Please make toys of the following characters/designs:
Lady Blackhawk, most recently revived by the awesome Gail Simone in her run of Birds of Prey:
Power Girl, from the JLI/JLE years of the 90s:
Zauriel, from Grant Morrison's run on JLA:
Prometheus, also from Grant Morrison's JLA run:
Connor Hawke as Green Arrow, who had the simple misfortune of writers not knowing what to do with him:
Black Lighting, of the woefully short run of the 90s: And Aztek, an excellent character with a very cool design: PS - All your sculpts, especially the female characters, are too damn leggy. See All-Star Super-Lois. Good grief.
Dear DC Comics:
George Perez, Jim Aparo, Jim Lee, John Byrne, and Ed Benes are shitty, shitty, shitty costume designers. It wouldn't kill you to give Black Canary her Gary Frank/Greg Land costume design back, nor Huntress her circa-No Man's Land costume back, either. There's a reason besides rarity that the Birds of Prey toy set is selling for $300+ on eBay. And please put the green back in Robin's costume. It just looks dull, flat, and dead.
Ever since our hours were cut at work, I've been the last one to come in to the office. There are three people in pre-press. One comes in at 8 AM, the other at 8:30, and me at 9. Being the "new" guy and lowest on the totem pole, I have to tend to certain maintenance tasks. There's a huge plate maker in the room that is highly sensitive to temperature and humidity (or so they tell me; evidence is to the contrary). Before any work is done, there are five humidifiers that need to be filled. I can't exactly do that before getting to work. It's not that I mind doing it, but there was a two-month stretch where I didn't even bother.
No one noticed.
Another oddity is when a super-rush job is waiting on my desk, long before I come in, with a note saying "plates due at 9 AM."
Someone sure missed the Logic Train. How can I do a job that's due when I clock in?
Speaking of clocking in: right next to the hand print scanner used to punch in and out is a hand-sanitizer dispenser. Not a totally bad idea during flu season, but it might help to, you know, fill it with the hand-sanitizer. I don't care too much; all of our immune systems need practice.
One more story for the Fail File:
Bellevue has an automatic system for refilling prescriptions. Just call in, and 3 business days later, it'll be ready for pickup. I made the call last Wednesday, and went to pick up the refill Monday afternoon. Go in, take a number, get called to the window, they pass the pills on to the pick up department and give you a voucher to take to the cashier. This takes around 10 or 20 minutes. Then you get called to the pickup window five minutes later. For some reason, this last bit too two fucking miserable hours. Imagine 50 people (that's right, 50 people, no exaggeration) waiting in a room no larger than the size of your living room with seating for 16, waiting at least two hours to pick up medicine. One person was waiting for five hours and was quite rightly throwing a shit-fit.
My blood sugar had plummeted by the end of that ordeal, so I stopped at the au bon pan stand in the hospital. I picked up an eggplant & tomato sandwich, paid, and walked away, tearing at the wrapper. I took a giant bite, chewed, and spat it out.
Great. Ham & Swiss. Walked back, said the label was wrong, and before I could say anything else, the cashier correctly guessed that I was a veggie, and profusely apologized. I got the correct sandwich, and finally left. It was such a tiring day.
If it isn't clear already, I don't care about sports.
Now, THAT people play sports doesn't bother me at all. Hey, they're having fun, blowing off steam, bonding, learning teamwork, etc; all that stuff is cool by me.
It's the national league, city/state pride, obsessive, jock-off, micro-dick-ism of sports fans that piss me off.
That wouldn't be so bad if these assholes across the street didn't feel the need to set off firecrackers at midnight, shouting "WE WON! WE WON!"
I'm trying to figure out what it is that "we" won, and when to expect my prize in the mail. I don't remember participating in any sort of contest, or accomplishing anything that would merit such a display of misplaced pride while many others in the 'hood are trying to sleep.
First, let's look at local pride. George Carlin:
Now, if you're happy that your favorite team won a game, fine. Can't argue with that.
But the phrase is, "WE WON!" That implies that "we" had something to do with the team winning, and the coincidence of proximity unites us.
Since "we" sat on the couch getting drunk (or completely ignored the event), that hardly contributed to the team winning.
The next idea taken for granted is the coincidence of proximity, or the "we". Sure, my neighbors and I are New Yorkers. But how many of us were born locally? My roommate was born in Hawai'i and intends to return there. Does she count as a New Yorker? I was born upstate. I at least have that credential.
How many of the 49 NY Yankees were born in, or currently live in NY State, or within 50 miles of New York City, particularly the Bronx? After a cursory search through Wikipedia...
1) Pitcher CC Sabathia lives in Bergen County, New Jersey.
2) Pitcher Mariano Rivera co-owns a restaurant in New Rochelle, NY.
3) Short Stop Derek Jeter was born in Morris County, NJ. He has homes in Manhattan, Marlboro NJ, Greenwood Lake NY, and Tampa FL.
4) Third Baseman Alex Rodriguez (whose name I refuse to abbreviate to what the press calls him) was born in Manhattan, and still lives there.
5) First Baseman Mark Teixiera lives in Greewich, CT. (Not to be confused with cartoonist & illustrator Mark Texiera.)
6) Designated Hitter Hideki Matsui lives in Manhattan.
7) Pitcher Chien-Ming Wang lives in Bergen County, NJ.
Those are the only team players, active, inactive, coaches, whatever, that I could find evidence of living in/near NYC. 1/7th, or just over 14%, of the Bronx Bombers have any sort of proximity affiliation with The Bronx. The number may be higher; perhaps I didn't dig deep enough - I certainly don't care enough to do so.
How they can be "New York" Yankees if most of them aren't even New Yorkers, or even from the tri-state area? How can "we" have local pride about people who don't have anything but a badge to do with the area?
That's exactly how long it took for news of Patrick Swayze's death for that gawd-awful Dirty Dancing theme to get stuck in my head. My parents LOVED that movie when it came out, and constantly played the soundtrack.
I'd like to thank Led Zeppelin & Black Sabbath for being the steel wool scraping through my mental ears and delivering me to sanity (such as it is).
Just before I told my folks about Jill, they told me about my sister's divorce. Nine years, gone, just like that. She's apparently met the man of her dreams: a 35 year old divorcee with a 15 year old daughter.
I don't know any other details. I feel bad for my (ex) bro-in-law. Their relationship was the most stable thing in his life. Of course, the kids will have a hard time, too.
Well, more like future in-laws, but you get the point.
No, I haven't formally proposed to Jill yet, but we've already discussed the names of our children, where we're going to live, and how the reception menu has to be certified Parve and held on a Sunday.
Granted, this is all a few years in to the future. Jill got fired a couple of weeks ago, from an atrocious and toxic environment: a law firm. She'd been there nearly eight years. One Wednesday night, they said, "if you don't work overtime tonight, you won't have a job tomorrow."
Ignoring the wimpy, passive-aggressive ultimatum, Jill has classes a few times a week. They cost more than the overtime pay would cover. She made it clear that she couldn't stay late. "What part of 'I'm single and in my 30s' don't they understand?" There are so many other factors that went into their decision: underlying (and sometimes blatant) racism, classism, gender bias, etc, etc, etc.
Back to the main story. Her parents flew in from California a couple days ago, and took us out to dinner last night at probably the most expensive vegan restaurant I'd ever been in. "Dad" is a retired Air Force Lt. Col. On 9/11, he plotted the flight path of Air Force One. "Mom" is a school teacher with training in psychology. "Mom" is also a chocoholic. We shared desserts.
They were funny, kind, laid-back, and generous. I felt so comfortable with them, and really adore them.
I guess I should tell my parents about Jill soon, right? I just never know how to tell them anything. It might as well be the topic for therapy tomorrow.
I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job.
We started corresponding mid-October, and met up a month later. We were both listed under "seeking friends only", so there was no tension that dating usually provides.
Over the past month, things began to shift towards something more than friendship. We started talking about our bizarre dating misfortunes, our reasons for not dating, what we're trying to change about ourselves, etc., etc. She saw the potential for what we could be together, but wasn't sure if I was interested or not, so she didn't say anything, at least not directly. I began wondering the same thing, but was too afraid of screwing up yet another friendship. This escalated when we went on the town for her birthday two weeks ago. Looking back, I could feel that we both wanted more.
Jill came over Saturday to help move a few things over to Lynne's, where she got to meet her and Bowie. Afterward, we went grocery shopping, paying close attention to her dietary restrictions (vegan, celiac disease, allergies to tomatoes, oranges, sesame). We made a very good pizza (using red peppers instead of tomatoes for the sauce). She also bought a bottle of 80-proof Liquid Courage, aka tequila. We cooked, ate, and started watching the Bourne Identity. She got very comfortable on my bed, and I sat in my chair.
Pressing the issue of us, she asked, "what would it take for you to drink straight from the bottle? Doing a shot from my belly button?"
My brain fried.
"Oh no, I broke Jeff!" and she held my hand. Then I kissed her.
She spent the night, and most of the next day. We did go back to Lynne's for a couple hours while Lynne waited for people to pick up stuff offered on Craigslist. It was 8:30 PM when we realized just how late it was. It took another 90 minutes to actually separate; we both lamented that the next day was a 'school day'.
My therapist was right when she said, "you get to be happy now."
I'm terribly conflicted now that Conan O'Brien has taken over the Tonight Show. I love Conan. I love Dave. I love Andy Richter. But I freaking hate Paul Shaffer. More specifically, I hate his attempts at comedy. His "bantering" with Dave kills brain cells.
Also: I love Craig Ferguson. I hate Jimmy Fallon, but I love the Roots. And I really don't care about Jimmy Kimmel.
I'm moving in with Lynne and Kemp at the end of June. I'll handle most of the moving myself over the next few weekends. Here's the planned schedule:
June 6th/7th: Move all comics boxes, toys, old stereo, non-essential electronics, and CDs. (Won't be going to MoCCA this year.)
June 13th/14th: Move all books, artwork & supplies, most DVDs, and everything else from under the bed.
June 20th/21st: Move kitchen stuff, home theater stuff (not the tv, though!), lamps, smaller furniture.
June 27th/28th: Everything else. Pro movers will handle the bed, bookcases, TV, A/C, dresser, etc. I'll take care of the computer the night before.
If you want to help out (keep me company while I walk the 18 blocks back & forth with a huge hand truck, making sure stuff doesn't spill off, fending off zombie pirate ninja gorilla attacks, etc), you'll be greatly appreciated. I'll need the most help unpacking on the 28th, though. For anyone who wants to sort through all my crap, it would be a field day.
My folks adopted Tasha shortly after I left for college, between Thanksgiving & Christmas of 1996. They had an empty nest, so it was time to get a dog. While it wasn't intentional, they got a black lab to replace the son who dressed all in black.
I met her just before Christmas when I came home. She was just over a year old at the time, rather protective & paranoid. When I walked through the door, she leapt off the couch, ready to attack the stranger. I put out my hand; she recognized the scent from my old room, and instantly became mellow and affectionate.
Tasha had an innate understanding of reciprocal affection. She'd be lying in Mom's chair (as seen in the picture), and if you sat down on the floor and started to pet her, she'd try to wrap her arm around yours. And once she knew who you were, she was always excited to see you. If she saw two people hugging ("bye, Mom, see you next year"), she'd run up, bark, and try to get in on the hug, too.
Tasha was also a bit rambunctious. The squeaky "human foot" toy was her favorite (outside of the rawhide chews, of course), and would follow it wherever you moved it. She loved play fighting, and knew exactly when to stop.
As is natural, she started slowing down in the past couple of years. Her hearing & sight deteriorated. There was a close call in January, where she wouldn't get up and had trouble eating. Mom got her to eat some baby food & aspirin, and that got her up. But a day or two ago, she just stopped moving around, and had no interest in food.
Tasha died this morning. She wasn't in any pain. She had a good, long, happy life, and because of her, so will we.
They've cut the department hours to 35/week. I won't turn down the opportunity to get another hour of sleep every day, but that means I will look for a second job, or a better first job.
The new job is growing on me. The thing I liked about working at Amsterdam Print (besides Francis) was that it was EASY. I've been given a couple more responsibilities, and that prevents boredom.
Not allowed to listen to music, though. It's a small bummer.
The early hours are killing me, but it's soooooooo worth it.
Good grief, it feels like being at Amsterdam Print all over again.
So far, the job is ridiculously easy. My biggest problem is that 85% of the time, they use Quark XPress instead of Adobe InDesign. Having CS4 is pretty nice, though. The place is kind of a hole, now that I've seen more of it.
The people there are nice, but that's really it. There isn't anyone I could see myself hanging out with.
On the plus side, there's a deli/cafe that sells all the great organic & fair trade chocolate bars.
Some of you already know, but I've neglected the blog. Last Tuesday I had an interview. I must have bullshitted just enough for them to hire me. I start this Tuesday.
It's in a huge printing plant in DUMBO, Brooklyn. The hours are 8 to 4:30. This will probably be the death of me, regarding sleep, but it'll be worth it.
The pay is about the same. There is less vacation time. However, there aren't any pay deductions for health insurance.
"It's "Children of Alcoholics Week" so this blog is dedicated to anyone, of any age, who has lived with addiction and the emotional extremes, chaos and dysfunction that it engenders. One of the strange phenomena of living with dysfunction and pain as a child is that the effects of it can surface much later, even in adulthood. This is because of what's known as a post traumatic stress reaction in which long after the stressor is removed, in this case alcoholic or abusive parents, we live with the effects of it in our lives and relationships our relationships, particularly our intimate relationships."
