The Return Of The Emotionless Robot

An update about lack of updates.

I'm currently involved in writing a comic.  The kind you can find in your local comic book stores.  It's an already existing title, so nothing Insafemodey.  I'll write more about it when I have release dates, and, well, a physical copy of said comics (right now, there's no artist attached, just a publisher and distributor).

I'm writing a poem a day for the year 2009, and am only about 30 days behind in writing, but about 70 behind in posting them in the official forum (which, is, unfortunately, private).

I have two horrendously needy cats.  One in constant heat.  One in constant state of hyperactivity.

I have several awesomely needy boyfriends.  Several in constant heat.

I spend most of my not working time, either working on poetry/comics, or checking up on my Racist Grandma.

All my shows this year have been within the state of MA, and I don't have any plans for that to change until the fall/winter.  But it will change.

I also want to put together parts 5 & 6 of the Insafemode Journals.  And a pony.  A pony with a winning lottery ticket.  A pony with a winning lottery ticket who'll help me figure out exactly what type of person I should be dating.    I'll call him Merle Swagger. He will be the awesomest pony to ever pony.  (No ass jokes, please, those aren't ponies, they're donkeys)

During the last Depression
Roosevelt lost track of the White House's stability
He was so focused on war and the fragile economy
he didn't notice the ground sinking beneath him
not metaphorically

In 1948 Harry Truman was told The White House was no longer structurally sound
Floors swayed instead of creaked
The president's bathtub sunk into the floor
But The White House was such an institution
that Truman couldn't allow it to be demolished
so for four years he had the White House rebuilt from the outside in
while he moved into the house across the street

I wanted to build my arms into a home where you felt comfortable
but they weren't big enough
so I called them a lobby
My mouth was a door that locked when you twirled my tongue counter clockwise
Each key I cut for you was a work of art
you lost in other mens' pockets

I tried to build myself more solid
Tune out the echoes of plaster cracking
the cringe of metal driving metal into wood
as you drove nail after nail into my flesh
with no regard for my skeletal structure or artery placement

Hammers destroy as easily as build
The claw can't apologize
Just rip the nails out of you

The verb "to fix" can mean to repair
or to dishonestly influence the outcome of a game or trial
To fix can mean injecting yourself with a narcotic
It can mean to focus your eyes on something
or to castrate an animal

I was fixed by you somehow
I'll call it repair
So focused on being stronger
I failed to notice how weak I'd become

I had built myself backwards
A carefully crafted facade
without proper support
stairwells leading nowhere
my shoulders not level enough to hold you
windows to rooms no outside world should see

I'm sorry you couldn't stay here with me
You aren't the tenant I was built for
And honestly
you never took care of me the way that you should have
never bothered taking off your shoes before walking all over me
And eventually you decided I was
at best
a vacation home
a small cabin to visit when the gurgle of life grew too loud
and you needed a place to weekend or summer with no responsibility
Who cares if the spiders web the corners
How the inch thick the dust falls on my shoulders

And I let you do this

And would do it again

I am a repeatedly abandoned building
Even at the crash
Even though I can see myself becoming splintered
Foundation cracking
Support all but gone
I still try and kiss the wrecking ball
As it insists on swinging away from me

I started this story in August, and, during the great computer crisis of '08, neglected to continue it.  I'm continuing it now.  The links below go to the first three parts.  More is on the way.  Much.  Much more.  This story takes place, not now, but in August 08, and will be archived there in a few days.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

"I'm confused."  Mazarine says.  "You gave him the key?  Or you 'gave it to him'?"

"I can't mean both?"  I say.

We're driving home from Madison, and we're both stupid tired.  Poetry - sleep + driving - sleep + a large amount of cigarette breaks - sleep = me telling stories to keep myself awake.  Because, it's either that or sing along loudly with my Zune, which we'd purchased an adapter for on the Boston to Madison leg of the trip.  And I'm telling her the Sora story because it involves roads, and I'm seeing roads everywhere, which is good, because I'm driving, and not seeing the road = car crash.

"So, are you two, still an item or what?"

And I consider for a moment that my relationship with Sora is a Tremont Street.  A series of weird, unnecessary turns.  I don't think either of us ever really know whether or not we're together.  And while I've been driving excessively for the past year or so, only once or twice have the tires of the vehicle I'm driving ever touched down on Tremont.  "Not really."

And, yet, he's the first person I IM when I get home.  I tell him most about my trip to Wisconsin, and he tells me about work, and then we discuss missing each other.  And then I sign off.  And I click on Craigslist.  Because I miss him.  And that is never enough.

 

My nose is running for President of my face.  I'm in a grocery store, basket full of bagels, cream cheese, and juice.  Tissues.  God, do I need tissues.  So, I go to the paper goods aisle, and begin staring down the long line of facial tissue boxes.  Out of nowhere, the mostly dormant gay part of my brain  says I need to get a box whose pattern will mesh most with the colors in my room.  And, I think, Hey, this is progress.  I could set up a much nicer vibe to my room than the current Pile Of Laundry And Cat Toys  (And Cat) ambiance.

This is when I realize, I have no idea what color anything in my room is

2009 has thus far not been a year I want to post about.  But, tonight, old school (actually, it's more of a middle school thing) Insafemode people, is going to be a fun night of poetry show.  Why?  It's the Champion of Champions Slam at The Cantab Lounge, and, for the first time ever, I'm defending my title against Ben, aka the user formerly known as Unsafeload, aka my ex roommate who own(ed?)(s??) a fanny pack, aka some guy I totally didn't at all have a thing for and can't imagine why you would have thought that based on reading this journal.

There will be theme rounds, a general mocking atmosphere, and $100 at stake for the winner.  There's also a strong possibility that Sora, Steggy,  and  CSB (and that really is an old school reference, haven't talked about him in about five years) are going to show up, as well.  I think that's the highest volume of people I've mentioned in my journal being in one place, like, ever.   I should totally invite Mr. Hot Positive Load to give the night extreme awkardness, but my masochistic tolerance index is low today.

But, really, you should just come to see me take out four years of frustration out on Ben (who, admittedly, hasn' been frustrating me in any way whatsoever for over two years).  And for good poetry.  And drinks. 

More info at Slam News Dot Com, as well as directions and stuff.

Hope to see you there.

A group of poets were discussing ways to be on the cutting edge of new fiction, when one of them came up with the idea of rewriting classics word for word, but inserting the word black into them, thus COMPLETELY changing the tone/perspective of the book. His original idea: Do Black Androids Dream of Electric Black Sheep.

So, Jim and I have been spending the evening coming up with other books that would be forever change by the addition of that one word:

Mein Black Kampf
Their Black Eyes Were Watching God
Something Wicked Black This Way Comes
Skinny Black Legs And All
Even Black Cowgirls Get The Blues
Little Black Women
The Black Things The Carried
The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Black Galaxy
So Long, And Thanks For All The Black Fish
I Know Why The Black Caged Bird Sings
Heart Of Darkness
The Autobiography of Black Malcolm X
Dreams Of My Black Father
To Kill A Black Mockingbird
A Series Of Unfortunate Black Events
I Did It Black : OJ Confesses
The Jungle Book
Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Black Secrets
Harry Potter And The Half Blood Black Prince
Men Are From Mars, Black Women Are From Venus
His Dark Materials
The Illustrated Black Man
The Five Black People You Meet In Heaven
The Black Great Gatsby
The Complete Black Idiot's Guide To Slam Poetry
The Dark Tower
Uncle Tom's Black Cabin
A Black Child's Christmas In Wales
Yes, Virginia, There Is A Black Santa Claus
Come On Black People: On The Path From Victims To Victors
A Black American Werewolf In London
Twelve Angry Black Men
The Black Communist Manifesto
Black On The Road
Lord Of the Black Flies
Black Beauty
The Black Cat In The Hat
Choose Your Own Black Adventure
Are You There Black God, It's Me Margaret
Black Like Me



While some of these titles are just amusing, I think some of these books would be very, very interesting. In particular, I'd like to see a scottwoods poem called "Do Black Androids Dream Of Electric Black Sheep?" I mean, I haven't heard a bad Scott Woods poem yet (which doesn't mean they're not out there, just that he, wisely, only shares the good ones more than once), and think he'd come up with something pretty amazing with this title.

edited/added from lj users' comments:

Moby Black Dick
Black Generation X
Hope For The Black Flowers
Lady Chatterley's Black Lover
The Black Bible
The Good Black Earth
A Black People's History Of The United States
Chicago Manual Of Black Style

Bugz (she has them in her brain)
Shut The Fuck Up (self-explanatory)
Molly (From The Haunting of Molly Hartney)
Rosemary (the one with the baby)
Regan (Mcneil from The Exorcist)
Tupac (suggested as an alternative to a name to appear later)
Afeni (which would make her kitten, Tupac)
Mia (what they called her in the pet store)
For The Love of God Shut The Fuck Up, It' Three O'Clock In The Morning
Emily Rose
I Want A Refund
Maiow
Brrrrrrrrrrrraiow
Underfoot
Selina (as in Kyle, this is the one I'm leaning to at the moment)
Are You Seriously Still Maiowing At Me?
Mystique
Malebolgia
Sniffy (aka MADcat from Inspector Gadget)
Delia (I had a Koosa named Delia when I was a kid))
Nigger

I've also been taking care of one of her kittens at the store, an adorable little martiany thing that I have named Yoda Vader, as she has a huge Yoda head and ears (complete with big tufts growing out of them), but a respiratory infection that makes her sound like His Darthness.  The repiratory thing is apparently genetic, and thus, came from her as yet unnamed mother, who now breathes like a normal cat. 

My cat?   Totally haunted.  Completely.  Utterly.  Haunted.

If I ever get my computer back from Best Buy, I"ll have time to do a proper update.  But, right now, I'm sneaking in an update at work, because I've decided to go out for the 2008 Individual World Poetry Slam championship, and that means I need your help.  Please click here and scroll down to my video (Drunken Conversations at Hampshire College), and vote for me.  You don't need to watch the video.  It's the same one I used for Famecast.

Remember, a vote for me is a vote for change.  Because in the four year history of the iWPS, a gay male has only won it twice.  And that's downright homophibic.  And racist.  And toally biassexual.  Yes we can get me to North Carolina.  Really, it's in your benefit.  Do you know who still lives in North Carolina?  Elvis.  Don't you want me to win $1000, a book deal, a trip to France, AND a chance to see (and possibly maim) Elvis?

Also, don't forget, I've got a mess of upcoming shows listed in the last entry.  The two big ones being at More Than Words Bookstore in Waltham, MA this Friday night, and the night befor Thanksgiving, I'm doing an entirely different set at The Cantab Lounge in Cambridge, MA.

Yesterday, I received an e-mail requesting that I be a part of one of the nationwide rallies to let the world know how upset we are that Americans were open-minded enough to elect a partially African-American president, but not open-minded enough to let gay people marry.  While I would certainly love to support the event, I have to work. 

Upon learning that I was skipping the event to sell comics, I received an e-mail from Well-Dressed Steve, calling me out for being a bad homo (it should be pointed out that Well-Dressed Steve, though a very dapper dresser, is 100% non-cock sucker):

Gay people rarely support comic books, literature in general, their friends getting married, and me.  Granted, the same goes for straight people.  Having worked in seven different comic book stores (all part of the same chain) for the last year and a halfish, I can tell you, there aren't a lot of gay comic book readers in New England.  And I know why.  There are very few gay male characters in comic books.  Plenty of lesbians, and bisexual women (even if you don't count porno comics), but, with the exception of yaoi, not a lot of gay men.

I don't read yaoi.  It's mostly two-dimensional, black-and-white cheesefests about older men "mentoring" then seducing and fucking younger men.  And, being Japanese, these stories often involve giant squids, sentient vibrators, and thirty-seven kilometer cocks.  Why would I want to read such drivel?  I mean, I already live this kind of drivel.

Mainstream American comics, however, don't have a lot of gay characters.  In the Marvel Universe (the one I obsessively read/collect) the few gay characters are all drama, no plot.  Northstar, a member of the little read/respected Canadian super team, Alpha Flight, infamously came out in issue 106 (1992) while rescuing an HIV positive baby, which may sound like a good story, but it wasn't.  Ultimate Colossus's coming out was handled a little better.  As opposed to Northstar's homosexuality coming out of left-field, there were many hints an innuendos in the sixty-four issued before he decloseted.  I won't even mention the fact that two of the three male gay teens in the Marvel Universe were originally named Anole (hasn't changed), and Assgardian (renamed Wiccan) {I've got no beef with Hulkling as a name).

Now, there are some specifically gay, all-gay, oh-so-gay comics out there.  The problem is, I haven't found any that I've liked.  Someone recommended Stuck Rubber Baby to me about a year ago, and I picked it up, and just didn't care.   I find it really difficult to get into biopic comics, unless they're really well-written, like Maus and Persepolis.  Which got me thinking that I only really like biopics about people surviving genocide.

Two weeks ago, I was reading Dave Eggers's non-comic novel, What Is The What, as well as a new anthology of illustrated journals of real-life refugees (mixed in with a few fictional ones) called I Live Here.  I was getting incredibly depressed, and not just because of the quality of Eggers's writing.  Too.  Much.  Suffering.  Luckily, right next to I Live Here on the new arrival shelf was Bottoms In Love, an anthology of gay comics by gay writers.

Man, that comic needed more genocide.  The art was cool, but the writing was hideous.  Awful.  Bad.  Gay.  Like the books you find in the LGBTA secton of Borders.  Too trite for the literature shelf.  If I want to see vapid, shallow, attractive men whining about how hard it is to find another vapid, shallow, attractive man, or how hard it is to be faithful to their vapid, shallow, attractive boyfriends, I'll get a gym membership.  Stay the hell out of my comic books.

Ummm...way sidetracked.  What I meant to say was Penguin Lust..  

So, I don't see gay people flocking to my rescue, should they vote to ban comic book stores. But being gay hasn't been banned either, just gays being married.  And while I certainly support gay marriage rights (and gay divorce rights), and while I  have already petitioned the IRS to remove the Church Of Latter Day Saints from their religious exemption status, since those M-holes have spent 14 million dollars influencing the government, ignoring the whole "separation of church and state" thing, which reminds me that hey, marriage is a religious institution, anyway, why is the government involved to begin with?  Ahem, Penguin Lust.

I will, unfortunately, not be present at any of the rallies this Saturday.  But Asterisk will be one of the speakers at the Boston rally.  And, I suspect, Ben will be speaking in Northhampton.  These are just two of the rallies taking place in Massachusetts.  I would now like to devolve myself to toilet humor, and let you know that one of the other MA rallies is taking place at *giggle* The Old *snerk* Creamery in *snort* Cummington, MA.  Thanks to Well-Dressed Steve for the heads up on that one.