Si a few weeks ago I was at a friend’s birthday thing and met a friend of his named Simon. Simon and I hit it off and spent most of the night laughing and drinking. Somewhere in there Simon suggested I come down to watch “the football” as he calls it. I suppose I should mention Simon is rather British.

So today I got up fuckearly for a Sunday and headed down to the East Village to watch a soccerfootball game. I got there a bit after 10, which was when the game started and opened the door.

Now, I live in New York. I’m used to rush hour trains. I’ve seen film and pictures of people crammed onto trains in Tokyo, as well. I’m fairly sure we all have.

For example

This place made all of that seem spacious. It took me at least 5 minutes to force myself to the middle of the bar. Then I got stuck. People wanted to go by, either way, they would grab onto part of my jacket and pull themselves by. You couldn’t move, really. All you could do was watch some soccerfootball. Manchester United vs. Aston Villa to be exact. Now in a space that crowded you start to worry about jostling and shoving and people who are drinking becoming a bit of a bother. Not here. Nope. Everyone was polite and happy. Fans from both sides, mind you. No one boo’d the other side, really. No, it was just a madhouse of die hard fans.

What killed me was the number of people drinking. Plastic cups, glasses and bottles. People moving around as best they could and yet I never saw anyone spill a drop. I didn’t get a drink because I couldn’t really move my arms and I just knew I would be the schmuck to drop a pint on someone else’s head and start the giant immobile bar fight. So, you know, no thanks.

The chants never stopped, the cheering, clapping, scream of “Oh come the fuck ON then!” and so on, were perfectly, gloriously, relentless. I was never truly a hockey fan until I saw my first game with a bunch of die hard hockey nuts. This is the same thing. There’s a certain (claustrophobic) joy to it all. Mmm mob mentalities first thing on a Sunday.

Actually to mention the claustrophobic bits, you know I am not bad in tight places. I am usually fairly calm. There were, today, a few times though when I had this thought of “What if I need to move, at all, ever?” and had to shake it off. SoccerFootball – not for the claustrophobic at all. Kee-ripes.

Anyway. During half-time I found Simon and ended up at the other side of the bar where there was enough space to actually move my arms! Not much, but I could move them! It makes an incredible difference. So we watched the second half, with Simon occasionally going “See, then, this is the football.” I explained to some other folk there I kinda-knew that I had watched soccerfootball before, I just didn’t follow it and I had never followed it into this place before.

Eventually, as these things, must, the game ended. Around noon I found myself outside, blinking. Felt like about 5 or 6pm. There’s nothing like letting that type of mob grab you and carry you away sometimes. three or four hundred people in a space clearly meant for two hundred all cheering and having a go of it just makes whatever it is your watching so much better. I had to bail and get some stuff done But as I left Simon grinned and gave me one last:

“Well, that was the football, huh?”

Yeah. It was.

Some mornings are harder than others. Sometimes even 16oz of Red Bull doesn’t really cut through the fog. Then again this particular fog has been hanging low over me since sometime Saturday. Which could mean that my crappy sleep schedule is messing with me extra shittily the last few days, or I’ve gone around the bend and am now on the crazy train to senile.

Given that I’m a cranky old man, I’m betting against the sleep schedule.

So when I start to drool and curse all you motherfuckers out and wave a stick around, claiming that “Gertie the Stick here will teach y’all a lesson,” oh wait, that just means it’s Tuesday, doesn’t it? Shit.

Well fuck us all sideways and six times on Easter, I guess we’re stuck. I’ll continue to just go crazy over here and you guys golf clap and score it over there, I suppose. Like always, you know? Nothing fancy.

Hey Maverick?

Yeah Goose?

Now, this is the story all about how my life got flipped-turned upside down. And I’d like to take a minute just sit right there I’ll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air.

In west Philadelphia born and raised on the playground was where you spent most of your days chillin’ out maxin’ relaxin’ all cool and all shootin some b-ball outside of school. When a couple of guys who were up to no good startin making trouble in your neighborhood. You got in one little fight and your mom got scared she said ‘You’re movin’ with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air.’
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It seems the floor of the building I am in has a Techno Dog^™. It’s this tiny dog, from the sound of its bark, and it won’t shut up. The thing is… it’s barking like this:

YAPYAP (pause) YAP
YAPYAP (pause) YAP
YAPYAP (pause) YAP
(pause)
YAPYAP (pause) YAP
YAPYAP (pause) YAP
(pause)
YAPYAP (pause) YAP
YAPYAP (pause) YAP
YAPYAP (pause) YAP

Which has lead to my sitting here going “Oontz oontz oontz” to lend it a backbeat. Oh, Techno Dog^™. How I want to strangle you. Or give you a record deal. Or both.

YAPYAP [oontz](pause) YAP [oontz oontz]
YAPYAP [oontz](pause) YAP [oontz oontz]
YAPYAP [oontz](pause) YAP [oontz oontz]
(pause)
YAPYAP [oontzoontz](pause) YAP [oontz]
YAPYAP [oontzoontz](pause) YAP [oontz]
(pause) [during which I say "Keyboard solo!" loudly]
YAPYAP [oontz](pause) YAP [oontz oontz]
YAPYAP [oontz](pause) YAP [oontz oontz]
YAPYAP [oontz](pause) YAP [oontz oontz]

So I just got an email. I get lots of email, and don’t we all. But this email… well it asked if I wanted to review the Fleshlight. Now, I mean, I’ve reviewed things before. Like power tools. And books and movies. But a Fleshlight?

Uhm, so yeah. Thanks, but no. Look, I have no shame, I freely admit that, all the time. I do crazy and strange things because they make me laugh. That’s fine, such is my life. But, and let me say this clearly:

I am not fucking a can for science.

That shit will not happen. I actually fired up some illegal technology and stared directly into the time stream, and do you know what I saw? I saw no possible future in which this happened.

There is nothing that could make me consider this. It’s fucking a can. A can with a mouth. It doesn’t even have built in googly eyes. I mean if it were a Muppet maybe I’d… no, I wouldn’t fuck a Muppet either.

And I shan’t be fucking a can, internet.

I would not could not, in a boat, I can not, will not, in a moat. I will not fuck that mouth in a can, Sam I am.

GAH!

Last night on my way to A Thing I stopped to get a haircut. I go see the same guy, every time. Every time we have to same conversation:

Him: How’ve you been?

Me: All right, busy, you know.

Him: Like everyone.

Me: Yup.

And then he cuts my hair. Then I leave. That’s it. It’s simple and easy and I like it. Last night I sit down…

Him: How’ve you been?

Me: All right, busy, you know.

Him: Like everyone. So hey, how was your weekend?

My brain screeched to a halt. He was going off-script on me. Way off script. I told him it was fine, he nodded and then he slowly started to tell me about his wife. They had just had their second kid, a daughter, two weeks ago. This weekend his wife came home with their little girl. It was Valentine’s Day weekend, and so on. He wanted to talk about it, I totally got that.

He asked how my V-Day was. “Quiet,” I told him. “Quiet” is man code for that holiday. It means one of two things: 1) nothing happened and the person answering is single or 2) everything went so bad there is no way we are going to discuss this. So he was cool with that and took it as a reason to talk more about his wife and new kid. And hey, cool by me.

Except I realized something. It wasn’t that I had no interest, I was perfectly interested in what he had to say and all of it, but if I didn’t show the right amount of interest, if maybe, he decided I didn’t care or was mocking him or anything at all… he was the guy with the clippers. I was just the guy with the head. And the guy with the head has to go on stage tonight, better yet.

But, like all power equations, it did come down to:

Guy with clippers

Guy with head.

You want to, in that situation, be the guy with the clippers. As I mentioned, though, I was the guy with the head. So anyway. I became nervous. And then I wanted to hide that I was at all nervous. That would just make it worse. Of course by then you’re in some horrible parody of a Gene Wilder spy movie, right? Pretty much. Anyway. He kept talking, didn’t “accidentally” lop off half my beard of some such, and I went on my way.

Just remember: Don’t be the guy with the head.

I just had this smack in the face realization. On Feb 24th I will be participating in the POPGUN Vol 4 release party/signing event at Jim Hanley’s Universe (details here).

Now I’ve done some signings before for my books and worked the back-end tables at cons and all of this so I didn’t really think of it deeply. Until just now. It hit me, in a funny way.

See, I used to go to Hanley’s when I was in High School. I remember the original store, when they moved, all of that. They used t be where I went, week in and week out, to get my comics. Even after I stopped going there weekly, I would still drop in and I still do consider it the comics store in NY, though I do also love others. Hanley’s is the place, in my brain.

And on the 24th I will be there for a signing. Not the first time I’ve been to a signing at Hanley’s. I remember being the first in line for the kick-off of Warren Ellis’ Oktober Revolution tour (pure chance we were first in line, not planned) and often have seen other events there in the store.

But this time? I’ll be on the other side of that table. At the comic store I first think of when I think of comics stores. I’ll have other big moments in my career, if I’m lucky, and many of them will be memorable as fuck. Shit I’ve had a huge list of them already that I could go on and on about, but this. This.

I’ll be participating in a signing at Hanley’s. From the “person who is signing things” end. It really feels like “making it” on a whole new field. And yeah, I know it isn’t “making it” in any real sense of the word or whatever and I can dismiss it all I want and play it down and make sense rule the day. But…

For two hours on the 24th I’ll be watching people walk by (and, uhm, hopefully stop to buy Popgun and get shit signed) and see some of them think “One day I want to be there.”

And they can be, if they want it enough and put in the work and move toward that goal hard enough. They can be. I can be. I will be, in fact.

Wow.

I grew up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. So when we went to see the neighbors we, generally, meant in the same building. This is all dim recollection stuff, some of my memory is oddly fuzzy. I’d like to blame it on the drugs but I don’t take any, or on age but this stuff has been fuzzy since my 20s. No, I think I just didn’t bother to remember details of a lot of stuff. So, when I eventually write a biography it will be full of lies. And when that happens, come back to this entry and quote it all over the place.

Then we can share a laugh.

But today I want to tell you about the half-remembered girl.

I was probably around nine or so. There was a girl who lived upstairs in the building. She was about the same age as I was. So, seeing as how we were close in age, our parents decided we should hang out. Or some set of “our parents” by which I think I mean “hers” because my parents were never very “go out and find someone to play with” type of people.

Anyway. I couldn’t tell you her name, or what she looked like or what floor she lived on or anything like that. But I can tell you this. Her room was shockingly cozy and she had a small record player in it. She also had a white glove stolen from somewhere, or at least disconnected from its mate long enough that it served a purpose.

You see, Thriller had come out that year. That’s how I can place my age. And I know that more than once we were up in her apartment listening to a record, which was the afore mentioned Thriller, trading a single white glove back and forth. I think we would each get to wear it for the length of a song. When you’re nine, this is somehow cool. Or at least acceptable.

I remember the room was mostly pink, and fairly dark. The record player was also pink. I am pretty sure she was a blonde. Maybe. And that’s about it. Really, I’m sitting here trying to remember and that’s all I got. A Michael Jackson glove, passed back and forth while the record played.

At some point she must have moved away or we stopped talking or I ate her dog or something. I have no idea. Hazy memories of times gone past. Huh. Like most people, I try to look back on my past and remember “when I was cool.” Then shit like this bubbles back at me and I realize that “when” = “never.” Ah well.

I was never even half this cool.

Last night @ The Russian Vodka Room. Av was there which means pictures were being taken. She managed to snag one of me that I actually sort of like. So I thought I would post it here. Keep in mind it has been cold out, so I have winter beard, i.e. much more beard than usual… I also need a haircut something bad. But there you go.

(Photo by bronxelf)

So after the magic moment of last night I got down to hanging out with folks. Now, since most of these people are on LJ but this post goes on my site first and then feeds there, fuck LJ names. Av was there, and Hammerpants and of course Marianne. There was also a new human to our rounds. Well not too new, she seemed surprised I remembered where I met her for 10 seconds before, but new past that 10 seconds. We shall call her Ten, for she has incredibly cool David Tennant hair. Ten it is. It is also because she could be a robot. You don’t know.

So where were we? Ah, yes. Scenes from last night including yaks, fake legs, vodka and drunk Russians accosting me:

Let’s start with the crazy Russian. Av and I were outside and this drunk off his ass Russian guy comes over and starts talking to us. In a thick, slurred Russian accent. Earlier, at dinner, it was remarked by everyone there, to Ten, that I am something of an incident magnet. Strange shit happens around me. And most people doubt this and kinda doubt the stories, at first. Then it happens to when they’re around. Yeah. So this guy comes up and starts asking what I do. I tell him I’m a writer. He asks if I said runner. Shit like this, back and forth. Then he asks random political questions.

Listen when the Russians ask about your politics, there’s a part of me that can’t help but go right back to the Cold War. I miss the Cold War. So a bit of me thought maybe he was trying to turn me, or something. No, he was just drunk.

Then he asked if my beard was real. Well, he got around to it. It started with asking me if I had a beard. Which… kinda obvious. So I happily told him I did in fact have a beard. No hallucination there, Spanky! But he didn’t think it was real. So I tugged it with a little “Yup, still real.” At which point he asked if he could tug it to make sure. 99.9% of the time I would say no. However this guy was giving off major oddness. His posture kept flashing from about to start a fight to enjoying the night and back. So I said sure.

Why? Why would I say yes to a complete stranger tugging my beard? And how did I manage to avoid telling him that, yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus? The world may never know.

Then he kept up the random questions. These included “How often do you get your glasses replaced” and “If you’re from NY, how?”

Moving on! Back inside where Ten started to, upon hearing this story, pet my beard. To which she added “Is it real? It’s like petting a yak.” I still don’t know quite what to do with that, either.

There was a vodka sampler with six types of infusions: Apple, peach/apricot, strawberry, raspberry, cranberry and garlic/dill. I had all of them except the garlic which was, apparently, quite fantabulous. There were some of the best kielbasa any of us had ever done ‘et. It was a night.

The subject of fake legs came up. Well, Ten told a story about a guy with a red beard and a fake leg and Av looks at me. At which point, forgetting I was in public, I shouted “Like the beard, they’re both REAL! Ya wanna pull the other one now?” Damn it. Why do people keep thinking bits of me are fake? What is that?

There was the recounting of old public access shows involving He-Man, enough laughter to cause several of us to have trouble breathing more than once (seriously, Hammerpants laughed himself into hiccups even) and so on.

Ten herself was one of those people that high-fives or fistbumps everyone. I do not say this as if it were a bad thing, but rather, simply hysterical, because the rest of us tend to just sit there and blink at her strange, outgoing ways. I was tempted to kidnap her. She might’ve fit in my bag and if I can fit it in my bag I can keep it, this is the rule and you can shut up. I did not, however, because shoving people in my bag tends to get me in trouble later.

More insanity ensued and then we started home. Which included walking Marianne to her hotel with her being constantly surprised by the cold. She’s from Florida. So the whole “It’s cold. My glasses fog when I breathe on them. Did you know that when it’s cold…” like a three year old. She was also bone exhausted and drunk. I love Marianne. She’s often, gleefully like a three year old. It’s awesome.

Last night was, in fact, awesome. But this is the sound of what it’s like in my life. It’s crazy and strange people rub parts of your body while talking about yaks.

For those who don’t know my life has been interesting recently. Not in the good way. In the panic inducing, life is changing and there are minefields out there sort of way. I’ve been off my game and trying to see my way clear to what I should do.

At the core of it is a simple question of taking a huge leap. It’d be immense and it’s frightening. And no, that’s all the details I give right now. But this all plays into what happened tonight.

Marianne was in town and I was supposed to go down and hang out with her and a bunch of other people for dinner and drinking. I started the day feeling crappy and it got steadily worse. Eventually I went home at about three and crashed, having told everyone I wouldn’t be showing up.

Around seven I decided I should maybe go anyway. I should force myself out because this habit of avoiding plans because I can’t cope too well has been depriving me of good times, and I needed to cut that shit out and live my life and stop being someone I didn’t want to be.

So I’m on the A, going downtown, trying to find music I want to listen to. I decide on the Barnum soundtrack because it tends to shake me out of my spell a lot. Sappy? Possibly. There’s a lot of history there, personal and family and all sorts of shit tied up in the works. Whatever. So Out There comes on. And this, with lyrics, is how the magic played out:

Staying home, living day by day
May be safe, but it can’t be duller.
Seeing things only black and gray
When the world is alive with color.

I noticed heads turning. I figured it was a mariachi band playing that I couldn’t hear. Maybe some break dancers. This happens on the train. Whatever. You start to assume there’s always an invisible mariachi band off to your right.

Doing just as your neighbors do
May be wise, but it ain’t so clever.
Every man has a dream or two
Let ‘em go and they’re gone forever.

But the gazes are moving. And so I look. And there she is, walking down the length of the train. A woman, short, with a black bowler hat on. The hat has squares of brightly colored tape all over it. All the colors of a rainbow. Dancing across her hat. She has a smirk. Not a smile, a smirk. Like there’s a game going on and she knows the rules and you don’t.

Out there somewhere just out of sight.
There’s a world that’s blazing with light.

She’s juggling. Three red velvet balls. Not just straight juggling, but doing tricks. As she walks down the center of a crowded moving train. Then she reverses and walks all the way back. People are just watching her, rapt. They don’t have the right soundtrack. I do.

Ain’t each man alive got the right?
To stray just a mite from the straight and narrow,
Shoot through the night like a flaming arrow.

Because I’ve been trying to see if I should make some choices, and totally unsure of what the right move was. And here I was, listening to a circus musical, being told, yet again, that sometimes you have to just do things and not get wrapped up in doing them, but simply do them.

And there she was. Juggling for all she was worth, because she could. Oh sure, she passed a hat after, sure. Still, that smirk. The doff of her hat right before she left, like we had witnessed a magic trick we didn’t know was being played, and she was off. Gone onto a platform, off to another train, another set of strangers, more performing for some cash. I’m sure she didn’t intend to be a sign, or to bring clarity. But she did.

Does this mean everything is better? Of course not. There will still be doubts and fear and uncertainty and long nights. For a little bit, though, there were just three balls spinning through the air and a woman in a brightly patterned hat – smirking. And that was all, and exactly, what I needed.

Sometimes you just have to join the circus.