Social is the New Religion

"I think what frightens me about Twitter and Facebook and all other social media is that it peels back a layer privacy that we still have to assume is still there. We get to see people's thought processes, their motivations, and sometimes the downright terrifying way in which they see the world. Yet despite being given this glimpse, it's verboten to stop them, to say anything to the effect of "whoa, wait a minute... you think you're being radical, but you're being anything but. This is destructive."

"Now, I'll grant, at first blush, this seems elitist, vindictive, and perhaps most importantly, equally frightening being said aloud by me. Whenever I feel pangs about this, I recall a horrifying bit of logic I caught while up late watching the religious station, where xyz-denomination compared forcibly confronting individuals about matters of faith to pulling someone from a burning building, and about how being worried about offending them while doing so, and not being passionate, not being - I'd say pushy, they wouldn't, but I digress - would be tantamount to going into that building and saying "hey, I don't want to offend you, keep doing you're thing, but you know, your house might be on fire, you should really get out. If you want." No, they saw it as seeing someone in present danger, and needing to drag them, kicking and screaming, from an impending doom. And I suppose writing this, and wanting to do that with people I know, people who have revealed problematic things about themselves - I could see how that would be construed as the same thing.

"Now, remember for second that I actually do have some conflicting feelings on that, since I wouldn't hesitate to save someone from a fire, but if they told me "hey, you know, it seems nuts, but I want to see how this fire thing turns out" then I might think about backing off. I have to concede that sort of thinking [the thinking of our little evangelists, missionaries, crusaders, etc.] which comes to influencing, commenting on, and attempting to change people's motives, methods, and ways of thinking is deluded and horrifying. And I don't want to interject myself into people's business to save them - especially if they don't want to be saved.

"Yet sometimes I wonder, and I struggle. Because I think what bothers me about this extra layer of people we get to see sometimes is not the damage that it does to themselves, but the damage it is going to allow them to do to others."

"Stricken with Typhoid in Cambodia" - Help get a Lovely Punk Artist Home to Recooperate.

In hopes of getting this signal out there and just a little stronger.

  
A series of misfortunes has left an old friend and fellow Bennington Alum, Darshana Bolt, pictured above with some of her work, stuck in Cambodia and doing battle with a serious [as if there's any other kind] bout of Typhoid fever. With her already ravaged immune system, and the fact that despite all the proper vaccinations, she's still gotten sick, and she desperately needs to return home to recover properly, with her family and other loved ones in Vermont. But with mounting debt for less than spectacular medical care, getting home as been difficult for her.

And so, the vibrant artist with the huge heart, the artist, the teacher, the proper punker - has been spending most of her days like this:

In order to combat her debt and get her home, her brother has set up a gofundme.com account to help, with a rather meager goal of just $2,500. You can read all about it, and give here at http://www.gofundme.com/Help-Darshana.

They've already raised over half of their goal, and if everyone who reads this or is a friend on face book were to give a couple of bucks, she's be able to go home. So if you can give just a little bit, please, do. I'd consider it a personal favor - I have fond memories of Darshana, always with her sketchbook, ever teasing me about my excitement-induced mixed-metaphors.

There's a fair chance if you're reading this, you're an artist or a world traveler yourself, with a penchant for getting out there, and not at all unlikely to wind up in a similar tight spot. Price we pay for being interesting, eh? But we've all got to help each other, folks.

Familiars.

Reposted from Facebook, by request. - The Management.

Apologies for the poor quality photo - my phone's camera is nothing fancy. But this is Loki - a sorta-rescue I've had for about a year, who I don't generally bomb the internet with pictures of, because you're going to hear enough about him if you talk to me in person. But here's the deal - he's plenty affectionate, but the little [big] dude is not a lap cat, and his personality honestly leans closer to mine than I'd like to admit sometimes, meaning he's kind of self-interested little ass, even for a cat, and I kind of dig that about him.

Anyway, story time. I've suffered from panic attacks for a good [right] long time, and though medication has pretty much knocked them out of me, one still manages to sneak through and ruin a night or two here and there every now and then. And look, I am not one of those "healing powers of animals" types - I'm not going to profess swimming with dolphins cures cancer, or having a dog is going to make you not want to kill yourself. And I'm under no delusions that as much affection Loki and I show each other on a regular basis, he'd eat my eyeballs if I died in my sleep [which I am strangely ok with].

But last night, when my mind was racing and my skin was crawling and my bones were burning, Loki curled up in my lap without a single prompt and sat there until all the fear and loathing abated. No clue how he knew, not all that interested in questioning it.

Just a reminder - if you can take in an unwanted pet, you should. You don't need to start with them as infants or kittens or whatever to make a worthwhile connection.

Trying to get back in the swing of things.

2012 was a lost year. A lost year in the lot of my lost years. I sort of wish we could live life like characters in comic books - get part of the story now, and then when so much has happened, have a mini-series which documents a time that hardly happened to us. Something in life self-contained, and shaping, but not in a way we have to refer to it all the time.

Speaking of comics, I spent yesterday, today, working on a new one. Short script, nothing major. Was hoping for 5-8 pages, landed at 14. Actually thought it was 15, but just miscounted. Some things do not change. The funny part is, that's only like five pages short of a monthly book, maybe not even that these days. I've bought/read a lot more mini-comics lately, thought maybe I'd check to see what a good length was. Really enjoyed the distribution method of "Calamity Cash & The Town with No Name," wouldn't mind doing it again.

Doubtful this is the project to do that with. Kind of mishmash of steam-punk and appropriated Asian culture. Nothing earthshaking, doubt it's all that good. But there's kind of message in it, but I don't think anyone would see it, doubt seriously anyone would ever want to draw it. But we'll see. Right now I kind of just want to get it polished, make sure it hits all the beats. I really want to get in touch with either an artist who has worked from comic scripts a lot, or a writer with a lot of experience when it comes to layouts. It's just something I want to improve on, especially when looking at how full some of the pages were in "Town with No Name" - something I don't blame Justin for.

I don't think I gave him anything he couldn't fit on the page. Dude is a machine.

Hoping to pick all this back up again - the blogging, the regular writing, maybe the exercises. Would like to post more here, naturally, but that means doing more actual work to write about. And prose. I sort of like the idea of doing more prose, I think it'd be cool to go to more Sketchy's, write more there. Though that, like most things, largely depends on the ride. 

Couple things in the wings. One I can't talk about. Very long term. And then I'm hoping to get in touch with some friends, maybe start working some things out. Would like to finish up some short screenplays. Feel like if I could just get one of them filmed, people would really sit up and take notice.

"The Night's Templar" - a story inspired by Dr. Sketchy's Charleston, WV Branch.

The following was written while visiting the Charleston, WV branch of Dr. Sketchy's Anti-Art School and their "Knights Templar" event on 12/16/12. Usually populated by artists and photographers, I decided to see what it'd be like as a writer to attend. Read more about the Charleston Branch here, and if you're unfamiliar with Dr. Sketchy's , I'd direct you to their website and Wikipedia page.

Special thanks to the beautiful models Pepper Fandango and Ophelia Darc, who helped inspire much of this story, though it is not my intention for it to be an accurate depiction of either. - The Management.

 ~

“So much fighting under the sign of the cross. So much hate, and rape, and violence, and subjugation. How apt then that an instrument of murder would only serve to spread more! A one, two, one, two, three, four!”

The band’s name was inconsequential to most in attendance, and was, as was typical, well forgotten by many just after the DJ had proclaimed “presenting…!” So when Pepper stepped out on the stage, genuflected as one only can to the gods of Rock and Roll, legs splayed, arms raised, an uninterested look hidden partly under a devil-may-care quiff, gazing out into a sea of people she couldn’t care for and wouldn’t dare try, she felt a bit like meat and got riled by it. Then as the lights went up, the hammer came down, her fingers hitting the strings with the full force of her arm and all her frustrations. They didn’t deserve it, but Pepper was going to give every last one of them what they wanted anyway – her too long held back electric crash of excitement.

Still, Pepper wasn’t fooling herself. Their sound was not really revolutionary. Post-punk, riot grrl-influenced, Bikini Kill also-rans, the local papers had called them – all rags, the nicest thing they could say was that there might be some talent hidden under all that distortion. But it was a conscious choice, on her, and Leah’s, especially Hundy’s part. They called themselves “The Night’s Templar” – a statement that she and Leah weren’t looking for a knight in shining armor, they were just looking for tonight’s knight in shining armor. Because as Hundy had so succinctly put it, that’s why you joined a band, to get laid, and both Leah and Pepper had said they were down for that. And it was mostly true.

But Pepper had different luck, was maybe looking for different things. And in fairness, with her anger, she could be… intimidating.

After her own, half-screamed intro, Pepper let out a guttural shriek, a series of vowels masquerading as lyrics, and had to concede, at least right then – she was kind of fucking scary. And she didn’t need to look around at her band mates to know that, while musically, they were well in sync her, they were solely enjoying themselves, while Pepper felt she was also working something out. And that was a thing, that was something that happened to her on stage that she could never exactly call fun, even when sweating harder in a way she’d never say out loud, but always thought of as “post-coitally.”

When it came to enjoyment, Leah was having nothing but, working her bass with deceptively strong fingers and never casting her head upwards to the crowd. She learned the instrument just to be in the band, and along with a handful of chords she had also picked up that determined, yet distracted gaze that was the signature affectation of all bass players. It hid the fact she wasn’t entirely comfortable up here – she wasn’t like Pepper, she couldn’t get angry, couldn’t muster disdain for the folks in the crowd just there to see something pretty and dexterous prod at the strings and fulfill some fantasy. But she could get lost in it, fall into her part, and seem as confidant on stage as she actually was off.

Hundy, meanwhile, went wild on the drums, awful and useless as always. Sure, Leah had learned bass just to join the band, but that was respectable - Hundy had some delusion he was good. Really, it was Pepper’s foot pounding [from heart to heel, she always thought], and Leah’s thrum-thrumming that kept the beat, while Hundy just went all out spastic on his pawn shop drum set. Hundy wasn’t a bad guy, just a bad drummer, and a boy in a girl band, but he was necessary, a bass and guitar alone not enough to hold a more raucous crowd’s attention.

Despite his garbage drumming, Pepper still thought things felt… stronger tonight. Not perfection, lord, who wanted that? Feedback, their trademark distortion, every last millisecond of lost time, that was all fine, more importantly, it was their sound. And something about it was just working tonight, and Pepper loved it. Looking over, she saw that Leah was feeling it too, having moved into a near crouch, almost taking a knee, strumming as if paying tribute to the very instrument she plucked, feeling none of the pain her awkward stance suggested.

Pepper joined her best she could. Not going down – people who talked knew Pepper didn’t ever, ever go down – so instead she raised her knee, placing her foot strong on the rented amp in front of her, which, rented or no, in her head she proclaimed “MINE!” thrusting crotch and guitar outward, towards the rhythmically head bouncing crowd. With this gesture, the pants she’d chosen, ratty, threadbare jeans, not lucky, just the most clean [and definitely not clean at that], had strained and split, and Pepper felt cool air and hot breath hit her in one of the many places she usually didn’t show, at least not to quite so many at once. Yet she didn’t care – it felt amazing, every drop of condensation giving her a shiver. She leaned herself back, and threw her pelvis forward, stressing the seams further towards complete release.

It was then, in her moment of extreme exhibitionism, that something else struck Pepper, a rarity, even when the show would go poorly. She noticed a face, not the sopping wet beard Hundy currently refused to shave, not the keen focus on four chords that was Leah. No, this was a face in the crowd. A petite and fair complected girl, stunning in the club’s refracted stage lights, which gave her an almost preternatural glow. She struck Pepper as young, not quite a post-teen, but she’d always been terrible at gauging such things. She was definitely overdressed for the the sweltering venue, a low-cut sweater, a heavy coat, and fingerless mittens, with high boots and stocking legs that made it look like she’d just come in out of the snow. And unlike the rest of the crowd, she didn’t bop, or jive, or sway, in fact, she hardly moved.

Save of course, to raise her cell phone, an older, flip-model thing, attached to a lanyard hung around her neck, which she used to take picture, after picture, after picture. Pepper could see each flash, accompanied by the girl’s unwavering eye contact, and though it was impossible – it certainly should have been, over the blaring music she herself was playing – the rocker swore she could hear each click.

And Hundy’s drumming was still so bad, Pepper found it easy to supplant the tempo.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Just one more thing that made the night feel different. Which was great, even when Pepper missed the chorus, and Leah reached out and playfully backhanded her, thinking their lead was going on auto – which wasn’t odd to think, the way she was staring, mouth agape. She snapped her lips shut so hard she felt her teeth clack together, and to shake off the pain whipped at her sweat-drenched hair, the quiff taking flight only to fall down again, into her eyes.

The girl was pretty. But dammit, she was playing. Like she never had before. No distractions. No exceptions.

At least not until after the show.

~

There’s this ridiculous, gendered myth that women are somehow more adept at reading signals than men. In Pepper’s case, at least, nothing could be farther from the truth. She rarely had any good goddamn idea what anything anyone ever did meant. Fans of the Templar, if there’d been any, might have noticed this reflected in her lyrics, her writing devoid of any symbolism, and generally focusing only on what she knew for sure – fights, slights, and the revenge fantasies that spiraled out of them. Anger was straightforward, easy, and for Pepper, most honest. All those other feelings, affection, especially, she had problems with.

Leah had no such qualms and in fact quite liked playing the game. Take tonight, for instance, with the show over, she’d already pulled off her shorts and was sitting, her shirt pulled down into a makeshift skirt, bare-legged with all the leather-clad boys. They looked quite silly, trying to be tough with their steel studs and spikes, but all at the beck and call of Leah. Their little metal bits of testosterone were just punk rock bedazzle before her and she liked their attention like this, where she felt in control. And Leah’s smooth, naked legs were more than straightforward in their intentions. Leah was hot, and not just from the set, and was looking for her knight.

Pepper could just picture Leah in front of her mirror earlier that evening, making sure the length of her skirt was just right, comfortable, revealing, but not too much. She’d heard other girls, at other shows, say the same things, but always so catty. Pepper respected it, that Leah could navigate it all, that nothing cool she did was ever accidentally. The split in her pants right now had shifted from liberating to inconvenient, to maybe a touch obscene. Leah’s shorts could have fallen to pieces to get her here, and each glimpse of soft thigh and curved calf would have been well planned. Pepper had to stop herself, from lingering just a little too long on the elegance of her bass player’s knees… complicated thoughts for another time.

After all, she had an admirer to find. And probably, likely, strike out with.

Back against the wall and just the right of the merch table, Pepper found her photographer. With the loud mingling of the room, friends and fans rubbing elbows with the acts that night, everyone well and comfortably in beer ticket mode, the girl stood out in her anti-social stance, totally engrossed in her phone’s phosphorescent glow. Flipping through pictures? Most probably. Unapproachable? Most definitely.

A loud duo of cackles disturbed the tempo of the room, shifting Pepper glance from the solitary photographer and back across the room. Leah’s legs having coming uncrossed mid-story [intentionally, no doubt. This was how Leah tended to weed out the creeps], at least two wide-eyed punkers found themselves unable to do anything but comment on as much. And despite her appearance as a delicate, wispy thing, the bass player was not one to ever let perving stand, and she hauled off and punched the closest offender to her, hardcore crumpling under her secret might. The second cackler fell back as if struck too, pure shock that Leah was not the grinning girl she appeared to be, frightened by the dripping blood where knuckle met stud.

Pepper could have rushed over to help her friend, but knew, despite all this, things were well and in hand, and she was likely still interested in at least one of the better mannered of crew. And anyway, those still standing were so keen on rallying for Leah’s affection that they’d jump to her aid even if it meant blocking another leather and denim brother’s cock. Sans those two boys, she’d completely won the group over, not by exposing her long, soft femininity, but by showing off her own rush of disarming machismo.

And some boys can stand to be taught, Leah had said, some even like it, and now each in this group knew, at least for the moment, hopefully longer, that clothing was never a sign, and that bare legs alone were not an invitation. And while Pepper agreed with this, she did wish it could be, at least, an available signal in the unspoken lexicon between her and this girl. But up this close, Pepper felt like there was a wall between her and the girl that she’d kill to crash down with a physical sign, but no, no bare legs on this one, no Leah-esque hints of a mating ritual, or even light interest, just posh strap-up leather boots, ending just below the knee, and devouring dark colored stockings, paisley on paisley on paisley, whose pattern could have well been tattoos.

As was the intensity of her stoical face, focused so completely on the snapshots she’d taken. She seemed to be frowning, so serious was her focus, yet she seemed to engrossed to be unhappy. And it confused Pepper, so much so that in frustration, she felt resolved to just step up and say hello. But two steps from her target, she was stopped dead, focused eyes glanced upwards and looking right into her, dark pools perfectly framed by ebony hair, complete with bangs like an Egyptian queen. Hair straight like curtains, the whole thing mussed enough to be so fucking twee.

And in most cases, this would be Pepper’s, or anyone’s, chance, now having the attention she wanted, she needed. So calling on her inner wallflower, she turned and fell back, quite effortlessly, landing gently beside the cell phone queen. She let her quiff of hair fall into her eyes, a quaint, reassuring bit of cover she once used when she had trouble getting on stage. And still feeling shy in this moment, she moved it over one eye, and hoping to shift into a look of interest instead of her trepidation.

Photo girl had seen all this, but all purpose behind it was entirely lost on her, and shrugging, she went back to her phone, quickly getting lost in her pictures again. Her focus seemed to increase – ignoring her? Pepper wondered – and the girl’s chin dug deep into a previously unseen dimple on her chest, with a force befitting her concentration. Pepper couldn’t help but notice a growing red flush across the phone girl’s chest, and found herself suddenly self-conscious, never having encountered the hazards of a lovely, pointed chin.

Curiosity getting the better of her, yet again finding herself in that place where she wasn’t ready to speak, Pepper let her eyes fall lower [no, not like that], and noticed on the backlit screen her mystery girl was browsing through a series of photos of Pepper herself, full of power and all screams in her triumphant performance from moments ago. Flattered, Pepper felt the blood rush to her nose, the first place she blushed, and shifted against the wall to try and hide it under her sweat-soaked hanging bit of hair. Yet it resisted the move, and to make the gesture even more futile, the rip in Pepper’s pants, not crossing from crotch to belt-loop, shifted instead, letting one side of her ass hit the grimy, cold stone of the wall, making her yelp in surprise, and jump. 

If only she’d been looking to get noticed in the most awkward way possible. She would have succeeded.

To her relief [sort of], the girl once more glanced up, surprised by the other woman’s outburst. She brushed back her hair, looking just a smidge older for a second, and gave Pepper a look that suggested she hadn’t seen her when she’d approached before. As confusion spread, she offered a weak smile, and suddenly then those dark eyes widened, and the slightest rosy hue came to her cheeks, and she let out a simple, breathy sigh.

“Oh.”

In a rare moment of clarity, Pepper realized she hadn’t been recognized. To this girl, until the moment, that woman on stage was someone altogether separate from Pepper herself, to her, here, she was just another awkward, sweaty club-goer, there to enjoy the show and stupid or unfortunate enough to leave the house with the crotch of her pants ripped out. And there was a beat, and then more nothing, neither sure how to proceed.  And then another moment passed, and the girl’s expression changed, and now looking at Pepper like some rare beast, the girl once more raised her phone. 

Pepper was blinded by the flash, so much so she never saw the girl leave. But she did hear the click, and something else.

“Great show.”

Reviewed! "Calamity Cash and the Town with No Name" featured by Gothcupcake!

Sorry for the radio silence as of late - despite being wildly anti-climatic, the holidays seem to have been no less eventful. But big news has come down the tubes today that I just had to pop on and share!

"Calamity Cash & The Town with No Name" received a bit of coverage over on Gothcupcake's "BLOG... OF... HORRORS!"

Mary "Gothcupcake" "Mary Cakes" Ciesynski is an internet friend, met as most internet friends are, through a beautiful cosplayer best known as Jettie Monday, who was kind enough to post pictures of every awesome thing she does, and every awesome person she's with, and Mary was rocking out in one looking perfectly punk and absolutely bad-ass in a Pussy Riot shirt. Gothcupcake is something of a jack-of-all-trades - she's an artist, a baker, a writer, photographer, and a musician, who also runs the eponymous Gothcupcake Etsy store, which, to quote, is a "one stop shop for all things spooky, cute, weird and vegan." [Vegan eye shadow, guys - bookmark that store, you're bound to need it at some point in this day and age.]

She also blogs, and has done a review for "Calamity Cash" and given Justin and I some seriously generous pimpage in the process. So anyone who shelled out some cash for a copy, and wants to know what a fellow reader thought - head over, and  check it out. And if you're still on the fence about buying a copy [which are still on sale!] go forth and bask in the convincing testimonial.

And keep following Gothcupcake's Blog of Horrors for new horrors, and her Twitter @Gothcupcake for plenty of other stuff too. And thanks, Mary!

You can order a copy of "Calamity Cash & the Town with No Name" via the button on the sidebar, or here:

 

"Calamity Cash & The Town with No Name" (25 pages, $3.50, plus shipping): The mother/daughter vigilante team of Tana and Cal Cash are on the run from an Afro-rocking, Kung-Fu assassin, and have been forced to make their last stand in a nameless desert town hiding an unbelievable secret - every last citizen is in the Witness Protection program! Out of gas, low on ammo, and with their backs against the wall, Calamity and Mama Cash become the town's unlikely protectors, but with friends so quickly becoming enemies, and old enemies becoming friends, is the whole place doomed to burn? And will our heroines be the ones to light the first match? A modern-day action/adventure western with words by Randall Nichols, and art by Justin Cornell.