(Taken from http://www.romancestuck.com/pickup-lines.htm)
1.I'm a raindrop and I'm falling for you.
2.Baby, you must be a broom, cause you just swept me off my feet
3.I must be a Snowflake, becuase I've fallen for you.
4.I know somebody that thinks they might like you a lot. And if I wasn't so shy, I would tell you who it is.
5.Can I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?
6.Are you religious? [Why?] Because you're the answer to my prayers.
7.Can I lick that film off your teeth?
8.Can you give me directions...to your heart?
9.Did they just take you out of the oven? [No, why?] Because you're hot!
10.Do you have a map? [No, why?] Because I just got lost in your eyes.
11.Don't be so picky... I wasn't!
12.Falling for you would be a very short trip.
13.Hershey factories make millions of kisses a day, but I'm asking for only one.
14.I suffer from amnesia. Do I come here often?
15.Is it hot in here or is it just you?
16.Let's go behind that rock, and get a little boulder.
17.Oh, I'm sorry, I thought that was a Braille name tag.
18.Remember me? Oh, that's right, I've met you only in my dreams.
19.Want to play conductor? You be the engineer and I'll go choo choo.
20.What do you like for breakfast?
21.You be the tree, and I'll wrap you like a Koala.
22.You don't need car keys to drive me crazy.
23.You might not be the best looking girl here, but beauty is only a light switch away.
24.You sure have a great looking tooth.
25.I wish I were sine squared and you were cosined squared, because together we could be one.
26.I'm feeling a little off today. Would you like to turn me on?
27.Do you have a mirror in your pocket? [No, why?] 'Cause I can see me in your pants.
28.May I have some kisses up here, please.
29.If a star fell from the sky every time I thought about you, then tonight the sky would be empty.
30.My love for you is like diarrhea. I just can't hold it in.
31.Haven't I seen you before? Maybe in my dreams?
32.If home is where the heart is, then my home is in you.
33.You must be a magician, because everytime I look at you, everyone else disappears.
34.You want me. I can smell it.
35.If you were a drug, I would overdose!
36.If you gave me a penny for my thoughts I'd have just one penny, because i only think about one thing and that's you.
37.[Note: for use when someone you know is getting married] Hi, I'm throwing the bachelor/bachelorette party for a friend of mine, and I need a stripper. Interested?
38.Is your dad a baker? [No. Why?] Cause you have some nice buns.
39.I don't speak in tongues, but I kiss that way.
40.If I were to ask you for sex, would your answer be the same as the answer to this question?
41.Do you know what winks and screws like a tiger? [No.] Then wink.
42.You know, we were born without clothes.
43.Did the sun come up or did you just smile at me?
44.Like alcohol to the alcoholic,
Like chocolate to the chocoholic,
You are the [name] to the [name]holic.
(preferabally for use on men/women that have an A or O as the last letter of their first name.)
45.If I bit my lip would you kiss it better?
46.Will you read my palm? [I don't see anything.] I didn't expect you to because love is blind.
47.Did you drop something? [What?] Your conversation, so let's pick it up right here.
48.Can I have your picture? [Why?] So I can show santa what I want for christmas!
49.Damn.....your ass is fine! Want to come see mine?
50.You dropped something. [What?] My jaw.
51.That's a nice dog/cat/pet. Does it have a phone number?
52.Do you mind if we share this cab to my house?
53.Baby, you're sexier than socks on a rooster.
54.Do you have a band-aid? [Why?] I hurt my knee when I fell for you.
55.What do you say we play some football? You can have first down!
56.You're like pizza. Even when you're bad, you're good.
57.You had better phone the firefighters in advance, cause when you're done with me, we'll be on fire!
58.Lets make like fabric softener and Snuggle!
59.Do you believe in love at first sight or do I have to walk by again?
60.Are you a parking ticket? Cause you got FINE written all over you.
61.Hi, who's your friend?
62.Are you an Alien? [No, why?] Because you just abducted my heart.
63.I lost my teddy bear, can I sleep with you?
64.If I could rearrange the alphabet, I would put U and I together.
65.Can I borrow your library card? [Why?] Cause I'm checking you out.
66.Drop an ice cube and say 'Now that we've broken the ice, my name is...'
67.Are you bored? [No, why?] Because i really want to nail you.
68.Do you believe in love at first sight or do you want me to walk by again?
69.Are those astronaunt pants? Cause that ass is out of this world!
70.Are you sure that you're not a microwave oven? Because, you sure make my heart melt!
71.Your feet must be tired, because you've been running through my mind all day long.
72.If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put U and I together.
73.If I followed you home, would you keep me?
74.You must be the cause of global warming!
75.Are you from Tennessee? [No, why?] Because you're the only 10 I see!
76.What's your sign?
77.I lost my phone number. Can I have yours?
78.Nice pants. Can I test the zipper?
79.Got any raisins? [No.] Then how about a date?
80.Kiss me if I'm wrong, but isn't your name Guadalupe?
81.You know what your remind me of? [what?] Lucky Charms, You want to know why? [why?] Because you're magically delicious!
82.I can read palms. {write your # on their hand} Oh it says your going to call me soon!
83.So long as we're in the theatre....why don't we get some play?
84.If you were ice cream and I were hot chocolate I'd pour all my love onto you.
85.You must be Jamaican, cause you Jamaican me crazy.
86.Is there an airport nearby or is that just my heart taking off?
87.It's my birthday! How about a birthday kiss? "Is it really your birthday?" No, but how about a kiss anyway?
88.I'm not drunk, I'm just intoxicated by you.
89.Darling, if you were cocaine I'd OVERDOSE!
90.If you were a wedgie, I'd pick you!
91.Milk does the body good, but damn how much did you drink?
92.I lost my virginity... can I have yours?
93.Do you sleep on your stomach? [yes/no] Can I?
94.Are your parents retarded? 'cuz DANG your special!
95.Do you have a quarter? [Why?] I told my boyfriend/girlfriend that I would call him/her when I found someone better.
96.Whenever I see you my heart races. I hope to win first place.
97.Do you have a bandage? I hurt my knee when I fell in love with you.
98.You are like a glass of milk... you do the body good.
99.Fat penguin. [What?] I just wanted to say something to break the ice.
100.I'm not feeling myself today, can I feel you?
101.Are you a light switch? Cause I want to turn you on!
102.Where is your mother? [Why?] Because you're too young to be here without an adult.
103.You spend so much time in my dreams I should charge rent!
104.Want to get some air? You took my breath away!
105.How much does a polar bear weigh? [I don't know, how much?] Just enough to break the ice. Hi my name is ____.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
I'm Not The One
By Roger A Wilbanks
It happened in a bar, that closet where they hang their desires like costumes and put them on as the opportunity arises. I was tired. The day had treated badly, leaving me reckless and distracted. I sat down on the stool that was always open and ordered my usual dark beer.
She sat beside me and was attempting to engage the bartender in idle chatter. He wasn’t helping. She tired of this and looked around, finally settling on me as the target for her attention.
“Hello, handsome.”
I sipped my beer and lit a cigarette. I didn’t answer.
“I said ‘Hello’. Aren’t you going to say something”
“I’m not the one.” I said.
“What? What on Earth are you talking about?”
I looked deep into her eyes and repeated myself.
“I’m not the one.”
“You’re not the one what?”
“I’m not the one you’re looking for.” I answered.
She laughed. “How would YOU know what I’m looking for?”
“It’s simple, really. You’re looking for someone. I’m not that someone you’re looking for.”
“And how would YOU know THAT?”
“You’re out at a bar for Happy Hour. Yet you’re dressed like it’s Nighttime. You obviously didn’t wear that to work unless you work in a brothel. That tells me you are out looking for a man. While I’m not against hooking up for a one-night stand every once in a while, that isn’t what you're after. You have a lot of jewelry on, more than a normal person would feel comfortable with. This tells me you want people to know you like nice things. This also tells me you’re not into one-night stands. You’re looking to hook up, yes. But on your terms and for a long stretch.”
She just stared at me, slack-jawed.
“What are you…”? I waved her silent.
“Suppose I do take you home. Suppose we make love all night long. What happens next? We exchange phone numbers. We set up a date the next day. Possibly for lunch or an early dinner. That turns into a long dinner and another night together. Pretty soon we’re going to movies and meeting each other’s friends. But eventually, I will start getting busy. I won’t call you every day. You’ll begin to get suspicious. You’ll think I’m avoiding you. You will start to nag and snipe at me. Eventually I stop calling altogether and you get the picture. You stop calling me, but only after leaving a few nasty voice mails on my cell phone. One night, you will see me out with another girl and you will become enraged. You will call me every name in the book. You will call me an asshole.”
This left her speechless.
“Well, sweetheart, I’m telling you this, as plain as I’m able. I AM that asshole. I’m not the guy you think I am. I’m not the one.”
She sat there in stunned silence for a solid five minutes before mustering the ability to speak again.
“Marry me.” She whispered.
“Go away now.” I replied.
It happened in a bar, that closet where they hang their desires like costumes and put them on as the opportunity arises. I was tired. The day had treated badly, leaving me reckless and distracted. I sat down on the stool that was always open and ordered my usual dark beer.
She sat beside me and was attempting to engage the bartender in idle chatter. He wasn’t helping. She tired of this and looked around, finally settling on me as the target for her attention.
“Hello, handsome.”
I sipped my beer and lit a cigarette. I didn’t answer.
“I said ‘Hello’. Aren’t you going to say something”
“I’m not the one.” I said.
“What? What on Earth are you talking about?”
I looked deep into her eyes and repeated myself.
“I’m not the one.”
“You’re not the one what?”
“I’m not the one you’re looking for.” I answered.
She laughed. “How would YOU know what I’m looking for?”
“It’s simple, really. You’re looking for someone. I’m not that someone you’re looking for.”
“And how would YOU know THAT?”
“You’re out at a bar for Happy Hour. Yet you’re dressed like it’s Nighttime. You obviously didn’t wear that to work unless you work in a brothel. That tells me you are out looking for a man. While I’m not against hooking up for a one-night stand every once in a while, that isn’t what you're after. You have a lot of jewelry on, more than a normal person would feel comfortable with. This tells me you want people to know you like nice things. This also tells me you’re not into one-night stands. You’re looking to hook up, yes. But on your terms and for a long stretch.”
She just stared at me, slack-jawed.
“What are you…”? I waved her silent.
“Suppose I do take you home. Suppose we make love all night long. What happens next? We exchange phone numbers. We set up a date the next day. Possibly for lunch or an early dinner. That turns into a long dinner and another night together. Pretty soon we’re going to movies and meeting each other’s friends. But eventually, I will start getting busy. I won’t call you every day. You’ll begin to get suspicious. You’ll think I’m avoiding you. You will start to nag and snipe at me. Eventually I stop calling altogether and you get the picture. You stop calling me, but only after leaving a few nasty voice mails on my cell phone. One night, you will see me out with another girl and you will become enraged. You will call me every name in the book. You will call me an asshole.”
This left her speechless.
“Well, sweetheart, I’m telling you this, as plain as I’m able. I AM that asshole. I’m not the guy you think I am. I’m not the one.”
She sat there in stunned silence for a solid five minutes before mustering the ability to speak again.
“Marry me.” She whispered.
“Go away now.” I replied.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Deer Lease
by: Roger A Wilbanks
“Scrambled eggs again, fellas. I don’t feel much like making anything else.” Kyle shoveled heaping portions of spongy, yellow food onto everyone’s plate.
“That’s two days in a row, Kyle.” Eddie pointed out.
“Yeah, man. Only reason you even come out here is for the cooking. Hell. You still ain’t even killed a deer in 20 years of coming here.”
“I still don’t want to kill one, Chris. I just come out here with you guys to get away for a weekend. As long as I’m with you guys, Doris doesn’t worry about me…” he paused to look at Marcus, “…much.”
“Hey now, Vegas was YOUR idea, Kyle. It was your bachelor party, after all.”
All four friends stopped what they were doing and raised a coffee cup into the air, chanting in unison, “To the Moose.”
“May God have mercy on his soul…” Chris added.
“So what’s up buddy? You haven’t said hardly a word since we got down here.” Eddie and the others waited for an answer.
“It’s Frank. He’s dying.”
The three friends looked at Kyle as he went on. “Cancer. Doctor gives him two weeks.” He added, “Maybe.”
“Holy shit man. That sucks. I love Uncle Frank. That bastard taught me just about all we know in regards to the fairer sex.” Chris put down his coffee and said, “How’s your pops taking it?”
“Not so good. As brothers go, those two are inseparable. Not like me and Alan at all. The two of us can’t wait till we part company. And you guys know he just got over that Cancer thing himself last year.” Kyle stirred his eggs with a distracted fork. “It isn’t fair, man”
“Nothing about life is fair, Kyle.” Marcus said. “Ask my old man…when you see his ass in the afterlife, that is.”
“We all hated your dad, Marcus. But we were still sad to see him go. He was the first….” Chris coughed.
“Sorry Chris.” Kyle said. “But you were a kid when your folks died. We hadn’t even met you yet.”
Chris nodded and took a sip of coffee before going on. “Look guys. I was five when my parents died and trust me, I got off easy from the look of things in here. Sure, there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t wonder how different my life would have been if they’d have lived, but I accepted that they were gone a long time ago and even though it took a while, I moved on with my life.”
“What do you mean, ‘You got off easy?’” Eddie asked.
“Marcus is right. Life isn’t fair. The one thing you know that will never change is the fact that you are going to die. God’s big joke on us is just the timing.” He reached for the Tabasco sauce. “These eggs are good, Kyle.”
“I have been thinking about this a lot lately. Mainly since dad got Cancer last year. We get older and older every day. We’re like milk left out on the counter. Sure we get richer in one respect or the other. We enjoy successful jobs, loving families, good friends…but this is a long slow climb up to the top of this hill. It seems that just as we get close to the top of the mountain…the dying starts.”
He took a sip of coffee and stared at the ground.
“It starts out slow. An old uncle you never met dies when you’re a teenager. You go a few years without incident and then your dad’s favorite cousin dies. Then it’s your Uncle Tim, the guy that taught you how to shoot free throws. Then it’s your dad. Once the grim reaper gets started he just picks up speed. He mows down Aunt Clara, the one who always baked your birthday cake at Thanksgiving dinner. He cuts and swings through your roots and he doesn’t give a shit how it makes you feel. The second you begin to complain he lifts a bony-ass finger to shush you and says “It’s God’s Will.” Like that’s supposed to make you feel better as he reaches back for another big swing.”
Kyle shattered his coffee cup against the wall and collapsed onto the sofa with his head in his hands, weeping.
Eddie was the first to speak. “Look man. I know I’m the youngest out of all of us. You guys are like the Big Brothers I never had. I never understood why you even allowed me to hang out with you in the first place.”
“You had a car.” Chris answered. Even Kyle forced a laugh.
“Whatever. Alls I know is I look at you three as a time machine. I tell myself, ‘That’s what it’ll look like when I graduate.’ or ‘That’s the kind of job I want after college.’ Or ‘That’s the family I want to settle down with. Even this…” he gestured around the room.
“I know my folks are healthy and strong. I know they have a lot of time left in them. But I also know they’re going to die someday. Life isn’t permanent. Nothing is. The point is…I get it.”
The others turned their full attention to the youngest in their bunch.
“It’s like you said. Just when things get going right in our lives, on this hill we climb, we get to that point where shit starts falling off. Only it isn’t a gradual slope waiting on the other end of that hill. It’s a cliff. You reach a certain point and everyone begins to die. “
“I’ve noticed that myself,” Marcus added. “You guys been watching TV lately. You’ve seen it too. All those actors and athletes we grew up watching are dropping like flies. Not a day goes by I don’t have someone reminding me about that ‘In Threes’ bullshit. Like God’s trying to fill out half a six pack with just famous people. “
The others nodded in silence.
“So. What are we gonna do about it?” Chris asked.
“What do you mean ‘Do about it’?”
“I’m not suggesting we can cheat death. I’m asking what we’re going to do. There’s gonna come a day when everyone we hold dear is going to die. Even the four of us are going to die. What are we going to do about that?”
“I have a theory on that.” Eddie said.
“Something you guys said struck a tune in my head. That ‘Just when we get settled’ part. You guys have it all wrong, I figure. It’s not that we spend our whole lives doing well to have the rug pulled out from under us. It’s to prepare us.”
Kyle looked up at Eddie. “Explain, please.”
“I have always seen live as analogous to a roller coaster. It follows the same pattern. In our youth, we are waiting in line. We anticipate, and learn from the ones that are ON the rollercoaster how to act. In our good years, we get ON the rollercoaster. We go up, we go down. We have fun. But then it ends and we get off. We die the second we leave that car. It’s only in the amusement park where we get a do-over and get on again.”
“So your answer is ‘Sit down in the car and take it’?” Kyle asked.
“Hell no.” Eddie stamped. “My answer is get on that Goddamn car and enjoy every fucking dip, twist and loop there. Ride this thing with our hands in the air and our eyes wide open. We’re dead the moment we’re born. Nothing is going to alter that fact. When faced with the choice of taking that lying down or actually living life well, we’re all basically cowards. That’s why we loved frank so much. That guy knew how to live. If his life can teach us anything it’s that this time we have here is too short for mourning. I say ‘Cheers Frank!’ Thank you for the lesson.”
Kyle stared at Eddie as if seeing him for the first time. The other two glanced at each other cautiously, afraid to interrupt this moment. Finally Kyle spoke.
“You’re right. I know we have good lives guys. But We sleepwalk. We spend too much time worrying about the bullshit, that we forget the important stuff. Like you guys. I don’t come here to cook…I come here to spend time with my best friends. We might not be here tomorrow and there’s so much I want to say to you all.”
“Let me stop you right there, Kyle.” Chris interrupted. “We know you don’t like killing deer. You don’t have to explain that to us. But you don’t have to say anything melodramatic. We understand. That’s the beauty of being a guy. Just know these things.”
“Marcus said, “So…what do you want to do, Kyle?”
Kyle looked at the rifle he spent $600 on three seasons ago. “You know…I never killed another animal in my life. It always seemed wrong. It doesn’t seem any more right now than it did this morning, but for some reason, it feels necessary. Like I have to see death up close and personal.”
He looked at his three friends. “I’m going to do it today. I’m going to kill a deer. Not because I want to, but because I need to.”
The three friends looked at each other. They had made sport of their friend’s aversion to killing things over the course of their entire friendship. Now, when faced with a suddenly willing participant, something about the sudden conversion felt off. To allow their friend to do this one thing on a whim, with what amounted to revenge on death made the act itself seem dirty and less enjoyable.
Eddie was the first to voice this.
“No.” he said.
“Excuse me?” Kyle asked.
“Not going to let you do it. Not like this.”
“Why not?”
“Five minutes ago, you had your head in your hands bemoaning death. Five minutes ago, death was the enemy. Now you want to go kill a deer just because you have this sudden epiphany about the natural order?”
“That’s cold, man.” Chris said.
“But necessary.” He looked at a confused Kyle. “One of the things I have always respected about you is the value you place on life. All life, Kyle. Just because you see death all around you doesn’t mean you have to change, man. You’re better than that.”
Marcus agreed. “He’s right man. You do this and there’s no going back. Right now, you still have that slate inside…and it’s clean. Aside from killing the odd insect here and there and fragging the noobs on Call of Duty, your conscience is clean. Killing a deer isn’t going to change the fact that Frank’s dying. It’s not going to help you come to grips with it. And it’s sure as hell not going to bring you any closer to understanding death in the first place.”
Kyle paused in thought as these words sunk in. Seconds ago, he wanted to kill something. Anything. He felt something bubble deep inside him. He thought it was bloodlust, but now realized it was anger. Anger at Death. Anger at his impotence in the face of it. Anger that he was ill equipped to deal with something that had been with Humanity as long as body odor.
He looked at his friends and smiled.
“How about some more eggs?”
“Scrambled eggs again, fellas. I don’t feel much like making anything else.” Kyle shoveled heaping portions of spongy, yellow food onto everyone’s plate.
“That’s two days in a row, Kyle.” Eddie pointed out.
“Yeah, man. Only reason you even come out here is for the cooking. Hell. You still ain’t even killed a deer in 20 years of coming here.”
“I still don’t want to kill one, Chris. I just come out here with you guys to get away for a weekend. As long as I’m with you guys, Doris doesn’t worry about me…” he paused to look at Marcus, “…much.”
“Hey now, Vegas was YOUR idea, Kyle. It was your bachelor party, after all.”
All four friends stopped what they were doing and raised a coffee cup into the air, chanting in unison, “To the Moose.”
“May God have mercy on his soul…” Chris added.
“So what’s up buddy? You haven’t said hardly a word since we got down here.” Eddie and the others waited for an answer.
“It’s Frank. He’s dying.”
The three friends looked at Kyle as he went on. “Cancer. Doctor gives him two weeks.” He added, “Maybe.”
“Holy shit man. That sucks. I love Uncle Frank. That bastard taught me just about all we know in regards to the fairer sex.” Chris put down his coffee and said, “How’s your pops taking it?”
“Not so good. As brothers go, those two are inseparable. Not like me and Alan at all. The two of us can’t wait till we part company. And you guys know he just got over that Cancer thing himself last year.” Kyle stirred his eggs with a distracted fork. “It isn’t fair, man”
“Nothing about life is fair, Kyle.” Marcus said. “Ask my old man…when you see his ass in the afterlife, that is.”
“We all hated your dad, Marcus. But we were still sad to see him go. He was the first….” Chris coughed.
“Sorry Chris.” Kyle said. “But you were a kid when your folks died. We hadn’t even met you yet.”
Chris nodded and took a sip of coffee before going on. “Look guys. I was five when my parents died and trust me, I got off easy from the look of things in here. Sure, there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t wonder how different my life would have been if they’d have lived, but I accepted that they were gone a long time ago and even though it took a while, I moved on with my life.”
“What do you mean, ‘You got off easy?’” Eddie asked.
“Marcus is right. Life isn’t fair. The one thing you know that will never change is the fact that you are going to die. God’s big joke on us is just the timing.” He reached for the Tabasco sauce. “These eggs are good, Kyle.”
“I have been thinking about this a lot lately. Mainly since dad got Cancer last year. We get older and older every day. We’re like milk left out on the counter. Sure we get richer in one respect or the other. We enjoy successful jobs, loving families, good friends…but this is a long slow climb up to the top of this hill. It seems that just as we get close to the top of the mountain…the dying starts.”
He took a sip of coffee and stared at the ground.
“It starts out slow. An old uncle you never met dies when you’re a teenager. You go a few years without incident and then your dad’s favorite cousin dies. Then it’s your Uncle Tim, the guy that taught you how to shoot free throws. Then it’s your dad. Once the grim reaper gets started he just picks up speed. He mows down Aunt Clara, the one who always baked your birthday cake at Thanksgiving dinner. He cuts and swings through your roots and he doesn’t give a shit how it makes you feel. The second you begin to complain he lifts a bony-ass finger to shush you and says “It’s God’s Will.” Like that’s supposed to make you feel better as he reaches back for another big swing.”
Kyle shattered his coffee cup against the wall and collapsed onto the sofa with his head in his hands, weeping.
Eddie was the first to speak. “Look man. I know I’m the youngest out of all of us. You guys are like the Big Brothers I never had. I never understood why you even allowed me to hang out with you in the first place.”
“You had a car.” Chris answered. Even Kyle forced a laugh.
“Whatever. Alls I know is I look at you three as a time machine. I tell myself, ‘That’s what it’ll look like when I graduate.’ or ‘That’s the kind of job I want after college.’ Or ‘That’s the family I want to settle down with. Even this…” he gestured around the room.
“I know my folks are healthy and strong. I know they have a lot of time left in them. But I also know they’re going to die someday. Life isn’t permanent. Nothing is. The point is…I get it.”
The others turned their full attention to the youngest in their bunch.
“It’s like you said. Just when things get going right in our lives, on this hill we climb, we get to that point where shit starts falling off. Only it isn’t a gradual slope waiting on the other end of that hill. It’s a cliff. You reach a certain point and everyone begins to die. “
“I’ve noticed that myself,” Marcus added. “You guys been watching TV lately. You’ve seen it too. All those actors and athletes we grew up watching are dropping like flies. Not a day goes by I don’t have someone reminding me about that ‘In Threes’ bullshit. Like God’s trying to fill out half a six pack with just famous people. “
The others nodded in silence.
“So. What are we gonna do about it?” Chris asked.
“What do you mean ‘Do about it’?”
“I’m not suggesting we can cheat death. I’m asking what we’re going to do. There’s gonna come a day when everyone we hold dear is going to die. Even the four of us are going to die. What are we going to do about that?”
“I have a theory on that.” Eddie said.
“Something you guys said struck a tune in my head. That ‘Just when we get settled’ part. You guys have it all wrong, I figure. It’s not that we spend our whole lives doing well to have the rug pulled out from under us. It’s to prepare us.”
Kyle looked up at Eddie. “Explain, please.”
“I have always seen live as analogous to a roller coaster. It follows the same pattern. In our youth, we are waiting in line. We anticipate, and learn from the ones that are ON the rollercoaster how to act. In our good years, we get ON the rollercoaster. We go up, we go down. We have fun. But then it ends and we get off. We die the second we leave that car. It’s only in the amusement park where we get a do-over and get on again.”
“So your answer is ‘Sit down in the car and take it’?” Kyle asked.
“Hell no.” Eddie stamped. “My answer is get on that Goddamn car and enjoy every fucking dip, twist and loop there. Ride this thing with our hands in the air and our eyes wide open. We’re dead the moment we’re born. Nothing is going to alter that fact. When faced with the choice of taking that lying down or actually living life well, we’re all basically cowards. That’s why we loved frank so much. That guy knew how to live. If his life can teach us anything it’s that this time we have here is too short for mourning. I say ‘Cheers Frank!’ Thank you for the lesson.”
Kyle stared at Eddie as if seeing him for the first time. The other two glanced at each other cautiously, afraid to interrupt this moment. Finally Kyle spoke.
“You’re right. I know we have good lives guys. But We sleepwalk. We spend too much time worrying about the bullshit, that we forget the important stuff. Like you guys. I don’t come here to cook…I come here to spend time with my best friends. We might not be here tomorrow and there’s so much I want to say to you all.”
“Let me stop you right there, Kyle.” Chris interrupted. “We know you don’t like killing deer. You don’t have to explain that to us. But you don’t have to say anything melodramatic. We understand. That’s the beauty of being a guy. Just know these things.”
“Marcus said, “So…what do you want to do, Kyle?”
Kyle looked at the rifle he spent $600 on three seasons ago. “You know…I never killed another animal in my life. It always seemed wrong. It doesn’t seem any more right now than it did this morning, but for some reason, it feels necessary. Like I have to see death up close and personal.”
He looked at his three friends. “I’m going to do it today. I’m going to kill a deer. Not because I want to, but because I need to.”
The three friends looked at each other. They had made sport of their friend’s aversion to killing things over the course of their entire friendship. Now, when faced with a suddenly willing participant, something about the sudden conversion felt off. To allow their friend to do this one thing on a whim, with what amounted to revenge on death made the act itself seem dirty and less enjoyable.
Eddie was the first to voice this.
“No.” he said.
“Excuse me?” Kyle asked.
“Not going to let you do it. Not like this.”
“Why not?”
“Five minutes ago, you had your head in your hands bemoaning death. Five minutes ago, death was the enemy. Now you want to go kill a deer just because you have this sudden epiphany about the natural order?”
“That’s cold, man.” Chris said.
“But necessary.” He looked at a confused Kyle. “One of the things I have always respected about you is the value you place on life. All life, Kyle. Just because you see death all around you doesn’t mean you have to change, man. You’re better than that.”
Marcus agreed. “He’s right man. You do this and there’s no going back. Right now, you still have that slate inside…and it’s clean. Aside from killing the odd insect here and there and fragging the noobs on Call of Duty, your conscience is clean. Killing a deer isn’t going to change the fact that Frank’s dying. It’s not going to help you come to grips with it. And it’s sure as hell not going to bring you any closer to understanding death in the first place.”
Kyle paused in thought as these words sunk in. Seconds ago, he wanted to kill something. Anything. He felt something bubble deep inside him. He thought it was bloodlust, but now realized it was anger. Anger at Death. Anger at his impotence in the face of it. Anger that he was ill equipped to deal with something that had been with Humanity as long as body odor.
He looked at his friends and smiled.
“How about some more eggs?”
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Layers of a Story...
I love telling a good story. Sometimes. I love telling several stories at the same time. That's something that isn't as easy as it sounds. It takes the ability to compartmentalize your ideas and keep them in your own mind as single solitary tales.
In a way, the conductor analogy comes into bear here, because I like to think of the stories as trains.
One story train will be humming along, minding its own business. Alongside it, another story train is chugging along doing the same thing. When I write stories like this I take care to keep all the trains going in the same direction. It's self destructive to have the story come crashing along at some point just because my tracks got crossed a ways back because of poor planning. Though when used for effect, this can work to your advantage.
I start this process of multi-layered stories as a single united theme. From that theme, I branch out individial points of view. That's how I like telling my stories...from individual accounts. I think that the narrative comes across more efficiently in my own head as well as on the paper when it is being told by someone who is actually involved in it.
"It was a dark and stormy night..." Versus "My clothes dripped nonstop onto the floor from the rain like the ticking of the unseen clock with me in the room." Both lines convey the points. Rain. Dark. Time. But the last one packs more punch in my opinion because it's being told first-hand. I know it runs on, but it's a first draft. That can be fine-tuned later. We tend to believe eye-witnesses more than conjectured accounts. This is my theory, and how I approach the narratives I craft. So when telling the multiple stories within the story, it is key to find the individuals who are telling the story and give them their voice.
When I have these voices in mind, I begin with the story. I like the plot of the same event seen through differing eyes giving each person a seperate outcome. I also like the plot of past and present stories mirroring each other. I tend to use THAT particular one a lot as it speaks to the axiom of those ignorant of history being doomed to repeat it. I personally have a severe distaste of duplicating my efforts. I will never dig the same hole twice if it is at all to be avoided. No matter which avenue I chose, I want the tales to have some common thread. That is of the greatest importance to me. Writing these kind of stories comes across as disjointed and haphazard if I don't have a believable thread to tie them together.
In regards to comics and how I write them (seeing that as the entire point of this blog) I have several manners of using this tool. The most commonly used one for me is the off-screen dialogue box. This one comes in super handy for this. With this box, I can tell a complete story off camera while the real story goes on before the reader's eyes. I am particularly fond of the monologue within this box. With that one, I have the ability to give voice to something off camera, and can use the pictures as backup. Sometimes these two trains are riding side by side, sometimes they are on the same track. Sometimes I have them going opposite directions and use this device as a way of illustrating the innevitable crash. It's very easy to build tension when you show two opposing viewpoints at the same time and use that leadin to point to some dramatic confrontation in the future. Imagine if you will this picture.
A lockeroom at halftime sees the coach of the losing team inspiring his boys to comeback by telling them about a can't miss strategy. While this is what you see on screen, the opposing coach says in his dialogue box that he expects the opposition to do precisely what the coach is telling his team to do. The entire time, the losing team is playing right into the winning team's hands only they don't know it. YOU know it because you see both sides of the story at the same time. By the time the losing team's coach wraps things up, and you see how his words have inspired his players into doing precisely the one thing that will make their loss a certainty, you can feel the pity I intended you to feel for these doomed warriors from the start.
As I said before I like the dialogue box set against the main story, but sometimes I go one step beyond and have the piture on the page telling a third story. That's the hardest one, but it works so well if I pull it off.
This is leading the reader and some writers feel it cheats them of the brain-work necessary to figure things out for themselves. I don't write who-dunnits. The goal of my writing is, was and always will be to illicit a particular and specific response from you as a reader. I craft my stories in this manner to lead the reader to an intentional emotional state. It's manipulative, yes. But I write stories because I get this silly idea in my head that goes something like this. "Wouldn't it be cool if....?" and then I devote myself to putting you in the setting that brought me to that conclusion. I want the reader to find cool and interresting the things that I find cool and interresting. Mine is the craft of sharing. Wether I share emotion, action or comedy is immaterial. I put pen to paper for a purpose.
If I succeed in this, the reader will walk away from the story I wrote thinking exactly what I thought about when I initially wrote that piece. It doesn't always work, but I use any and all tricks at my disposal to insure that it does.
In a way, the conductor analogy comes into bear here, because I like to think of the stories as trains.
One story train will be humming along, minding its own business. Alongside it, another story train is chugging along doing the same thing. When I write stories like this I take care to keep all the trains going in the same direction. It's self destructive to have the story come crashing along at some point just because my tracks got crossed a ways back because of poor planning. Though when used for effect, this can work to your advantage.
I start this process of multi-layered stories as a single united theme. From that theme, I branch out individial points of view. That's how I like telling my stories...from individual accounts. I think that the narrative comes across more efficiently in my own head as well as on the paper when it is being told by someone who is actually involved in it.
"It was a dark and stormy night..." Versus "My clothes dripped nonstop onto the floor from the rain like the ticking of the unseen clock with me in the room." Both lines convey the points. Rain. Dark. Time. But the last one packs more punch in my opinion because it's being told first-hand. I know it runs on, but it's a first draft. That can be fine-tuned later. We tend to believe eye-witnesses more than conjectured accounts. This is my theory, and how I approach the narratives I craft. So when telling the multiple stories within the story, it is key to find the individuals who are telling the story and give them their voice.
When I have these voices in mind, I begin with the story. I like the plot of the same event seen through differing eyes giving each person a seperate outcome. I also like the plot of past and present stories mirroring each other. I tend to use THAT particular one a lot as it speaks to the axiom of those ignorant of history being doomed to repeat it. I personally have a severe distaste of duplicating my efforts. I will never dig the same hole twice if it is at all to be avoided. No matter which avenue I chose, I want the tales to have some common thread. That is of the greatest importance to me. Writing these kind of stories comes across as disjointed and haphazard if I don't have a believable thread to tie them together.
In regards to comics and how I write them (seeing that as the entire point of this blog) I have several manners of using this tool. The most commonly used one for me is the off-screen dialogue box. This one comes in super handy for this. With this box, I can tell a complete story off camera while the real story goes on before the reader's eyes. I am particularly fond of the monologue within this box. With that one, I have the ability to give voice to something off camera, and can use the pictures as backup. Sometimes these two trains are riding side by side, sometimes they are on the same track. Sometimes I have them going opposite directions and use this device as a way of illustrating the innevitable crash. It's very easy to build tension when you show two opposing viewpoints at the same time and use that leadin to point to some dramatic confrontation in the future. Imagine if you will this picture.
A lockeroom at halftime sees the coach of the losing team inspiring his boys to comeback by telling them about a can't miss strategy. While this is what you see on screen, the opposing coach says in his dialogue box that he expects the opposition to do precisely what the coach is telling his team to do. The entire time, the losing team is playing right into the winning team's hands only they don't know it. YOU know it because you see both sides of the story at the same time. By the time the losing team's coach wraps things up, and you see how his words have inspired his players into doing precisely the one thing that will make their loss a certainty, you can feel the pity I intended you to feel for these doomed warriors from the start.
As I said before I like the dialogue box set against the main story, but sometimes I go one step beyond and have the piture on the page telling a third story. That's the hardest one, but it works so well if I pull it off.
This is leading the reader and some writers feel it cheats them of the brain-work necessary to figure things out for themselves. I don't write who-dunnits. The goal of my writing is, was and always will be to illicit a particular and specific response from you as a reader. I craft my stories in this manner to lead the reader to an intentional emotional state. It's manipulative, yes. But I write stories because I get this silly idea in my head that goes something like this. "Wouldn't it be cool if....?" and then I devote myself to putting you in the setting that brought me to that conclusion. I want the reader to find cool and interresting the things that I find cool and interresting. Mine is the craft of sharing. Wether I share emotion, action or comedy is immaterial. I put pen to paper for a purpose.
If I succeed in this, the reader will walk away from the story I wrote thinking exactly what I thought about when I initially wrote that piece. It doesn't always work, but I use any and all tricks at my disposal to insure that it does.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Gravedigger
By: Roger A Wilbanks
"Dammit!" he shouted as he threw the mangled remains of the shovel across the yard. The dog yelped and hid under the deck, fearful that his master's anger was directed at him. He went to the garage and got another shovel, one with a little better handle. The rocks and roots in the soil had gotten the better of that last one.
When he returned, he carried the bundle with him. Nestled within the folds of cloth lie the remains of 'Sluggo', the neighborhood cat. A stray dog had gotten a hold of him in the night. He heard the fight. It was epic. He'd assumed it was just a catfight till he walked outside this morning to get the paper and saw Sluggo lying on his porch. The cat had crawled with the last ounce of energy it possessed onto that safe haven from which he had spent countless hours being pet, fed and played with. He liked that cat.
For some reason Sluggo, a name he himself had given the beast, had adopted his porch as his base of operations. He would lie in the sun there and shelter himself from the rain there. He wasn't a pretty cat, like the one you see in the cat food commercials. He was ugly. there weren't enough adjectives in the English language to properly describe him, but he kept himself clean and had a pleasant disposition. "More than I could say about the majority of the people I know," he thought. He remembered one afternoon in particular, when a spring rain sent deluges down the street where Sluggo hopped up in his lap as if it were perfectly acceptable behavior and immediately began to purr. No contact was necessary for this activity. Just the fact that the cat felt completely safe and comfortable and felt like showing it.
The tangle of roots beneath the soil was proving too tough to manage with just the shovel, but he was running out of options here. He had already buried over a dozen family pets in this area of the yard through the course of his residence. King occupied the place of honor in the center. He even had a tombstone made of granite. He loved that dog and never once shied away from the price tag that accompanied that chunk of rock when old age took him away. Dingus was in the corner. That cat was never right in the head. He walked around his entire life with the look that the lights were on but nobody was home in his eyes. He remembered laughing about that all the time with his wife, his boys and his neighbors. It was a constant source of amusement to see him play with absolutely nothing and feel like this was perfectly normal behavior.
Countless other animals lie in this makeshift pet cemetery he had constructed. Angel the poodle. Cary Grant the dachshund. There were two parrots named George and Gracie that he planted beneath their birdcage. He got those birds when he was still in college. Birds live long lives, and those two saw a lot of life being bounced around in the cage that was their tombstone.
As he leaned against his shovel for a moment to catch his breath, he wiped the sweat that was pouring down his face and neck away with hands turned red with the growth of future blisters. He stopped digging and collected his thoughts about Sluggo's death. For some reason the image in his mind from this morning wouldn't go away. He saw Sluggo on the porch. He saw the trail of blood the cat left as he clawed his way to the safety he thought was there. All those hours spent watching cop shows on television set his inner criminologist working to piece together the crime scene. The fight started in the yard. Sluggo was probably keeping watch of his adopted turf when the dog arrived.
He remembered the sounds that flew from his yard that night. He assumed it was another cat. Sluggo was constantly fighting the neighborhood cats and his looks reflected that. He was missing chunks where there should be chunks. Sluggo tangled in the yard, and the dog left for some reason. There was a silence after that initial scrape. He took that to mean Sluggo had sent another alley cat packing. He had no way of knowing that purring machine that sat in his lap days before was crawling to his porch broken and bleeding. Sluggo must have made it up to the spot where his chair was and sat there, slowly dying. But that dog wasn't finished with him. As Sluggo the cat felt the last of his life ebb away, that dog returned and finished the job. That act was silent, but messy. He never heard a sound, just saw the effects. One of his limbs was torn free of his body.
He felt something else on his face mixed in with the pouring sweat. It was a tear. He was actually crying now. Something about that cat thinking he was safe in his chair made him feel like he had let Sluggo down somehow. He felt like this was his fault somehow. He had let Sluggo in the house sometimes when the weather was bad. Why couldn't he have done it that time? He felt tears and sweat mixing freely on his face now. He looked at his cemetery and a sudden wave of loss washed over him as the pain from every death of a loved friend pricked him from all sides. He dropped down to his knees, shovel still in hand, blisters now bleeding from his tightening grip.
As sobs bubbled out of him from this unexpected wave of emotion, he felt a pressure against his side. His dog Prince (There would never be another King) was shoving his nose into his master's side. When he saw that he had his master's attention he lie there at his feet and put his head on his master's foot as if to tell him, "Hey man. I liked that cat too, but I would have done the same thing to him. It's my nature."
"God never gives you more to take than you can bear."
This pearl of wisdom from his time in Sunday School as a child suddenly and loudly popped into his mind. He had surely born quite a bit these last few years, he thought. Two layoffs, the mortgage issue, sick kids, two pets dying and two fresh graves to dig had all taken their toll. He looked down at his dog and thought for a second about the utter futility of life. How can there be a purpose to this? What is the point of a game where you never win? You only die at the end?
He looked at his bleeding hand and saw the scar. When he was a kid, he fell from a second story roof. He grabbed a hold of a piece of metal and hung on for dear life. The metal dug deep into his flesh but he refused to let go and hung on till the grownups arrived. He remembered something about that that he seemed to have forgotten over the years. The entire time he hung from that drain, there was a dog barking like mad below him. At the time the thought that shrouded his mind was what that dog would do to him if he let go. But he got it now. The dog was trying to get someone's attention. The dog was trying to save him. He stopped crying as the idea that that animal he didn't know was trying to save him somehow. He didn't even remember the dog's name.
The bundle looked cheap. He went into his house and returned with one of his wife's fine purple towels. She would complain, but he would just buy her another one. He took the matted rags he'd wrapped the dead cat in and threw them aside. He carefully wrapped the cat in the folds of the soft purple towel. "Sluggo, you look respectable now." He added, "For once." This made him laugh.
It started as a chuckle, small and sporadic. It grew. Soon he was laughing as if he just discovered humor. He still felt the pain of letting Sluggo die alone. He felt the loss of the animal that purred for no reason. He felt guilt for not saving this miserable animal's life, but none of that mattered. Now he felt a wave of calm wash over him as the understanding that 'this too, shall pass' sunk in. He placed the dead cat in the hole he dug and returned the earth atop him. When he was done, he stood in silence over the fresh grave and said goodbye one final time to the cat in the purple burial shroud.
Purple was the color of royalty. Sluggo may have died a vagrant, but in this cemetery, the Gravedigger buried them all like Kings.
"Dammit!" he shouted as he threw the mangled remains of the shovel across the yard. The dog yelped and hid under the deck, fearful that his master's anger was directed at him. He went to the garage and got another shovel, one with a little better handle. The rocks and roots in the soil had gotten the better of that last one.
When he returned, he carried the bundle with him. Nestled within the folds of cloth lie the remains of 'Sluggo', the neighborhood cat. A stray dog had gotten a hold of him in the night. He heard the fight. It was epic. He'd assumed it was just a catfight till he walked outside this morning to get the paper and saw Sluggo lying on his porch. The cat had crawled with the last ounce of energy it possessed onto that safe haven from which he had spent countless hours being pet, fed and played with. He liked that cat.
For some reason Sluggo, a name he himself had given the beast, had adopted his porch as his base of operations. He would lie in the sun there and shelter himself from the rain there. He wasn't a pretty cat, like the one you see in the cat food commercials. He was ugly. there weren't enough adjectives in the English language to properly describe him, but he kept himself clean and had a pleasant disposition. "More than I could say about the majority of the people I know," he thought. He remembered one afternoon in particular, when a spring rain sent deluges down the street where Sluggo hopped up in his lap as if it were perfectly acceptable behavior and immediately began to purr. No contact was necessary for this activity. Just the fact that the cat felt completely safe and comfortable and felt like showing it.
The tangle of roots beneath the soil was proving too tough to manage with just the shovel, but he was running out of options here. He had already buried over a dozen family pets in this area of the yard through the course of his residence. King occupied the place of honor in the center. He even had a tombstone made of granite. He loved that dog and never once shied away from the price tag that accompanied that chunk of rock when old age took him away. Dingus was in the corner. That cat was never right in the head. He walked around his entire life with the look that the lights were on but nobody was home in his eyes. He remembered laughing about that all the time with his wife, his boys and his neighbors. It was a constant source of amusement to see him play with absolutely nothing and feel like this was perfectly normal behavior.
Countless other animals lie in this makeshift pet cemetery he had constructed. Angel the poodle. Cary Grant the dachshund. There were two parrots named George and Gracie that he planted beneath their birdcage. He got those birds when he was still in college. Birds live long lives, and those two saw a lot of life being bounced around in the cage that was their tombstone.
As he leaned against his shovel for a moment to catch his breath, he wiped the sweat that was pouring down his face and neck away with hands turned red with the growth of future blisters. He stopped digging and collected his thoughts about Sluggo's death. For some reason the image in his mind from this morning wouldn't go away. He saw Sluggo on the porch. He saw the trail of blood the cat left as he clawed his way to the safety he thought was there. All those hours spent watching cop shows on television set his inner criminologist working to piece together the crime scene. The fight started in the yard. Sluggo was probably keeping watch of his adopted turf when the dog arrived.
He remembered the sounds that flew from his yard that night. He assumed it was another cat. Sluggo was constantly fighting the neighborhood cats and his looks reflected that. He was missing chunks where there should be chunks. Sluggo tangled in the yard, and the dog left for some reason. There was a silence after that initial scrape. He took that to mean Sluggo had sent another alley cat packing. He had no way of knowing that purring machine that sat in his lap days before was crawling to his porch broken and bleeding. Sluggo must have made it up to the spot where his chair was and sat there, slowly dying. But that dog wasn't finished with him. As Sluggo the cat felt the last of his life ebb away, that dog returned and finished the job. That act was silent, but messy. He never heard a sound, just saw the effects. One of his limbs was torn free of his body.
He felt something else on his face mixed in with the pouring sweat. It was a tear. He was actually crying now. Something about that cat thinking he was safe in his chair made him feel like he had let Sluggo down somehow. He felt like this was his fault somehow. He had let Sluggo in the house sometimes when the weather was bad. Why couldn't he have done it that time? He felt tears and sweat mixing freely on his face now. He looked at his cemetery and a sudden wave of loss washed over him as the pain from every death of a loved friend pricked him from all sides. He dropped down to his knees, shovel still in hand, blisters now bleeding from his tightening grip.
As sobs bubbled out of him from this unexpected wave of emotion, he felt a pressure against his side. His dog Prince (There would never be another King) was shoving his nose into his master's side. When he saw that he had his master's attention he lie there at his feet and put his head on his master's foot as if to tell him, "Hey man. I liked that cat too, but I would have done the same thing to him. It's my nature."
"God never gives you more to take than you can bear."
This pearl of wisdom from his time in Sunday School as a child suddenly and loudly popped into his mind. He had surely born quite a bit these last few years, he thought. Two layoffs, the mortgage issue, sick kids, two pets dying and two fresh graves to dig had all taken their toll. He looked down at his dog and thought for a second about the utter futility of life. How can there be a purpose to this? What is the point of a game where you never win? You only die at the end?
He looked at his bleeding hand and saw the scar. When he was a kid, he fell from a second story roof. He grabbed a hold of a piece of metal and hung on for dear life. The metal dug deep into his flesh but he refused to let go and hung on till the grownups arrived. He remembered something about that that he seemed to have forgotten over the years. The entire time he hung from that drain, there was a dog barking like mad below him. At the time the thought that shrouded his mind was what that dog would do to him if he let go. But he got it now. The dog was trying to get someone's attention. The dog was trying to save him. He stopped crying as the idea that that animal he didn't know was trying to save him somehow. He didn't even remember the dog's name.
The bundle looked cheap. He went into his house and returned with one of his wife's fine purple towels. She would complain, but he would just buy her another one. He took the matted rags he'd wrapped the dead cat in and threw them aside. He carefully wrapped the cat in the folds of the soft purple towel. "Sluggo, you look respectable now." He added, "For once." This made him laugh.
It started as a chuckle, small and sporadic. It grew. Soon he was laughing as if he just discovered humor. He still felt the pain of letting Sluggo die alone. He felt the loss of the animal that purred for no reason. He felt guilt for not saving this miserable animal's life, but none of that mattered. Now he felt a wave of calm wash over him as the understanding that 'this too, shall pass' sunk in. He placed the dead cat in the hole he dug and returned the earth atop him. When he was done, he stood in silence over the fresh grave and said goodbye one final time to the cat in the purple burial shroud.
Purple was the color of royalty. Sluggo may have died a vagrant, but in this cemetery, the Gravedigger buried them all like Kings.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Bring on the Legal Teams!
Not for real, and hopefully never.
The subject of this particular blog is more or less to put down my limited understanding of some of the legalities involved in comics with specific regards to particular re-invisioning of certain characters.
I am a fan of the Lone Ranger. I always have been. I spent many a day in my youth watching a crappy 9" black and white television every weekend when the westerns came on to catch the exploits of that western badass and his friend (not sidekick) Tonto. I loved the lore of the character and for as long as I can remember I have asked myself "What next?"
I have a tendency to see things on timelines. I do this with people I just met as well as with fictional characters. I have even been known to do this with inanimate objects like cars and buildings. I like creating stories. This trait, I am told, is a side effect of having that sort of inclination.
But back to the Ranger. I watched the episodes loyally yet with a moderate amount of skepticism. That would never fly in the modern world, I told myself. And that got the gears to spinning. What would the Lone Ranger be like were he riding today? What about him in the future? What about him in the past? What would he be like fighting prohibition era gangsters? He couldn't do it on horseback, if he did...that would be untennable. He'd have to have something more mobile and faster. Like a motorcycle. That would make one hell of a story. The Lone Ranger on a motorcycle fighting gangsters. Only problem with that is that never happened. The Lone Ranger fought in the Wild West and died before the gangsters time. Or did he?
I had this idea back in college and did countless hours of research and drawing to get it right. I wrote several issues of a comic that bridged the gap between the Horseback Knight and MY modern one. I put him smack in the middle of Chicago during the Gangster-era and had the makings of one HELL of a story.
Then I left it. I put it in a book and shelved it because I was afraid. I was mortally afraid that the people who owned the legal rights to the Lone Ranger would snatch all my hard work and my imaginations and pocket them, leaving me with empty pockets and possibly a lawsuit.
I have gotten over this fear with the recent realization that there is such a thing as Public Domain. As long as the character I create is NOT the Lone Ranger...has no ties to the Lone Ranger and I never mention the Lone Ranger, or show him in any fashion, my creation will remain mine. he will be 'inspired by' (How I loathe that term) him, true...but the character himself will be a living, breathing embodiment of my own subconscious imagination.
The story I wrote for him has been shelved for now. I will tell a different one. Eventually I may share that original generational bridge with the public. Who he is and how he came to be, and whatnot...but for now, I will not even refer to him as The Ranger. At least not in print. That's his name in my mind, and there it will stay till I have had a chance to actually speak with the proper rights holders and sell them on my idea.
I think they'll like it, as it will bring the character I love so much into a more modern time and give me so many opportunities to write awesome stories. Stories with the action and heart that I saw way back in my childhood in the face of a masked man with a silver bullet.
The subject of this particular blog is more or less to put down my limited understanding of some of the legalities involved in comics with specific regards to particular re-invisioning of certain characters.
I am a fan of the Lone Ranger. I always have been. I spent many a day in my youth watching a crappy 9" black and white television every weekend when the westerns came on to catch the exploits of that western badass and his friend (not sidekick) Tonto. I loved the lore of the character and for as long as I can remember I have asked myself "What next?"
I have a tendency to see things on timelines. I do this with people I just met as well as with fictional characters. I have even been known to do this with inanimate objects like cars and buildings. I like creating stories. This trait, I am told, is a side effect of having that sort of inclination.
But back to the Ranger. I watched the episodes loyally yet with a moderate amount of skepticism. That would never fly in the modern world, I told myself. And that got the gears to spinning. What would the Lone Ranger be like were he riding today? What about him in the future? What about him in the past? What would he be like fighting prohibition era gangsters? He couldn't do it on horseback, if he did...that would be untennable. He'd have to have something more mobile and faster. Like a motorcycle. That would make one hell of a story. The Lone Ranger on a motorcycle fighting gangsters. Only problem with that is that never happened. The Lone Ranger fought in the Wild West and died before the gangsters time. Or did he?
I had this idea back in college and did countless hours of research and drawing to get it right. I wrote several issues of a comic that bridged the gap between the Horseback Knight and MY modern one. I put him smack in the middle of Chicago during the Gangster-era and had the makings of one HELL of a story.
Then I left it. I put it in a book and shelved it because I was afraid. I was mortally afraid that the people who owned the legal rights to the Lone Ranger would snatch all my hard work and my imaginations and pocket them, leaving me with empty pockets and possibly a lawsuit.
I have gotten over this fear with the recent realization that there is such a thing as Public Domain. As long as the character I create is NOT the Lone Ranger...has no ties to the Lone Ranger and I never mention the Lone Ranger, or show him in any fashion, my creation will remain mine. he will be 'inspired by' (How I loathe that term) him, true...but the character himself will be a living, breathing embodiment of my own subconscious imagination.
The story I wrote for him has been shelved for now. I will tell a different one. Eventually I may share that original generational bridge with the public. Who he is and how he came to be, and whatnot...but for now, I will not even refer to him as The Ranger. At least not in print. That's his name in my mind, and there it will stay till I have had a chance to actually speak with the proper rights holders and sell them on my idea.
I think they'll like it, as it will bring the character I love so much into a more modern time and give me so many opportunities to write awesome stories. Stories with the action and heart that I saw way back in my childhood in the face of a masked man with a silver bullet.
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Unicorn
Deep down, I’m an office guy, have been for a long time. But times are tough for office guys these days. Unless you have friends in really high places, the odds of keeping your soft, well-paying office job are slim. So one can either become well practiced in the art of ass-kissing or become acquainted with the unemployment line. I chose the latter because without a college degree to my credit, my professional career choices were rather limited, and when it came down to playing the office politics game, I was a born loser.
I fell into construction to keep the rent paid a few years ago and, while the work is pretty hard, I have very few complaints. A sharp person will notice I said I have very few complaints. I did not say I had zero complaints.
First of all, I am a pretty smart guy with a very above-average IQ. Smart guys aren’t very welcome on the job site. I don’t get picked on like the other brainiacs, but it is a lot like being back in school again. Most of the kids in the class are goofing off or doing their own thing but I’m paying attention and trying to think two or three steps ahead. I find myself being told to just do my own job and not to worry so much about what the other guys are or aren’t doing, but I have a deep hatred of doing something twice. I consider it a mortal sin.
While my forward thinking has eliminated a lot of the more obvious problems, that hasn’t gone over well with my co-workers. Being creatures of an hourly wage nature, fuck-ups mean more money to them, so if I stop a wall from being built that doesn’t need to be built, they don’t get to rebuild it somewhere else. That entire pride in a job well done thing is a total myth to them out here. It’s all about filling as much time of the day doing as little as possible so that you keep this job going on and on and on to insure a steady income.
It is on the subject of Myths that I wish to focus on here. There are quite a few initiations that new guys have to endure in this world, and the world of construction is no different from any other. While most of them are silly methods meant to trip up the slower thinkers, “Hey kid. Go fetch me a lumber stretcher.” or, “Hey kid. Go grab that left-handed pipe wrench for me.”, some have the necessary amount of intrigue to capture even my refined attention. The Unicorn was just such a beast.
I had never heard of the Unicorn before and I have to admit I was a bit taken aback when I was exposed to it. My initial skepticism wouldn’t allow me to fall for obvious silliness like the less intelligent of my work-mates, so in my wisdom, I ignored the repeated proclamations of its existence. But please believe me when I tell you that it does indeed exist and bear with me while I explain.
I was working on a construction site for a $200 million dollar shopping center out in the far suburbs one summer. I needed to take a nature break in a bad way. You learn early on in the construction game to do your business in the morning, and the veterans out here often preach that wisdom to any and all who will listen. Your first experience with a highly trafficked Port-a-shitter will drive this point home in a hurry. It’s more of a health issue than personal choice.
But I was new to this and still learning the basic ropes when nature called just after lunchtime. All the hindsight in the world won’t help you when your belly feels like it is about to explode. The intense pressure building inside me was clouding both my better judgment and my sense of self-preservation.
The construction site was a large one, over 20 acres…maybe more. I have never been a good judge of acreage. It was easily the size of two, maybe three city blocks. There were over a thousand workers on site on any given day. As a result, there was a large collection of Port-a-shitters spread across the jobsite, well-spaced to provide maximum coverage. I wanted to avoid the more well-used ones, but I really had to go bad. Swallowing my pride, I asked one of my co-workers if he knew where a clean one was. I thought this a mistake at first, but this was how I learned about the Unicorn.
“You’re lookin for WHAT?” Earl said. “Hey Tommy! Come here!”
Tommy waddled over to where the two of us were standing. “Yeah…what?” he said.
“Rookie-butt here’s lookin for The Unicorn.” Tommy gasped.
“The Unicorn?” I asked.
“Yeah, kid, The Unicorn.” Tommy spoke in hushed tones, careful to not be overheard in passing on this deepest of legends. “What YOU are looking for ain’t a toilet. There are dozens of them out here…just look around. What YOU are lookin’ for is different.”
“Different how?” I asked and waited for the punch line I knew was incoming.
“You want the shitter that no one’s used yet. The one stocked with the soft paper instead of that gravelly ass-paper the others have. One with a clean seat, that ain’t been pissed all over and the funny graffiti that is new every time, done by someone who‘s a good drawer. It’s off in the outskirts so no one’ll come bangin on the door and interrupt you and clean…BOY it’s clean. You’re looking for the Holy Grail of the construction game.”
Earl added, “Only thing is it’s a figment of your imagination. It don’t exist.”
A blinked where I stood as Tommy went on. We call it The Unicorn for a reason, kid. Everyone in the world knows what a unicorn looks like, but ain’t no one ever SEEN one. It’s the same with this shitter. Even if you hit one out here just after it’s been cleaned, it ain’t the same. The seat’ll be clean, but the paper’s rough. Or maybe it’s got the same ‘Wetback Go Home’ or ‘Fuk U Greengo!’ graffiti you been reading since you got here. Or maybe it’s the one with that smell that’ll never go away no matter HOW much blue water they pump into it. Either way, the Unicorn is perfect and that one ain’t.” He stopped and looked around.
“Now Carlos over there? He swears he seen the Unicorn once.” he pointed to a fat Mexican leaning on a shovel. “Says he went in and was about to shit…only he couldn’t. He says he stopped. Just couldn’t damage something that perfect.” He paused for a moment, reflecting on this deep thought so rare in his mind about the human condition and then Tommy laughed. “But he’s a Goddamn liar.” All three of us laughed. Only mine seemed forced.
“I know he ain’t seen The Unicorn cause I know it don’t exist. But don’t let that stop you from lookin for it, kid. Everyone needs a quest in life. Somethin greater than just our plain old selves. That stripper I see at the club calls it the William Blake Effect. I don’t know who the hell that is…prolly some queer-assed poet or something worse, but what this guy said was dead nut on.” He paused and tried to recall the exact words. I could tell how much effort this task was taking. He dug deep and said, “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what else is Heaven for?”
He reflected on this minor mental victory for a moment and added, “Never had much use for poetry aside from what I wrote on the odd shitter myself here and there but that one really stuck. It just seems right no matter how you think about it…don’t it? You need something to look for that you’re never gonna find or you just kinda wander around half-way living, you know?”
He looked at me with the deep stare of wisdom beyond his means and said, “But I will tell you one thing, kid. If you ever do find The Unicorn, you better grab ahold of it. Treat it like a leprechaun and grab it by the Shillelagh cause if you let it go for just a second…” he snapped his finger with a crack that awoke my concentration, “ It’ll vanish right in front of your unworthy ass.”
This shook me from the brain fog his story had placed me in All the talk of horned horses and leprechauns was fine and good but I needed to take a shit. Tommy seemed to sense this and pointed me to the crapper that he said was cleaned. It still had that funny smell, and I had already read the “Swim back to Mexico, Frijoleros!” and the “Fak U Whit Boy!” graffiti a million times before. This started me thinking though. What if this myth was real? What if The Unicorn really did exist? What would it be like?
This type of thinking can get a fella in trouble. It was too late for me to go back though. I was on the quest now. My coworkers seemed more accepting of me after this as if I had passed through some unseen barrier and crossed over to their side. But that didn’t matter to me now. I was determined to find The Unicorn.
I will tell you this before I leave you in peace. I will find it. You can bet the farm on that. And I promise you one more thing. When I find it, I will shit in it like no man has ever shit before in the history of shitting. I will foul that thing beyond all sense of reasonable comprehension. I won’t do this out of spite or some inner desire to wreck something beautiful. You must understand this. I will do it out of the deepest respect I can muster for an inanimate object. And as I wipe my ass on the softest ass-paper ever, laughing at the funny little cartoon on the door, safe in the knowledge that I could stay in it all day and no one would come banging on the door, I will say “Thank you.” and mean it for the first time in my life.
The end
I fell into construction to keep the rent paid a few years ago and, while the work is pretty hard, I have very few complaints. A sharp person will notice I said I have very few complaints. I did not say I had zero complaints.
First of all, I am a pretty smart guy with a very above-average IQ. Smart guys aren’t very welcome on the job site. I don’t get picked on like the other brainiacs, but it is a lot like being back in school again. Most of the kids in the class are goofing off or doing their own thing but I’m paying attention and trying to think two or three steps ahead. I find myself being told to just do my own job and not to worry so much about what the other guys are or aren’t doing, but I have a deep hatred of doing something twice. I consider it a mortal sin.
While my forward thinking has eliminated a lot of the more obvious problems, that hasn’t gone over well with my co-workers. Being creatures of an hourly wage nature, fuck-ups mean more money to them, so if I stop a wall from being built that doesn’t need to be built, they don’t get to rebuild it somewhere else. That entire pride in a job well done thing is a total myth to them out here. It’s all about filling as much time of the day doing as little as possible so that you keep this job going on and on and on to insure a steady income.
It is on the subject of Myths that I wish to focus on here. There are quite a few initiations that new guys have to endure in this world, and the world of construction is no different from any other. While most of them are silly methods meant to trip up the slower thinkers, “Hey kid. Go fetch me a lumber stretcher.” or, “Hey kid. Go grab that left-handed pipe wrench for me.”, some have the necessary amount of intrigue to capture even my refined attention. The Unicorn was just such a beast.
I had never heard of the Unicorn before and I have to admit I was a bit taken aback when I was exposed to it. My initial skepticism wouldn’t allow me to fall for obvious silliness like the less intelligent of my work-mates, so in my wisdom, I ignored the repeated proclamations of its existence. But please believe me when I tell you that it does indeed exist and bear with me while I explain.
I was working on a construction site for a $200 million dollar shopping center out in the far suburbs one summer. I needed to take a nature break in a bad way. You learn early on in the construction game to do your business in the morning, and the veterans out here often preach that wisdom to any and all who will listen. Your first experience with a highly trafficked Port-a-shitter will drive this point home in a hurry. It’s more of a health issue than personal choice.
But I was new to this and still learning the basic ropes when nature called just after lunchtime. All the hindsight in the world won’t help you when your belly feels like it is about to explode. The intense pressure building inside me was clouding both my better judgment and my sense of self-preservation.
The construction site was a large one, over 20 acres…maybe more. I have never been a good judge of acreage. It was easily the size of two, maybe three city blocks. There were over a thousand workers on site on any given day. As a result, there was a large collection of Port-a-shitters spread across the jobsite, well-spaced to provide maximum coverage. I wanted to avoid the more well-used ones, but I really had to go bad. Swallowing my pride, I asked one of my co-workers if he knew where a clean one was. I thought this a mistake at first, but this was how I learned about the Unicorn.
“You’re lookin for WHAT?” Earl said. “Hey Tommy! Come here!”
Tommy waddled over to where the two of us were standing. “Yeah…what?” he said.
“Rookie-butt here’s lookin for The Unicorn.” Tommy gasped.
“The Unicorn?” I asked.
“Yeah, kid, The Unicorn.” Tommy spoke in hushed tones, careful to not be overheard in passing on this deepest of legends. “What YOU are looking for ain’t a toilet. There are dozens of them out here…just look around. What YOU are lookin’ for is different.”
“Different how?” I asked and waited for the punch line I knew was incoming.
“You want the shitter that no one’s used yet. The one stocked with the soft paper instead of that gravelly ass-paper the others have. One with a clean seat, that ain’t been pissed all over and the funny graffiti that is new every time, done by someone who‘s a good drawer. It’s off in the outskirts so no one’ll come bangin on the door and interrupt you and clean…BOY it’s clean. You’re looking for the Holy Grail of the construction game.”
Earl added, “Only thing is it’s a figment of your imagination. It don’t exist.”
A blinked where I stood as Tommy went on. We call it The Unicorn for a reason, kid. Everyone in the world knows what a unicorn looks like, but ain’t no one ever SEEN one. It’s the same with this shitter. Even if you hit one out here just after it’s been cleaned, it ain’t the same. The seat’ll be clean, but the paper’s rough. Or maybe it’s got the same ‘Wetback Go Home’ or ‘Fuk U Greengo!’ graffiti you been reading since you got here. Or maybe it’s the one with that smell that’ll never go away no matter HOW much blue water they pump into it. Either way, the Unicorn is perfect and that one ain’t.” He stopped and looked around.
“Now Carlos over there? He swears he seen the Unicorn once.” he pointed to a fat Mexican leaning on a shovel. “Says he went in and was about to shit…only he couldn’t. He says he stopped. Just couldn’t damage something that perfect.” He paused for a moment, reflecting on this deep thought so rare in his mind about the human condition and then Tommy laughed. “But he’s a Goddamn liar.” All three of us laughed. Only mine seemed forced.
“I know he ain’t seen The Unicorn cause I know it don’t exist. But don’t let that stop you from lookin for it, kid. Everyone needs a quest in life. Somethin greater than just our plain old selves. That stripper I see at the club calls it the William Blake Effect. I don’t know who the hell that is…prolly some queer-assed poet or something worse, but what this guy said was dead nut on.” He paused and tried to recall the exact words. I could tell how much effort this task was taking. He dug deep and said, “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what else is Heaven for?”
He reflected on this minor mental victory for a moment and added, “Never had much use for poetry aside from what I wrote on the odd shitter myself here and there but that one really stuck. It just seems right no matter how you think about it…don’t it? You need something to look for that you’re never gonna find or you just kinda wander around half-way living, you know?”
He looked at me with the deep stare of wisdom beyond his means and said, “But I will tell you one thing, kid. If you ever do find The Unicorn, you better grab ahold of it. Treat it like a leprechaun and grab it by the Shillelagh cause if you let it go for just a second…” he snapped his finger with a crack that awoke my concentration, “ It’ll vanish right in front of your unworthy ass.”
This shook me from the brain fog his story had placed me in All the talk of horned horses and leprechauns was fine and good but I needed to take a shit. Tommy seemed to sense this and pointed me to the crapper that he said was cleaned. It still had that funny smell, and I had already read the “Swim back to Mexico, Frijoleros!” and the “Fak U Whit Boy!” graffiti a million times before. This started me thinking though. What if this myth was real? What if The Unicorn really did exist? What would it be like?
This type of thinking can get a fella in trouble. It was too late for me to go back though. I was on the quest now. My coworkers seemed more accepting of me after this as if I had passed through some unseen barrier and crossed over to their side. But that didn’t matter to me now. I was determined to find The Unicorn.
I will tell you this before I leave you in peace. I will find it. You can bet the farm on that. And I promise you one more thing. When I find it, I will shit in it like no man has ever shit before in the history of shitting. I will foul that thing beyond all sense of reasonable comprehension. I won’t do this out of spite or some inner desire to wreck something beautiful. You must understand this. I will do it out of the deepest respect I can muster for an inanimate object. And as I wipe my ass on the softest ass-paper ever, laughing at the funny little cartoon on the door, safe in the knowledge that I could stay in it all day and no one would come banging on the door, I will say “Thank you.” and mean it for the first time in my life.
The end
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