The Longbox Project is a site that asks folks to share memories tied to specific issues in their comic book collections. This technically means "Amazing Spider-Man #258 makes me think of...", but it's just as likely to mean "For 25 years I've carried some low-level guilt around about the time I stole something from my big brother, and I finally have an excuse to confess it."
You don't have to be a writer or a writer-about-comics to take part. It's not a comics criticism site so much as a memory project, and the posts tend to be conversational and honest. I wrote a new one that's up today called I Own This about the fairly traumatic period of my life when I moved from Los Angeles to Vermont to Baltimore in the span of 7 months.
What I said about it on Facebook, and what I wrote down on a legal pad as soon as I'd written the first draft of this piece, is "Sometimes you write something and say it's embarrassing because of how cool it makes you look and you want to seem humble. Sometimes you say it's embarrassing because it reveals the kind of asshole you can be. This is the second kind."
So, it feels very revealing to share this story with my friends and the internet-at-large. Kate and I sat on the couch last night before I officially submitted it so she could read and we could talk about it before I showed it to the world. I'd told Kate parts of the story before, but not the version that's presented there. And there are other parts that aren't in the Longbox version (sorry gang, I was already over the word count, but I'm happy to go on about it in person), and I told Kate those parts too.
I was nervous she'd think less of me. But what she said was, "I don't think learning more could make me think less."
So if you like comics, gossip, cross-country moves, Vermont, or confessionals, go read I Own This on the Longbox Project. I wrote it!
Monday, April 22, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Not the Kickstarter You're Looking For
I found this Kickstarter via io9, which found it via Superpunch, which listed it with little comments aside from "Pathetic kickstarter a from major artists."
It's a proposed illustrated novel by Bill Willingham & Frank Cho, of Fables & various comics featuring cavewomen, respectively. I'm not an active follower of either man's work, but I've got nothing against them either -- Cho draws a wonderfully glamorous She-Hulk, in my personal opinion -- but this is a dreadful Kickstarter.
The project itself makes me think of the Veronica Mars kickstarter from a few weeks back. It sounds perfectly interesting -- in this case, an illustrated novel about the last descendent of Norse gods, and the primate detective she's teamed up with -- but the rewards involved here are pretty paltry. Post cards and thank yous at the lower levels, and 5-minute phone calls as you get up to $100. If you kick in $10k, you can be served dinner by Cho & Willingham. There's no low-level option to donate and get the book, presumably because Willingham & Cho are going to sell this project to a big-name publisher (and get rightfully paid for doing so), but that no doubt introduces complications with regard to giving actual copies of the actual book away.
The specifics of the Veronica Mars project were different, but essentially it was a film being backed by a major studio who didn't want to pay for it. So they asked fans to pay for it, upfront. There's nothing immoral about that, but to me the spirit of Kickstarter is that it allows people to make something they otherwise couldn't, without crowdfunding. With Veronica Mars, the studio could foot the bill upfront -- they just don't want to.
But where they do deliver above and beyond Willingham & Cho is that backers who pledge $35 actually get a digital copy of the movie. With Bifrost, the proposed illustrated novel, the closest equivalent is for backers who pledge $125 -- they get a signed copy of the book. There's no unsigned or digital equivalent for someone who pledges a lower amount. Willingham & Cho are trying to get paid twice for the same book: once now, from fans who want to donate ahead of time in order to win the chance to buy the book on the shelves later, and again from whoever agrees to publish it.
Like the Veronica Mars project, there's nothing immoral or wrong about going about the process this way. This would be a several-years-long process, and as they say on their page, "this is a Kickstarter project for selecting out the inordinately patient from the rest." But it doesn't sound like it's a project they're especially passionate about, either. Aside from the dreadfully boring video of Willingham describing the project and the process it would involve, the underlying message of this Kickstarter is, here's a project we would do if no other paying gig came up in the meantime, and if fans were willing to throw $30k at us to inspire us give up our downtime to work on it.
There's nothing wrong with asking. But I prefer to back projects that are inspiring, from creators who are willing to put a finished project in their backers' hands.
It's a proposed illustrated novel by Bill Willingham & Frank Cho, of Fables & various comics featuring cavewomen, respectively. I'm not an active follower of either man's work, but I've got nothing against them either -- Cho draws a wonderfully glamorous She-Hulk, in my personal opinion -- but this is a dreadful Kickstarter.
The project itself makes me think of the Veronica Mars kickstarter from a few weeks back. It sounds perfectly interesting -- in this case, an illustrated novel about the last descendent of Norse gods, and the primate detective she's teamed up with -- but the rewards involved here are pretty paltry. Post cards and thank yous at the lower levels, and 5-minute phone calls as you get up to $100. If you kick in $10k, you can be served dinner by Cho & Willingham. There's no low-level option to donate and get the book, presumably because Willingham & Cho are going to sell this project to a big-name publisher (and get rightfully paid for doing so), but that no doubt introduces complications with regard to giving actual copies of the actual book away.
The specifics of the Veronica Mars project were different, but essentially it was a film being backed by a major studio who didn't want to pay for it. So they asked fans to pay for it, upfront. There's nothing immoral about that, but to me the spirit of Kickstarter is that it allows people to make something they otherwise couldn't, without crowdfunding. With Veronica Mars, the studio could foot the bill upfront -- they just don't want to.
But where they do deliver above and beyond Willingham & Cho is that backers who pledge $35 actually get a digital copy of the movie. With Bifrost, the proposed illustrated novel, the closest equivalent is for backers who pledge $125 -- they get a signed copy of the book. There's no unsigned or digital equivalent for someone who pledges a lower amount. Willingham & Cho are trying to get paid twice for the same book: once now, from fans who want to donate ahead of time in order to win the chance to buy the book on the shelves later, and again from whoever agrees to publish it.
Like the Veronica Mars project, there's nothing immoral or wrong about going about the process this way. This would be a several-years-long process, and as they say on their page, "this is a Kickstarter project for selecting out the inordinately patient from the rest." But it doesn't sound like it's a project they're especially passionate about, either. Aside from the dreadfully boring video of Willingham describing the project and the process it would involve, the underlying message of this Kickstarter is, here's a project we would do if no other paying gig came up in the meantime, and if fans were willing to throw $30k at us to inspire us give up our downtime to work on it.
There's nothing wrong with asking. But I prefer to back projects that are inspiring, from creators who are willing to put a finished project in their backers' hands.
Monday, March 25, 2013
In which I reveal crimes against humanity
Yesterday I spent the day watching a Real World San Francisco marathon and writing The Punisher Disapproves, a memory of comic books, brotherly bonding, and theft. It's for The Longbox Project, a new site telling the story of comic collections, one issue at a time.
I have never before admitted to the terrible things revealed in that post, so I humbly await your judgement, understanding, terrible wrath, and/or forgiveness.
I have never before admitted to the terrible things revealed in that post, so I humbly await your judgement, understanding, terrible wrath, and/or forgiveness.
Friday, March 01, 2013
Celebrity & Intimacy
The first time we touch each other again is over Charlie -- we call him KC -- a big, friendly black dog. He's and older fella, the hair under his chin is gone white, and white hairs speckle the rest of his body in a way that reminds us that he's old and getting older, every day. Who isn't?
KC's body is lean. He's a big dog, and petting his back and his body we can feel his ribs and his breath. Our hands and fingers touch each others by accident, and we look at each to recognize this, but never at the same time. I see her eyes as they leave me face, and my eyes leave hers just so.
Her hair is blonder, her smile as perfect. The creases around it a little deeper, her finger and toenails just as bright. Her cheeks are still so round that when she smiles (so big) her eyes look nearly shut.
Outside, I'm with my family. Adam is there too, and so is my dad. My dad is always near when I dream. My family bickers as we perform a chore. The pool deck is in a state of repair, and there's a dump truck that requires sorting. We fight and tensions build -- my mom ignores them, which enrages me, and my dad eggs them on, which enrages me. Again, this is always what happens when I'm dreaming. SJ stops us and guides us through a prayer together. Part of the prayer is the pledge of allegiance, but it still feels spiritual and not secular. It calms us and we can continue to work. This is not what always happens when I dream.
She's overwhelmed by the prayer. She cries and I hold her against me -- my hands are on her bare upper arms -- and I'm reminded of being inside, a moment when she laid on the couch and I crouched close by, and we knew we had just this day together (or just this time together), and this is nice. It's unsaid, but I feel it, and I presume she feels the same.
She lies on a couch that is also a bathtub. The water swirls down the drain, and she's worried one of her scarves will be pulled down too. I do not let it happen.
There's so much I can't put into words, except that when I woke up I wanted to know it forever. I wanted to hold her like that, once. I wanted to be known like that again.
She lives forever for me like that. She lives in Ohio now.
I don't know her anymore, not really. I don't want anything back again. But I occasionally want what was, for a moment in a dream. I want to remember the feeling when I'm awake. I want to see that it's there and that it mattered. I know that it did for me, and I want it to be true for her too. We don't need to acknowledge it, except that I assume that we do, silently and separately, but aligned.
KC's body is lean. He's a big dog, and petting his back and his body we can feel his ribs and his breath. Our hands and fingers touch each others by accident, and we look at each to recognize this, but never at the same time. I see her eyes as they leave me face, and my eyes leave hers just so.
Her hair is blonder, her smile as perfect. The creases around it a little deeper, her finger and toenails just as bright. Her cheeks are still so round that when she smiles (so big) her eyes look nearly shut.
Outside, I'm with my family. Adam is there too, and so is my dad. My dad is always near when I dream. My family bickers as we perform a chore. The pool deck is in a state of repair, and there's a dump truck that requires sorting. We fight and tensions build -- my mom ignores them, which enrages me, and my dad eggs them on, which enrages me. Again, this is always what happens when I'm dreaming. SJ stops us and guides us through a prayer together. Part of the prayer is the pledge of allegiance, but it still feels spiritual and not secular. It calms us and we can continue to work. This is not what always happens when I dream.
She's overwhelmed by the prayer. She cries and I hold her against me -- my hands are on her bare upper arms -- and I'm reminded of being inside, a moment when she laid on the couch and I crouched close by, and we knew we had just this day together (or just this time together), and this is nice. It's unsaid, but I feel it, and I presume she feels the same.
She lies on a couch that is also a bathtub. The water swirls down the drain, and she's worried one of her scarves will be pulled down too. I do not let it happen.
There's so much I can't put into words, except that when I woke up I wanted to know it forever. I wanted to hold her like that, once. I wanted to be known like that again.
She lives forever for me like that. She lives in Ohio now.
I don't know her anymore, not really. I don't want anything back again. But I occasionally want what was, for a moment in a dream. I want to remember the feeling when I'm awake. I want to see that it's there and that it mattered. I know that it did for me, and I want it to be true for her too. We don't need to acknowledge it, except that I assume that we do, silently and separately, but aligned.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Satellites
There are places where you only have fun with certain people. That's gravity.
Consistency. Even the uneven kind (what kind of a pattern is 76 years?), it still has the ebb and flow, the push and pull of rhythm. You might not get the math, but you understand enough to trust the process.
Sometimes I'll dream those people. The men and women I only see a few times a year, or the ones I only see every few years. I'll dream that I'm home (which always means Ohio), that I'm in the sunken family room (the fact that there's one-step down into that room from the dining room was always a big deal to me), that Adrian is there with me. He's on the couch, I'm in a chair, the window is open and we can hear the frogs and crickets and toads of the woods behind my house. We didn't spend much time in those woods (those particular woods), but they form the perimeter of our friendship anyway. When I dream of him, I feel like I've seen him. When I dream of him, I dream that he's tired.
I feel the magnets of the midwest. I saw a news headline (unclicked) that asked, Why do meteors explode in midair? I wonder if I'm hurtling back toward the home country, assured of a soft landing in a grassy field, but destined to explode in midair.
I said to someone this weekend, I'd like to get back to the midwest someday.
They said to me, So you consider Ohio the midwest?
Consistency. Even the uneven kind (what kind of a pattern is 76 years?), it still has the ebb and flow, the push and pull of rhythm. You might not get the math, but you understand enough to trust the process.
Sometimes I'll dream those people. The men and women I only see a few times a year, or the ones I only see every few years. I'll dream that I'm home (which always means Ohio), that I'm in the sunken family room (the fact that there's one-step down into that room from the dining room was always a big deal to me), that Adrian is there with me. He's on the couch, I'm in a chair, the window is open and we can hear the frogs and crickets and toads of the woods behind my house. We didn't spend much time in those woods (those particular woods), but they form the perimeter of our friendship anyway. When I dream of him, I feel like I've seen him. When I dream of him, I dream that he's tired.
I feel the magnets of the midwest. I saw a news headline (unclicked) that asked, Why do meteors explode in midair? I wonder if I'm hurtling back toward the home country, assured of a soft landing in a grassy field, but destined to explode in midair.
I said to someone this weekend, I'd like to get back to the midwest someday.
They said to me, So you consider Ohio the midwest?
Monday, February 11, 2013
Superstition, Ritual, Coinicidence
- eating the smaller piece before the bigger piece.
- taking a new way home when I notice my patterns (but only on foot, never in a car).
- the belief that I don't have any superstitions.
- having a thing to drink when I'm writing. water, for the normal things. beer or red bull for the harder things.
- wheaties, orange juice. first the one, then the other.
- Jeopardy during dishes.
- taking the long way from Owensville when I drive into Ohio for the first time in a year.
- one book for the long train, another book for the other.
- we're thinking of each other right now.
- we haven't spoken all day; we want the same thing for dinner.
- we all moved to San Francisco; we all went to school to be writers.
- dude, we ALL moved to San Francisco; we didn't even meet on purpose; I'm the luckiest guy in the world.
Friday, December 07, 2012
Guys, we've got to start blogging more.
In part of the AV Club's favorite-things-of-2012 survey, David Cross responds to "What's the best TV show you watched in 2012?" by pointing out that he doesn't watch TV or own a TV, then names two TV shows that he likes, and I don't think it was a joke.
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