realm trading forum. I sent the kid a Mint Marvel Legends Series 6 Jean Grey Phoenix figure, fresh out of the package. He sent me the Upper and Lower torso pieces to the Galactus build-a-figure.
Well I got it hard in the puckered star, Galactus pieces are all kinds of screwed up Missing paint, paint rub, paint chips, nicks, scratches, paint transfer, he really stuck it to me. So I contacted him and pointed this out, and he told me I was screwed and had gotten rid of my Phoenix and thats that.
I traded in good faith a rare, hard to find figure for a pair of hard to find BAF pieces. This irks me to no end his response so flippant, so I took some photos to show him the damage and here they are:
He gave the excuse they were "fine when I sent them off". Yeah he shipped them in a far too big box loose with each other so they can knock around and rub and all that good stuff, plus the joints as you can see have major paint rub and chips from its previous owners and the pegs where they slot into the different body parts have major wear where this Galactus was dissambled, which they're not meant to do (says so on the instructions, once assembled its permament) apparently they didn't read that.
So I'm waiting on the kids response. If he dicks me over I already notified an administator about this but haven't gone "public" with it on the boards.
Anywho, I've got finals next week so comics might slow down for the next few days, which is why I did so many this past week.
Well I got it hard in the puckered star, Galactus pieces are all kinds of screwed up Missing paint, paint rub, paint chips, nicks, scratches, paint transfer, he really stuck it to me. So I contacted him and pointed this out, and he told me I was screwed and had gotten rid of my Phoenix and thats that.
I traded in good faith a rare, hard to find figure for a pair of hard to find BAF pieces. This irks me to no end his response so flippant, so I took some photos to show him the damage and here they are:
He gave the excuse they were "fine when I sent them off". Yeah he shipped them in a far too big box loose with each other so they can knock around and rub and all that good stuff, plus the joints as you can see have major paint rub and chips from its previous owners and the pegs where they slot into the different body parts have major wear where this Galactus was dissambled, which they're not meant to do (says so on the instructions, once assembled its permament) apparently they didn't read that.
So I'm waiting on the kids response. If he dicks me over I already notified an administator about this but haven't gone "public" with it on the boards.
Anywho, I've got finals next week so comics might slow down for the next few days, which is why I did so many this past week.
Thursday, May 1
Digg Da 'Bat!
Okay so I signed up for that Digg crap everyone keeps hasslin' me about. I don't know what to do with it but I'm there now. Tell me how it works by shouting at me apparently. Now friend me or die. Slowly... over a period of a thousand years.
SARLACC ATTACK, HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
SARLACC ATTACK, HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Spotlight: I ♥ Art
In the beginning of a new series of posts I shall bring to you the occasional artist/creator I find that I think kicks all kinds of ass. And as my inaugural post I bring to you Bubba Shelby!
He's a freelance artist of immense talent and creator of Woodchuck Chuck and the Pink Poodle! I dig his work mucho as it reminds me of a combination of saturday morning cartoons and sunday comic strips. Which just so happen to be the best damn memories of my childhood. So this man brings up the nostalgia in me.
Anywho, its late and I'm sleepy, and I'd just like to add he's a Toy Collector too so this guy comes up aces in my book.
He's a freelance artist of immense talent and creator of Woodchuck Chuck and the Pink Poodle! I dig his work mucho as it reminds me of a combination of saturday morning cartoons and sunday comic strips. Which just so happen to be the best damn memories of my childhood. So this man brings up the nostalgia in me.
Anywho, its late and I'm sleepy, and I'd just like to add he's a Toy Collector too so this guy comes up aces in my book.
Fugitives From Reality: XXIIX "Day Tripper II The New Batch"
Preview:
...
Ah yes, how I miss Gremlins.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
