That Special Season

Kelly Sue is goodly enough to remind us that, if you haven't registered to vote, you should do so now. You're running out of time. She also points us to a website that offers you the chance to win an obscene amount of money for registering. So either way, get registered and get voted.

Nerd up!

Okay, so a few weeks ago someone calling himself Batman raided a kid's birthday party, and stole some cake. Everyone who's nerdy enough to find that funny already knows that.

So, in the ultimate example of why Spider-Man will always be cooler than Batman: What does a guy calling himself Spider-Man do? He climbs a 59-story building with his bare hands.

(Found via Warren.)

Carol Overall

I admit, I'm not much of a web-sleuth, so if anyone can offer some assistance, I would greatly appreciate it. Once upon a time, Natasia bought a painting at a liqour store. And it was a really awesome painting. And being a kind-hearted soul, Natasia recently (like, five minutes ago) passed it on to me. It's signed by an artist named Carol Overall and I'm trying to dig up some information on her, if there is any to be dug up. I imagine she's just Some Lady, but as I was carrying it up the stairs to my place it occurred to me that she might like to know what happened to her painting, you know? Or, if nothing else, I'd like to be able to tell some sort of Carol Overall story when people ask me about the painting in my living room. It shows an older man playing cards at a table, with an ashtray, pennies, and some cards in front of him. The cards are real cards, the wallpaper behind him is real wallpaper, and there is a whole other painting of some trees hanging on the wall behind him. Here are some pictures:

34 year old males who like Classic Rock

I stole this one from The Beat, which I check every day for my comic-book-gossip needs. It's the results of a reader survey by Diamond Comics, the largest distributor of comics and graphic novels to comic book specialty shops:

Average age: 34

Gender: 87 percent male; 13 percent female

Residence:
City — 48 percent
Suburbs — 38 percent
Rural — 14 percent

Education level:
College — 45 percent
High school — 33 percent
Junior college — 10 percent
Post graduate — 9 percent
Grade school — 3 percent

Music taste:
Classic rock — 27 percent
Metal — 16 percent
Adult contemporary — 8 percent
Country/western — 6 percent
Classical — 4 percent
Rap/hip-hop — 2 percent

Own a computer: 77 percent

Use the Internet: 86 percent

Own a home video game system: 68 percent

Yikes. The thing to remember, however, is that these are the folks who *chose* to respond to a survey that most likely came out of Previews, which the catalog Diamond sells through the comic shops that highlight comics releases in two months time. So, the results are skewed. You only get the folks who buy Previews from their comic shop and choose to respond--meaning all of those kids buying manga from Borders aren't being counted. I bought Previews religiously when I was in high school, but thanks to Chicago Comics stacking them around the corner from the sales desk, I don't even think about it anymore. I don't think this is representative of comics readers as much as it is representative of the average comic book store shopper.

Sweet-Ass Saucy 'Stache

Jill took the picture:



Jen Echo and I wrote the story:

The place is the Powerhouse Gym on Michigan Avenue, in Chicago, that windiest of Windy Cities. The time is five minutes from NOW.

Franklin Delano Mustache had just finished working out, a little running on the NordicTrack, a little dipping in the pool, and he was toweling himself down following a locker room shower when his gaze lingered, a little too long, on a fellow fitness enthusiast. The FEE wasn’t fazed by the stare, he was used to it by now; he was buff, he was tan, he was a good-looking man. It was the way Mr. Mustache licked his, well, mustache, that made him bristle. The FEE glared at MM and moved to another corner of the locker room.

Mr. Mustache sighed. Not everyday is your day, he thought to himself. He hastily gathered his things, tucked in his shirt, and headed outside for the train.

Walking to the red line, Mr. Mustache’s march was interrupted by exiting wedding receptors, happily leaving a nearby church. They left joy, confetti, and a disposable camera in their wake. Mr. Mustache, being one part frugal and two parts curious, picked up the camera, intent on spending the remaining shots if only to see what was captured before.

He continued to the train. The swoosh of the train doors blew a breeze against his exposed leg hairs,, thus reminding him of his state of almost-undress—Mr. Mustache had forgotten to change out of his workout shorts. This tiny, yet drastic, change in his everyday dress sent his mind reeling. Mr. Mustache was a mustache man, to be sure, but he was also solidly a pants man. It was not like him to be found naked from the thighs to the ankles. Being so, half-dressed, on a public transport train, with a half-used camera that wasn’t really his, with a locker room fantasy still on his mind . . . he felt freer, freest, free!

On any other day he might have spent the remaining shots of the camera on squirrels or trees or bowls of fruit. But today, he was someone else, someone new, someone daring. Though not invisible, he was certainly in disguise, free to behave in ways he normally would not. He looked around at his fellow passengers, all beautiful people, traveling who-knew-where on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. He snapped a photograph of a pretty girl, he smiled and winked at her. She laughed, and snapped a picture right back.

The train pulled into the Belmont station and his mind cannot stop the whir-click-working at the possibilities that might await him in the busy street below. He fought his way through the crowd, taking a few more photographs of smiles and uneasy glances, squeezed his way past fellow travelers and fellow lovers of the world. He gave them a nod and an arch of his eyebrows, and they tipped their caps right back. Adventure was before him and his pants were far, far behind.
Through the turnstile and onto the sidewalk, Mr. Mustache looked down to admire his impressive shorts. GASP! He lifted the billow of his shirt to take a self-portrait from the waist down. He stroked his ‘stache with self-satisfaction and proceeded down Belmont with a gait so light some might say he was skipping. With each block east he felt less conspicuous and a little sassier. Click, advance, click, advance, so many pretty things, the least of which was he. He was late for a rendezvous at Stella’s with a hunk of a man who adored Mr. Mustache’s Canadian status.

But first thing’s first, thought Mr.—no, no, Monsieur Mustache, and he made a sudden right into an overpriced studio on Barry. He had three shots left in his camera and an itch that needed scratchin’.
Mssr. Mustache stepped into the studio, the sunlight framing him from behind. Lawrence was working the studio today after taking three weeks off for a full-body wax. He was smooth, he was slippery, he was ready to wriggle into MM’s life.

“Everybody out,” Lawrence said. “We’re closing early today.”

MM winked, and a slow smile crept over his face.

Twenty minutes later, MM stepped back into the sun, relaxed and with a fresh camera in his hands. Maybe he would come back in an hour to pick up the developed film; maybe he would follow the sun and keep on traveling. He had to get to Stella’s, after all, to prove he was from the Great White North.

A skate rat teen sped by, sneering into his headphones, and MM spun around, karate-chopping the melancholy youth in-between the shoulder blades. The rat fell to the sidewalk and MM hopped onto his skateboard, tossing him a grin in return. MM dash-dash-dashed away, and he was fast-fast-fast. The rat looked up, upset at first, and understandably so; but who could stay angry in the face of such a delightful get-away bum? The rat couldn’t help but smile and give Monsieur the thumb’s up.

MM sped on, wishing only that spandex had pockets so that he might find a roll of Mentos (The Fresh Maker!) to prepare for his meeting. He thought of the ad that had brought him speeding this way in the first place:

SWGM seeking French Canadian to lament the new DeGrassi High and revere the old, to cheer the Leafs, to recite fave Kids skits and hum the theme. To debate the merits of Ted Koppel and to contemplate how Mounties are different from Troopers. Are you him? Call me.

Was there anyone more fitting than Mssr. Mustache himself? Certainly not!

Ditching the skateboard, MM walked into Stella’s and immediately saw trouble. Decked in acid-washed short-shorts and a Bryan Adams tee, SWGM was flapping his arms wildly from a table near the kitchen.

Surely everyone deserves at least one chance, thought MM.

“L’agenouillement vers le bas avant moi et sucent mon penis,” said his would-be suitor.

It was clear to MM that SWGM had simply stumbled upon an internet language translator and hoped it would be enough to fool a true French-Canadian.

What a disappointment, thought MM.

All the same, MM smiled and settled in for a drink. He lived up to MM’s expectations, but could climb no higher. The discussed DeGrassi, the Kids, and Ted Koppel’s piece; but it was dry and lifeless, lacking the sweat and vitality implied in the late-night IM conversations that had preceded their face-to-face. The night seemed to be heading where so many had before: plenty of liquor, lights-off man-groping, and a changed screen name in the morning.

Maybe for the old MM, he thought. But this time, things are different.

The good Monsieur excused himself to the washroom, smiling politely and declining the Fake French-Canadian’s offer to join him. MM wasted no time in wriggling out of the bathroom window and lowering himself to the alley below. He was dusting himself off when he heard a strong, deep voice from the street.

“What’s this? Skipping out on the bill?”

MM looked to the gaping mouth of the alley and saw a magnificent beast; well, two. A police officer mounted on horseback, both with rippling muscles hidden under brown fur. The cop’s chest hair burst in a triangle from the neck of his shirt, his thick arms covered in more hair than Robin Williams. The cop had a mustache too, one to rival MM’s own, one that hid his upper lip and tickled his lower.

I wonder what else that mustache has tickled, thought MM.

MM scanned the alley and found his reflection in the shards of a broken mirror. Not looking for a repeat of his locker room disappointment, MM made certain his face did not betray his own desire to be tickled.

“Well, what’s the story?” demanded the officer, dismounting and entering the alley himself.

MM curled his toes tightly in his shoes, concentrating on their tightening and not the officer’s luscious ‘stache. “Officer, this is not what it seems.”

“Oh,” said the officer. “Really?” The officer stepped closer, leaving MM quite literally between a rock and a hard place.

“No sir,” said MM. “My only debt is to karma, as I must have done something awful to have a blind date with some do-it-yourself French dude with a Canadian jones. Leave through the front door, he might follow; leave through the back, I start with a clean karma slate.”

MM closed his eyes. The officer stepped closer and MM’s toes curled tighter. MM was sure his face was being tickled by a triangle of angelic hair. The shattered mirror was no longer in view, but MM found himself wetting his own mustache and he knew his face must have by now betrayed his thoughts. He blinked his eyes quickly open and the cop was there, he was oh-so-right-there, smiling and nodding, with a hand on his nightstick.

MM closed his eyes again; the mystery sparkles danced on his eyelids and the butterflies tingled in his stomach. He heard a throbbing, he felt it, in his tummy. It moved up past his heart (through his heart), into his throat, filling up his brain. It moved down, too, into his toes, making them uncurl, making them wiggle and giggle and tap. The sparkles behind his eyes grew brighter, moved faster, and his knees grew weak and became liquid. He fell backwards, panicking but unable to open his eyes, and he was afraid he would crack his skull against the brick wall. But he didn’t crack his skull against the brick wall. He fell backwards and he swirled around the air rushed this way and that and the throbbing grew stronger and he could fee the rhythm beneath the soles of his feet, beneath the soul of himself. The bass throbbed, and the hi-hat opened, and the synth broke glass, and the guitar, oh my god, that guitar sang and shook the whole world down.

Mssr. Mustache opened his eyes and the cop was before him, whirling and twirling fist over fist, wearing tiny shorts that bulged in the middle, with hairy legs and bulky black boots, a tight, tight blue shirt, mirrored sunglasses and a shiny white helmet. The lights were dim and rainbow and fog drifted from he didn’t know where, and the air was heavy with sweat and lust and danger and fever. The space was crowded with men who were dancing and shaking their hips and smiling and clapping to the beat. Mssr. Mustache smiled too and he gave in to the rhythm, gave in to the fun and to the unknown of it all, and he clapped his hands and he clapped the cop’s hands, and he thanked himself for getting on that train, for climbing out of that window, and for closing his eyes, and for opening them again and for hearing that music.

He smiled and he laughed and he clapped his hands again. He shook his hips and he shook his ass and he wiggled his toes some more. He spun and he danced, and he danced, and he danced all night.

More Kids and Comics

I used to talk about comics with Jill and more than once we said it was strange that I was into them at all, since they seem to be a medium that for the most part passed up kids my age. I mean, folks my age knew what they were, and some even had them as a kid, but I was the only kid at my school who went to the comic shop every Wednesday to load up on new books. Well, once I knew there were such things as comic shops, anyway. Before that, I went to Waldenbooks at Eastgate Mall and raided the rack.

But it's not so strange when you look into it. I was into comics because my brother was into comics. My brother is ten years older than me, so he was a kid in the late 70's and early 80's. The first comic book I remember owning was a copy of Green Lantern he gave to me. The first one I remember buying was an Alpha Flight I picked up on a trip to Waldenbooks with him. He was the one who introduced me Don Parker's Records and Comics, the first comics specialty shop I'd ever been to. We used to trade comics with each other, and I'm pretty sure he always came out ahead on those deals. But I was into comics because he was, and I was into Marvel comics because he was. I kept my comics in a footlocker, because he did too. I started buying white longboxes after he did. I started bagging my comics because he showed me how to get the comics into the bags without the tape getting stuck to them.

He joined the Navy and moved to Florida when he was 20, so my comics interests were left to evolve on their own after that. I got into DC/Vertigo books and indie titles like BONE and MADMAN. I picked up the SPX anthologies and started to recognize names like James Kochalka and Alex Robinson. I found SIN CITY and FROM HELL. As a teenager I wrote my own comic book sagas, plotting out a 300-issue superhero epic and re-imagining the Death of Superman as if I'd thought of it on my own, acting out key scenes with G.I. Joe figures. I didn't really find other people who were into comics until I was in my 20's, and even then it wasn't quite the same thing. I like superheroes, but I don't read about them anymore. But I still think about them, and what they mean and where they're going, and where comics are going as a medium and an art form and an industry. Jill and I used to talk about kids and comics and whether they were reading them or not.

I went to Borders the other day because they're having a manga/graphic novel sale. I don't know if you've looked at the comics section of your local chain bookstore lately, but it's pretty interesting. At the one closest to my house they have two sections of superhero and "literary" Western comics, and about twice that of manga. A crowd of kids descended on the manga while I was looking at the Other Stuff and they were talking excitedly about the new books that were out in their series. A lot of manga titles stretch on for five, ten, twenty volumes, each at between ten and twenty dollars apiece, and kids and teenagers are the ones buying them. And they're buying them from bookstores like Borders, not from the local comics shop. And when I say kids, I mean girls too--the particular group I saw was made up of three girls and one boy.

I think about the people creating comics a lot. Mainstream comics, sold at the comics shops, are still peddling 24 page pamphlets, still about superheros, still written by grown white men. The difference between now and when my brother was growing up is that they're now being bought by grown white men, too. The same dude who followed the adventures of Batman and Robin when he was 13 is still buying them now that he's 33. But they're still being written as if a 13-year-old is reading it--it's curious and it's maddening and it used to make me wonder what would happen to comics in ten or twenty years, when the current audience moves or runs out of cash or dies off.

But in that bookstore the other day I figured out that ten years from now, the people writing and drawing comics will be drawing from a different model than creators my age or my brother's age. They'll have grown up on manga and trade collections and comics sold in bookstores and not comics shops. They'll be open to more possibilities of what comics can be and have been and they won't be as limited by format as the superhero folks are. I'm excited to see how their reading tastes evolve. I bet they'll move to the stuff non-comics publishers are putting out, like PERSEPOLIS and IN THE SHADOW OF NO TOWERS from Pantheon, or publishers like Top Shelf who specialize in trades. I'm interested in who they'll be pitching their own stories to, since the comics they're growing up on are mostly imports from Japan. But I'm sure it'll work itself out, and I'm kind of excited to see the work they produce.

Zombies Are Forever

Dateline: Crawfordsville!

I spent a day and a half in Indiana helping The Knife and Miss Kitten Foy make their zombie movie. I suggested the title "Zombies Are Forever," but it was politely ignored. I also suggested "Zombies Don't Wear Diamonds," which I stole from Jen K's mom, but this was also smiled at and forgotten. These people, they have no vision.

Okay, so they actually have lots and lots of vision. The Knife ran a tight ship, making sure everything was done and taken care of, hanging up pig posters:



Laying down sheets:



And applying makeup:



While The Foy gave instructions to The Cast:



And we got out of the way and let the zombies do what zombies do best. Which is walk into corn.



I also learned that horseplay is not allowed at the Skate Corral. And I had the most meaningful and pleasant conversation I've ever had with a two-year old, while his parents were being zombies under sheets.



We discussed the Army, why we both like ice in our drinks, and how neither of us knew how to roller skate. Such a polite young man.

And the parents! The parents really come through in Crawfordsville. Clothes, skating rinks, graveyards, altars--they know how to deliver, folks. That's quite a support network.

Crawfordsville: A Good Place For Zombies . . .



. . . and A Good Place For Nappin'.

Fake Cat, Real Advice

New Ray's Place:

PS: Dude, don’t rag on your mom. That is what a piece of shit does.

The Brown Bunny

There's an interesting interview with Vincent Gallo up at the Onion.

"It's Risky, But I Get My Laughs"

A lot of my August book money went toward comics, since Wizard World fell in the middle of the month--and may Stan Lee bless all of those fine retailers who had boxes and boxes of half-price trades this year. I don't have much to say about them that hasn't been covered in earlier posts, as I haven't read very many of them, but what I've looked over so far can be found below.

SAGA OF THE SWAMP THING, BOOK 1 by Alan Moore and Steve Bissette. I'm a big Alan Moore fan, but I've never picked up the Swamp Thing stuff. This volume collects the beginning of his run on the title and an introduction from Alan provides the backstory of the character so that no one is left out--I sure needed it, as my only other encounter with ST was the movie from the 80's and the week or so Adrian and I got a kick out of singing the theme song to the 90's cartoon ("Swamp Thing . . . You are amazing . . . Ohhhhh, Swamp Thing!"). The first few issues, where it is revealed that what we know about Swamp Thing isn't what we know at all and that the human Alec Holland did not become a plant-like creature at all, showcase mainstream horror comics at their finest. It is revealed that the Swamp Thing is actually a collection of plants, just like he looks, that has come to believe it was once human. It possesses the memories and emotions of Alec Holland and has even developed plant-like internal organs that serve no real purpose, except that the creature believes it needs them. The second storyline involves Swamp Thing's friend Abby and a demon that is living off of the fear running rampant in a home for troubled children. Aside from some amusing dialoge from Jack Kirby's Demon, there wasn't much from the second story that I enjoyed. It shows promise for the rest of Moore's run, however, and I'll keep an eye out for later volumes at next year's show.

THE COMPLETE PEANUTS 1950-1952, by Charles Schulz. I've been coveting this book since it first came out, and was lucky enough to snag a slightly-used copy for half-price at the show. I've been reading a few strips before bed ever since. The very first PEANUTS strip, from October 1950, is a perfect introduction to the next 50 years of strips. In a four panel sequence, two children sit on a step and watch as a smiling Charlie Brown approaches. "Well! Here comes ol' Charlie Brown!" the boy says. "Good ol' Charlie Brown . . . yes, sir!" he continues. "Good ol' Charlie Brown," he says, as Charlie passes. Then, with Charlie out of sight, the boy frowns angrily and says, "How I hate him!"

THE ESSENTIAL SPIDER-MAN, VOLUME 5, by Stan Lee, John Romita, Roy Thomas, Gil Kane, and more. This is the fifth volume in black and white reprints of Spider-Man's early adventures. I'm a Spider-Man nerd, and this is the most economically sound way for me to read the early issues. If you're not a fan, you probably won't dig it. If you are, you probably already know about this series.

I have a stuck of unread books from the show, including REINVENTING COMICS (finally), the first two volumes of CONAN reprints, OFFERED VOL. 2 (again, finally), and AGE OF BRONZE: SACRIFICE, the second volume of a series by Eric Shanower that is retelling the story of the Trojan War, and that has been going on since long before TROY rolled into theaters. Once I've read them, you'll be the first to know.

Otherwise, my book buying has been pretty conservative. I took a trip to Ohio for a weekend and picked up THE SUN ALSO RISES, easily one of the finest, saddes, most beautiful books I've ever read, and I've posted about it at length in a few entries previously. This set me on a Hemingway kick and I got going again on A FAREWELL TO ARMS, which I'd set aside previously when school reading got heavy last semester. I also picked up a few new (to me) Hemingway titles:

THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY, which collects the entirety of THE FIRST FORTY-NINE, as well as stories published subsequent to that collection and seven previoulsy unpublished stories. Mainly I've spent my time with "The Snows of Kilimanjaro," a story of a writer on safari in Africa with a woman he treats best when he's lying to her.

THE YOUNG HEMINGWAY, by Michael Reynolds, the first volume in his four (I think?) volume series telling the life of Ernest Hemingway. It's still early, but so far he's not trying to tell a day-by-day description of Hem's manly adventures as much as he is giving a broader sense of the Oak Park and Great War experiences that created the mindset the young adult Ernest ventured out into the world with. From a writer's perspective, it's interesting getting an objective look at how his mind and craft came together; from a reader's perspective, it's a shame that I've already figured out that he's not that admirable of a fella in a lot of ways. All the same, he is not, as one blogger would have you believe, "overrated."

Candy!

This is bizarre.

Firm recalls candy
with 9/11 attack toy

Check out the picture.

The Sun Also Rises

"I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends."

"She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl."

"That was morality: things that made you disgusted afterward."

"The world was a good place to buy in. It seemed like a fine philosophy. In five years, I thought, it will seem just as silly as all the other fine philosophies I've heard.
"Perhaps that wasn't true. Perhaps as you went along you did learn something. I did not care what it was all about. All I wanted to know was how to live in it. Maybe if you found out how to live in it you learned from that what it was all about."

I don't know about you, but I have a perfect habit of finding the perfect book for a perfect time in my life. I was in the airport waiting for an airplane and I'd brought only one book with me; usually I bring two or three or four, and then only read one. This time, I was going to make a choice before I left and stick with it. So, waiting for my plane, I got out DAVID COPPERFIELD and I got back to the story, as I'd left it a few weeks before, when I was distracted by schoolwork. But reading DC requires a certain sense of whimsy and wonder in your voice and in your heart, and it just wasn't with me that afternoon. I had a line of dialogue from THE SUN ALSO RISES still ringing in my head from a conversation the night before, so I sought out an airport bookstore and bought a copy. I'd read Hemingway, but never SUN.

I started it in the airport and finished it four days later, riding on the train back to my apartment.

Jake Barnes, he of the Great War and America and of an unspoken war wound, is in love with Lady Brett Ashley. Lady Brett is in love with Jake, but Jake's wound keeps them apart. Meanwhile, she sleeps with almost everyone else in the book who expresses an interest. I'm a sucker for love stories that end badly, and this seemed to be the kind. But Brett isn't in the book all that much, at least compared to the effect of her. All the men are caught up in her, and I was caught up in her too. I thought of girls like her, and I understand when Jake says, "To hell with Brett," and all the same runs to help when he receives a telegram from her. I understand when he says it's been hard on Mike that it's really been hard on him, and I understand when he tells Bill that he feels lousy as hell. I'm far from Jake, but I know what he means, and I understand how he got that way and why he stays that why, and I can't decide if he's better off. If he didn't have that wound, if he and Brett had slept together when they met in England during the war, he would be just another man she met and loved and left. But because they can't, Jake is the one she talks to and walks with and kisses in cabs.

Annie said it stabs you in the guts, but I think it's more of a light touch of someone's fingers on your elbow in a movie theater. You know it's bad news, but you can't help but want it, and more.

"Oh, Jake" Brett said, "we could have had such a damned good time together."

"Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"

PB NYC

The Pink Bloque is dancing in dissent at the RNC in NYC this weekend. If you're there, give a high five to the ladies in pink.

The Great Big IF

The inner life is a tricky dick. It’s that thing in people’s heads that colors everything they take in, how they receive and perceive and send out again. You can talk about it with someone, but you’ll never quite get it right, never see what they see or know what they know. Or at least not how they know it. For one, you can’t verbalize precisely what’s happening in your head so that someone else will understand; you’re not even intimately aware of everything that led up to what you are and why. Maybe you’re uncomfortable introducing your new girlfriend to your best friend, for example, because somewhere in time and space you’re still smarting from when your then-pal Jimmy Daniel stole Patty Mayfield from you in the third grade. Meanwhile, you’ll happily bring your ladyfriend around to see every stoner, drunk, nowhere acquaintance you’ve met in the meantime. Maybe, maybe not.

Second, every message you send out, and I mean every phone call, love note, back rub, or snippet of small talk you use to connect with another human being, every single instance of communication you send out, is being received and interpreted and colored by someone else who is just as influenced and screwed up by their own experiences as you are by yours. Maybe Patty Mayfield, to this day, gets a little tingle in her stomach when she meets her new boyfriend’s best friend, even though she doesn’t remember way.

So the first problem, that you don’t really know what you’re saying, is compounded by the second problem, that they don’t really know what to make of it. They fill in the gaps with your persona, what they’ve invented for you, to perceive you by. Maybe you’re the Reliable One in their lives, who they call when they need twenty bucks or don’t know how to get home; or the Drunk One, who calls them for those very reasons; or the Funny One, the Shady One, the Movie One, the Complaining One, the Horny One, the One One. Nobody gets to choose which One they are in someone else’s live, as hard as they might try to exude a Oneness of something.

(A readable result of my imaginary friends research is coming post-weekend, I promise.)

Oh! What A Day

Well boys, what more can be said? It's been a big day for us all. We learned a lot about life, we learned a little about love, we learned some about Corey. Corey is raw and rugged, he's sexy and he's addicted, and if he lives to see 30 then he should know that his glory days are behind him. We know in our heart of hearts that Corey will only hurt us in the end, but egads, who can say no to the trip he offers us? Not I, friend. And I bet you can't, either.

You're ramblin' men, my Coreys, and perhaps it is not meant for mere mortals to understand you. We can only bask in your glory for a short while, once a year perhaps, when we set aside all other responsibilities and ponder on what makes a Corey and why we love you so. So good-night, sweet princes, and may you have many adventures, may you love many women, and may you fuck up as much shit as possible!

This has been the Unstoppable Juggernaut of Corey, 2004. I remain your faithful servant, a Corey at heart if not in name,

-MDJ.

Corey Hair

Annie is concerned that Corey Hart isn't getting his due on this day of All-Corey, and she's probably right. Admittedly, Hart is not my specialty--I was terribly tempted to call the Corey & Corey 900 number in my youth in order to hear a special recorded message from Feldman and Haim--and I was hoping to hear from Miss D on the subject. The lovely Sheri runs a swell site devoted to Corey Hart's hair, where you not only get lots of pictures of the Hart Head, but also such facts as:

-On Corey growing his hair out long when he wrote JADE--Corey said that the long hair had been the look he had in early high school.  He said it never got him any girls back then, either...

-Even though Corey wears his hair short again, I don't think he uses as much hair gel as in the 80's...

-Corey often pours water over his head while performing on stage and then runs his fingers through his wet hair...

-I once tried to make my husband's hair stand up and look like Corey's.  Unfortunately, my husband's hair did not cooperate!!  Even using a whole tube of extra-strength gel I still couldn't get it to stay up!!!  His hair, that is...

Corey Haggard's Chest

When I was seventeen and Adrian was seventeen and we were seniors in high school, we would drive around Newtonsville and Owensville and Eastgate and Milford in his car. His car was cooler than mine, and it had blackouts on the headlights and neon lights on the dashboard. It was a lousy car to have to sit in the backseat, but it was better to look at then my Escort, so that's the way it was.

Adrian picked me up one day, picked me up first, and then we went to get Angie Nunez. We were going nowhere in particular. She got in the back and we pulled onto the street, onto Cedarville, and we started to dive away. Angie was going through her bag and she realized she'd forgotten something, her keys maybe, I don't remember. She asked Adrian to turn around and go back, so he did, pulling into the driveway at Corey Haggard's place.



Corey's house was a split-level and it always had the garage door open and it always had a Corvette or two parked out front. The Haggards were those kind of people. As Adrian pulled into his driveway he honked his horn three short times, bap-bap-bap, because Corey Haggard was harmless, but amusing. We sat in the driveway for a moment, waiting for a car to pass on the street behind us so we could get going again. There was movement in one of the windows up above, a fluttering of the curtain, and it was pulled aside to reveal Corey Haggard with a wet head and a bare chest and a smile. He had a towel wrapped around his waist.

I lived out in the country when I was a kid--there were cornfields on either side of our house and trees across the road--and even then I would draw the curtains shut if I was moving around with no shirt off, or if I was watching MTV's THE GRIND late at night. But here, but now, this Haggard was throwing the curtain aside even as he was pre-dressed, to see what the commotion was outside. Adrian honked again and Angie clapped and I said, "Wow," and we backed out into the street, yelled and gave Corey the finger, and sped away into the day.

It's lovely.

From Betsy, a haiku:

Dream a Little Dream
A syringe and a cold floor
Corey passed out, dead.

Corky = Corey?

You say "Corky" and I think of kids with Down's Syndrome. I GUESS I'M A JERK. It's a good thing Meredith is around to set me straight:

CORKY NEMIC: THE OTHER COREY
By Mer



As a female child, I was indoctrinated in the ways of mooning over boys by the hallowed elder of fan magazines: Tiger Beat. Those monthly pinups took a place of honor in my TrapperKeeper: the boys from New Kids on the Block (Jordan was the dreamiest), Neil Patrick Harris (before he came out of the closet), and of course, the Coreys. All Lost Boys and coked out, those Coreys set the standard of hot. Edgy, cocky, yet so vulnerable on the inside.

Sometime in the early nineties, before I realized how much of a tool I was for a) having a TrapperKeeper and b) listening to New Kids, that Bible of teen stardom announced an addition to the Corey clatch. A man by the name of Corin Nemic-Corky, as it were. Ooo. An edgy nickname. Very much like a Greek conjugation: from the root of "Cor" meaning "80s/90s heartthrob." This is, of course, before "Corky" from Life Goes On, the "specially abled" Corky who taught us all how to love and laugh. Especially at Down's Syndrome. But, no. This was the first Corky. And how I loved him, his floppy hair. His Roman nose. His secret $2000 a week cocaine habit that he and the other Coreys indulged in after hours at the Viper Club.

Corky, of course, first broke into stardom as "token white friend" of that strange runt Emmanuel Lewis on Webster. He went on to star in such TV movies as I Know My Name is Steven, where his harrowing portrayal of sexual abuse and kidnapping victim Steven shook America to its core. As he aged, and acquired a leather jacket and friendship with Mr. Haim and Mr. Feldman, he landed himself that plum role as Parker Lewis in the like titled Parker Lewis Can't Lose! No, he can't. Not with Corky in the lead. He could be both rakish and lovable, that prankster with a heart of gold. Ferris Bueler for the new generation. Of course, FOX canceled it, but its cult status rivals that of The Lost Boys, but with less vampires. It's not Goonies, but can you actually name anything that fucking Haim was in? No. No you can't.

We all know Feldman was the ringleader; what we need to accept is that Corky Nemic was as much a follower as the man called Haim.

Where is Corky Nemic now? Dwindling on the C-List, passing around a joint with Haim, waiting for that phone call asking him to be on The Surreal Life. Don't worry, baby. They'll be on the horn soon enough, asking you to please, share your awesome Corey power with the world. Switch that "e" for a "k"-hey, that's a-okay with me. And Tiger Beat, proclaiming Corkey a Corey. So what have we learned? Parker Lewis Can't Lose!, yes. And with enough drugs, turned up jacket collars, and the acceptance of Feldman, you too can be a Corey.

I Don't Know What Googlism Is

But they sure know a lot about the Coreys. Once again, from Annie:

corey haim is raising your adrenalin
corey haim is one of the few juvenile performers to thrive in wacky comedy roles
corey haim is gay
corey haim is back together
corey haim is being sued for allegedly not disclosing he had been hooked on drugs and alcohol since the age of 15
corey haim is that he was in a sega cd video game called "double switch
corey haim is still hanging in there
corey haim is the younger brother who joins forces with a brash and outspoken vampire hunter
corey haim is actually quite good as marty
corey feldman is pretty sure he knows what you think of him
corey feldman is my man
corey feldman is cresting on his angry young man
corey feldman is there just
corey feldman is still the better corey
corey feldman is just one
corey feldman is going to someday be a talent to be reckoned
corey feldman is cute
corey feldman is sooooooooooo sickening
corey feldman is still alive
orey feldman is 31
corey feldman is bringing together all his fellow former child stars for a "we are the world"
corey feldman is also a writer
corey hart is moving your corpuscles
corey hart is not complaining
corey hart is lying on the bathroom floor with the door closed
corey hart is hot pt
corey hart is a good sleeper
corey hart is still singing it
corey hart is clearly one given to writing about affairs of the heart
my friend corey is okay
my friend corey is drop dead bored