A personal diary keeping people abreast of what I am working on writing-wise.

Saturday, September 27, 2003


Fall continues to bring an avalanche of musical releases, and I find myself hard pressed to keep up.

Starsailor’s second album, Silence is Easy, is a reasonable effort—which is damning with feint praise, yes. It’s a good record, but it lacks the inspired moments of Love is Here, which produced some great singles, and every track on it was a keeper. While the title track/lead single is quite good, there is a heavier nature to this album that sort of places it in the middle of the musical road. It lacks the hooks of previous efforts but doesn’t drift far enough into the emotional weight to make one of those great bedroom records that touches the soul. Production-wise, however—well, it’s weird to say it’s good to have Phil Spector back, given recent events (and a friend of mine’s personal connection to the victim), but geez, you can feel his hand on this. There are some great backdrops here, orchestral washes that play well against James Walsh’s voice. The highlight is definitely “Four to the Floor” when everything drops out for a few seconds except for a piano, tinkling out an awesome riff reminiscent of Happy Mondays’ “Step On.” Too bad Walsh doesn’t go for it with more gusto when everything else kicks back in.

The next Suede single, “Attitude,” has impressed me a lot. I know I am prone to love Suede, but I like the gutsy feel of the track. It’s got some of the electronic experimentation some folks despised on Head Music, but with a much more adventurous rhythm and structure. Brett Anderson sounds great, particularly on the falsetto chorus. I do find myself wondering, though, why this was chosen as a lead single for a greatest hits package. It doesn’t really play to the popular vote—which is ballsy, but not really the point. I can’t imagine it on the radio sandwiched between Linkin Park and Beyonce. B-side “Golden Gun,” from what I heard of the murky live MP3 I have, is much more traditional Suede, and might have been a better herald. Or the second new track on the compilation, “Love The Way You Love Me,” brings that Coming Up guitar sound back, while going with the more groove-oriented feel of “Attitude,” and probably would have been a stronger lead, as well.

Elbow is also returning for a second album with Cast of Thousands. I think they have a fantastic knack for quiet, soaring beauty (yes, that’s possible)—“Powder Blue” being the perfect example from Asleep At the Back. Cast of Thousands doesn’t disappoint in that category, and I think ends up improving on the Elbow model by taking a few chances. Certainly the background chorus on the album opener speaks to that. These guys are touring with Grandaddy next month, and if every Grandaddy fan doesn’t convert to an Elbow fan by the end of the show, then they have no souls. Having seen Elbow live before, it’s a grand experience, and I am looking forward to seeing Cast of Thousands road tested. A great late night record.

Also taking a quiet approach this time around is Elvis Costello. North finds Mr. Costello in a jazzy mode. It’s a collection of soft songs, of ballads, with, of course, that sense of longing and romance he is so good at. Haven’t been able to really spend quality time with it yet, to really absorb the lyrics, but I am happy that he is still shaking it up, never sticking to one gameplan. Like Bowie, he is in a good creative space and that’s only positive for my ears.

I caved in and got a hold of the Raveonettes album, Chain Gang of Love. And shit, am I glad I did. I love this record. Their Whip It On EP was a bit blah for me. It felt a little repetitive, and I just got the sense they could be better. Chain Gang is definitely better. It’s brief enough not to wear out its welcome, yet has a good amount of songs. It’s very derivative of The Jesus & Mary Chain and the early ‘90s shoegaze scene, but unlike other recent imitators, The Raveonettes recall that those bands had as much of a thing for The Beach Boys and the aforementioned Phil Spector as they did The Velvet Underground. There are several instances of that amazing Wall of Sound drum beat (the one that intro’d “Be My Baby”), and you can never go wrong there. (Rialto, anyone?)

Speaking of Jesus & Mary Chain, their classic “Just Like Honey” appears on the soundtrack to Lost In Translation. It’s a wonderful choice for the film, and thankfully, Sofia Coppola didn’t stop there when it came to the music. Somehow she roped My Bloody Valentine’s Kevin Shields in to record several new songs (and contribute one from MBV), and the rest of the disc is populated with like-minded tracks by folks like Death in Vegas and Air (surprisingly good; I guess every band has one in them). The record is a lovely listening experience in itself, transporting you to an aural universe not our own, and if you’ve seen the movie, it’s even better, taking you back into the lovely story. Great package, too, with gorgeous stills from the film.

I loved A Perfect Circle’s debut Mer de Noms. It’s another disc that transports the listener to a place outside themselves—and this one not unlike the body of water suggested by the title. APC continue the trend in this column of sophomore efforts with Thirteenth Step. Many are suggesting it’s a heavier throwback to The Cure’s superb Disintegration, and they’re not half-wrong. It’s a bit more challenging, though, and less instantly accessible than Mer de Noms. It’s got a theme of recovery, of getting beyond the cliché of it (hence, one extra step of twelve). My favorite song is the moody, and achingly romantic—if wrongly so—“The Nurse Who Loved Me” (apparently a cover, but I don’t who did it originally). I keep finding myself drawn back to it, which leads me to believe this will be a real favorite. The songs themselves rarely work in a straight line. They have something in common with Suede’s “Attitude” in that they often break apart simple structures and work with mood and create something a bit more snake-like—undulating around your ear drums and threatening to bite.

Going solo is a tricky thing. After over a decade with The Charlatans, Tim Burgess has now released his own record, I Believe--and he proves how much the rest of the band brings to the table by how much is lacking when they’re away. The album should have been named after the track “Po Boy Soul,” because that’s what it is. For those of us who found the funk of The Charlies’ last album, Wonderland, to be a bit watered down…well, the ice cubes have melted and the water to funk ratio has tipped in aqua’s favor. And when he’s not trying to pretend he’s got r&b flavor, he’s aping another white man aping black men, trying to be a “Me & Julio”-era Paul Simon on songs like “Who The Cap Fit.” Burgess has also caught a little bit of that Englishman-in-California disease, either singing about the sunny nature of the state on the title track or adopting Spanish and Mexican culture on “Oh Mi Corazon.” (For other examples of this, consider Hollywood resident Morrissey’s unreleased and embarrassing political screed “Mexico” or his Latino gang epic “First of the Gang To Die.” At least Robbie Williams tends to make fun of being a Los Angeles transplant.) The only truly decent song on the record is the last one, “All I Ever Do,” which could be an arena ballad if Burgess wanted to take it a step further. As it is, it’s a nice, nearly redemptive tune.

I truly do love Alfie, but I am thinking that they need to ratchet it up a bit. Their third album Do You Imagine Things? is really very good and I will end up listening to it a lot—but at the same time, I can’t help but think we’ve been here twice before. They are like the musical equivalent of the breeze, and unless they start picking up force and moving things around soon (as they start to do on the song “Hey Mole” or the inventive “Stuntman”), I might stop noticing they are there. Sort of like if Belle & Sebastian had never made Fold Your Hands… and “Legal Man” and started to inject variety into their repertoire. They’d have repeated themselves into nothing.

Current Soundtrack: Sparks, "Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth;" Low, Murderer EP; The Thrills, "Deckchairs & Cigarettes"


Thursday, September 25, 2003


ACTUALLY CHEERY EDITOR [answers phone]: Oni Press.

DICKHEAD CALLER: Yeah, who do I talk to about printing a comic?

ACE [realizing this call is about to go nowhere]: What do you mean?

DC: Like, what are your minimum numbers for printing a comic?

ACE: I'm sorry, we're not a printing plant, we're a publisher.

DC: Okay, what kind of orders do you need to print a comic?

ACE: Well, it doesn't work like that. We publish comics. We choose what we publish, then we market and package them and put them out.

DC: So how do I get you to print my comic?

ACE: Well, you don't. We're not a printer. And we currently have a large creative pool we are publishing from, so we aren't looking for new people.

DC: Okay...fuck off. [hangs up]

ACE: Son of a bitch...

[ACE dials *69. The number is local.]

DC [answering, but not speaking]: ...

ACE: Hello?

DC: ...

ACE: Oh, is that the way it is? You're going to play it chickenshit? You tell someone to fuck off and then don't have the guts to talk to them?

DC: [click]


I actually got a lot of work done last weekend and turned in volume 3 of Ai Yori Aoshi on Monday night, despite it not being due until tomorrow. Volume 1 is in the new Diamond Previews, meaning it should be coming out in January.

I have not yet written the rest of my strip for Patrick Scherberger to draw, but he has turned in half the thumbnails for the first part and he's nailing it. I'm very happy. Hopefully, I'll finish it all up this weekend. I also am working on another long music review post for here, and I should post it tomorrow if all goes well.

Current Soundtrack: Placebo, Sleeping With Ghosts bonus disc (all cover songs, including Kate Bush, T.Rex, The Pixies, The Smiths, and more)


Friday, September 19, 2003


I started writing the comic strip to be drawn by the Comic Book Idol winner today. Lost In Translation put me in the mood to do something romantic, and I initially thought of doing something that was done in one go, sort of like Adrian Tomine’s one-page strips in Optic Nerve. The idea has grown a bit, though, and now it’s going to be three parts. The first could stand alone, and the third likely will be able to, as well. #2 looks like it’s going to be a transition piece. I wrote the first part out already (and were it a page, as opposed to an open format online comic, it would be rather cramped at 11 panels), and will likely work it out as I go. I don’t exactly know how it will end yet.

Current Soundtrack: Jesus & Mary Chain, The Complete John Peel Sessions


Tuesday, September 16, 2003


Stepping back a couple of posts: I was on a Blur marathon, having dumped their entire singles box set—and then some—to my MP3 player. I think it was 136 tracks. A lot of music.

But listening to the “The Universal,” I was struck by the simplicity of its underlying message—and hence the power. Yes, the overall song is a bit obtuse, and actually carries meanings of Big Brother invading our home and technology alienating us—but in the chorus, there is a universal feeling--The Great Escape. “It really, really, really could happen/when the days seem to fall through you, just let them go.” It’s not the most complicated of sentiments, yet it gets to the heart of the matter. Walking down the street with it on headphones, my thoughts went to the video for that Green Day song, “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” and the way the camera would descend on people and freeze them in a pensive moment. Life on pause. And that’s what a pop song can do to you when the emotion is pure. “The Universal” stops the world and tells you it will all be okay and that you will survive, tapping into a zeitgeist that plagues us all at one time or another. And it does so without lyrical puffery.

(On the subject of that Green Day track, just what the hell was that song about anyway? It was picked up as this anthem for moving on, yet the title says something else, a little more confused. It seems very conflicted. Fuck you, but I hope you have a good day. Like Billy Joe couldn’t give up being a punk, scared of the success through blandness that was just around the corner. Good-bye all you punks, stay young and stay high; hand me my checkbook as I crawl off to die. It’s all the same in the end, isn’t it? Not that I ever gave much of a shit for Green Day.)

Tonight I spent another hour or so on a chapter of Ai Yori Aoshi. I am about halfway through volume 3. The best part about it is the varied cast. I'm having fun.

Current Soundtrack: Missy Elliot, "Drop The Bomb," Britta Phillips & Dean Wareham, Sonic Souvenirs


Monday, September 15, 2003


COFFEE SHOP GIRL: (taking Grumpy Writer’s money) You have interesting T-shirts. What are they?

GRUMPY WRITER: Self-promotion mainly. I edit comic books.

COFFEE SHOP GIRL: Oh, yeah? What’s that one?

GRUMPY WRITER: It’s for a fictional band in one of the comics we do. It’s a book called Hopeless Savages.

COFFEE SHOP GIRL: I have a friend who does comics. I was in one. He made me a superhero.

GRUMPY WRITER: That’s funny, because I make coffee at home, and when I do, I’m a barista.

Current Soundtrack: ER: Season 1 disc 4


Saturday, September 13, 2003


Before I left the house this morning, I caught the beginning of Sting’s new video, for the song “Send Your Love.” The cliché this pop song is built around is rather basic—“send you love to the future.” Certainly not a bad or unnecessary message in these troubled times (or any times, since aren’t they always troubled?), but man, did it sound banal. Is it Sting, the overblown ex-punk who never really was a punk, and the depths his credibility has sunk to? Or is it us? Over twenty-five years ago, John Lennon sang “All You Need Is Love,” and it still resonates—but it’s no more simplistic than sending that love we need to tomorrow. Could it be that in some ways, we can accept pop music from a “simpler” time easier than we can in our own time? Our eyebrows are too arched, we are too sophisticated, to accept an easy proverb?

Is it pop culture in general? Have we gotten so full of our own supposed smarts that, for instance, melodrama is only truly acceptable as part of revisionist cinema? We can recognize, say, the brilliant subversion of a Douglas Sirk now, viewing it with our deconstructionist post-monkey sensibilities, but what if Todd Haynes were to make Far From Heaven his new career path, and not just a one-off homage? Would we still regale him for his brilliant recasting of a ‘50s “women’s picture,” or would we accuse him of descending into soap opera and thus losing his edge?

Millions of people read horoscopes for quick answers, and we all giggle at the simple platitudes of fortune cookies, suggesting a need for the occasional easy-to-swallow pearl of wisdom…so why must we demand our art be so complicated?


Lots of new music is on the way, and I am finding myself disappointed in some of it. Am I the only one bored to tears by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s “new” album, Take Them On On Your Own? I joked elsewhere that I liked it better when it was their first album, and even more so when it was The Jesus & Mary Chain’s Darklands--but it’s not really a joke. It’s how I feel. The production itself seems all wrong. Every instrument is recorded at the same level, and rather than being a storm with proper thunderclaps, lightning strikes, and sudden downpours, it’s like a heavy misting, a jumble of water that is more annoying than nourishing. It’s just a wall of sound—but in all the wrong ways. There are no pretty pictures or hooks to hang them on. The biggest mistake is not burying the vocals. The guy can’t sing much at all. He sings like he’s drawing a line with a ruler. He needs to be obscured, not the guitar, so that we can’t tell how feeble his vocal chords are and how shit his lyrics are. (Maybe he reveals the true problem with Sting’s single—it’s not that it’s simple, it’s that it’s shit.)

To be honest, Take Them On On Your Own has made me shy away from other current buzz rock acts. Though I was intrigued by The Raveonettes minialbum, Whip It On, I’ve stayed away from their full length. The new Strokes single is fairly predictable, only adding a slightly new moog-y sound to the Strokes formula. At least their singer is smart enough to hide the fact that he’s got no chops. They should get a distortion device endorsement, put ads in Vocally Faking It magazines, the way guitar gods do in wankster guitar mags.

Rock needs to thank David Bowie for delivering again with Reality. It’s probably his most rollicking album since Earthling, and his third consistently solid disc in a row (and really, the fifth that's very good overall, since his return from the "Let's Dance" wasteland). Some of it reminds me of the first side of Low, and maybe a little bit of Scary Monsters. Not bad comparisons.

As always, the reliable Spiritualized are a savior in the morass. Alongside Bowie, they have been consistent for the last several albums of really giving the goods. This time, they are surprisingly inspired by The White Stripes garage revival, and rather than spending years on perfecting the ideal noise, they recorded a down and dirty record. Amazing Grace is that fast-driving rave-up they flirted with on “Electricity” taken all the way forward. It’s brilliant.

Bubba Sparxxx is about to release his second album, Deliverance. Someone (who shall not be named lest he be subpoenaed hooked me up with an early copy several months ago, and it may be the best hiphop record I’ve heard all year. Timbaland was on fire with his production, much like he was with Missy Elliot’s Under Construction last year. He delivers on the hillbilly hiphop idea touched upon with Bubba’s first record, using sounds of the south with his usual burps and squirts to make a truly energizing record. I guess the final version has six songs not on the one that was leaked earlier—and hopefully it doesn’t ruin it.

The Outkast double album, Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, is both satisfying and disappointing. The Big Boi platter is great. It’s the party hiphop with the funk elements one expects from Outkast. Andre 3000, despite delivering the excellent “Hey Ya” single, doesn’t fair as well. It’s almost like he tried to redo Prince’s Sign O’ The Times but got stuck on the sex, forgetting to put any of the pop in. Didn’t anyone tell him that the chorus (paraphrased) “I know you think your shit don’t stink but lean in because the roses smell like poo poo” was pretty goddamn stupid? I think the question answers itself…

And how did Mya put out my favorite album of the summer? Where did that come from?! And how does Madonna still have the worst album of the year?

Current Soundtrack: Various artists, The In Crowd: Ultimate Mod Collection disc 3 (feat. “The Monkey Time” by Major Lance); Morrissey live in Hamburg, June 5, 1991; Spiritualized, Amazing Grace EP 3


Wednesday, September 10, 2003


Several things with my authorial name are hitting bookshelves this week.

First, in comics shops and bookstores everywhere is the trade paperback collection of Hawaiian Dick: Byrd of Paradise by B. Clay Moore and Steven Griffin. I wrote the afterword, coz I guess they have no friends. Always picked last for the team, that sort of thing. Here's a sample:

I like to think of Hawaiian Dick as a gateway comic.

It looks all soft and easy and harmless, and it reads like a dream and makes you feel real good, but really, it’s just easing you into the harder stuff.

The comics world is rather stuck at the moment. This is probably the umpteenth essay you’ve read that says this, but really, not enough people are getting it, so I’ll say it again. Comics development was arrested somewhere in its adolescence (making the comic book industry the Robert Cohn in this Sun Also Rises world of ours), condemning the art form to an endless cycle of guys in garish costumes beating each other up. That’s what most people think of when they think of comics. That’s even what most fans think of when they think of comics, so stuck in this groove are we.

But it’s not the whole truth. There is a bigger picture. There is more to this world than guys in fetish gear wearing their underwear the wrong way.

There is Hawaiian Dick.

You have to buy the book to read more. If I gave it all for free, what would be the point of them asking me to do it? (I'd also link to Amazon, but it doesn't appear to be listed.)

Also out now, at least in bookstores, is Duklyon: Clamp School Defenders volume 1, the CLAMP riff on superheroes and Power Rangers. The script was a chore, but in hindsight, I think I made it fun, and the printing is beautiful.

Oh, and it looks like my other manga title has finally been announced. Good, since I got volume 3 in my inbox yesterday to start working on. Read more here.

Current Soundtrack: Martin L. Gore, Counterfeit2 and "Stardust" single


Sunday, September 07, 2003


I’ve been meaning to write several entries this week. It’s been rather busy, and so I have both had a lot to write about and a distinct lack of time for doing so. I’ve been going out quite often (including bowling with Steve Rolston last night, if you can believe it), while also trying to juggle my deadlines and make sure Gravitation volume 6 was turned in on time this past Friday. It was, but that pretty much monopolized my computer time (with, of course, the never-ending Oni workday being an exception).

Tuesday night I went to see Eddie Izzard on his current concert tour, Sexie. I have never seen him live before, and honestly know him for his roles in films like Velvet Goldmine and The Cat’s Meow more than I do his comedy. Still, this made it a great experience, as my expectations were probably vastly different than 95% of the audience—in that I had hardly any. To my surprise, he built a large portion of his routine out of superheroes, comparing them to transvestites for their desire to change. His references weren’t always spot on (no less so than anything else, though), and there was a certain secret shame to knowing that though he was only joking about Sue Storm stepping out on Mr. Fantastic, she really had with Namor.

I think the thing that strikes me most about his technique is his ability to sound like none of this is planned. Izzard always comes off as if he is making it up off the top of his head. I imagine that this may be partially true, that he likely has the skeleton of what he wants to talk about, and he can weave in and out of whatever subject he desires within that skeleton. But, I almost wanted to go back and see him the second night just to see how true that was. For all I know, he has it planned to the most minor stutter, and it’s exactly the same every time. It’s possible, you know. Just like how The Office is actually scripted that way, and not improvised.

Oh, and Eddie has boobs now. No, not saggy manboobs or even real implants, but jellies he wears when he feels like it. He suggested them for the male with a bit of a gut, as they can help you look slimmer. He demonstrated, and they actually did take attention away from his slight portliness.

Wednesday I made an unexpected detour into Washington. Keith Wood had found himself with an extra ticket to see R.E.M. and Wilco, and he convinced me to go along. I had wanted to when tickets had gone on sale, but I think had opted for a budgetary move for Bjork instead (still the right choice in hindsight). The show was at a new amphitheatre just outside Vancouver, WA, and it was actually a pretty decent place. Nice sound system, at least. You could definitely tell that R.E.M. is a band that has been around for a while. A large portion of the audience was made up of older men trying to pretend they were still college students.

I was dreading Wilco. I don’t really know their music, but know them in that “No Depression” lump they are in, which has always been unappealing to me. There was a certain earnestness to the movement—and I find earnestness leads to bad art. Similarly, it was all a little too studied. Guy with a complete Big Star collection picks up guitar, copies sound exactly, calls himself “authentic.” If you don’t have a good pop sensibility a la the very fallible Teenage Fanclub, you aren’t likely to get that rootsy shit across to me.

That said, I was pleasantly surprised. The first two numbers were exactly what I expected, in that it was a bunch of guys on stage playing very perfect, uninspired jammy-rock. They actually looked exactly like they do on the poster to that documentary about them, I Am Trying to Break Your Heart. I feared that sort of polish was going to mar the whole set...

Those first two songs were off their first two albums, though, and I am told that those are the albums to avoid—and for the very reasons I disliked these numbers. What ended up drawing me in was a middle section of about three songs, including the aforementioned “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart” (if that’s what it’s called; the song with that line in it, at least), that were built around a noise collage. Granted, said collage was fairly unspectacular. I mean, turning a radio dial and an alarm clock going off? Don’t we all own Dark Side of the Moon? Hell, even Moz did it better (check “I Know It’s Going to Happen Someday”). What made it work, though, were the songs laid on top of them—bare numbers with sparse melodies, sung very plainly, and by all accounts very sad. I could picture myself listening to something like that.

R.E.M. were exceptionally good. I had seen them on the Monster tour way back when, and they were relatively staid. Not so this time. From the get-go, it was clear this show was going to be different. Michael Stipe bounced onto the stage and shuffled up and down like a maniac in that gravity-defying way he has that is so mysterious (how does her do it?!). The band had a general passion about them that made for a rousing set. I had told Keith going in I was hoping to hear “Drive,” and they didn’t disappoint. However, that was eclipsed by the evening’s version of “Nightswimming,” which was gorgeous. Simply Stipe on vocals and Mike Mills on the piano, with Ken Stringfellow of the Posies (who should be in the lump with Wilco, even if they aren’t really) adding some minor effects. Heavenly. (The song itself was dedicated to Lance Bangs, which might impress my friend Christopher.)

The only complaints I could really have about R.E.M.’s set was that there was a certain artificiality to the structure. They seemed to go the fast-slow-fast-slow route in picking songs. They did do some digging back into their old stuff, and that was quite welcome (“Orange Crush,” the song that made me like R.E.M. in the first place, kicked a whole lot of ass), and of the new songs, “Bad Day” sounds like it will actually be a pretty good single. “Animal” was about as not-good as you can expect. No band that far into their recording career should do a song called “Animal.” That’s the sort of song you have to hit when you’re young, when chanting I’m an animallllll might actually be believable.

There was also a feeling that maybe they should retire the hits, or use them sparingly. “Losing My Religion” and “Man on the Moon” seemed perfunctory. They were, let’s face it, boring. “Oh, look, Peter Buck has the mandolin. Ho-hum.” At least with “The One I Love,” you could tell Stipe was having a little fun with it, probably enjoying the irony of the audience accepting it as a love song through and through. Same with the singalong nature of “Everybody Hurts.” Listen to that song again, and tell me, is it really the sort of song you and your friends should sing along to with your arms intertwined, swaying? Then again, maybe I really just am not the person this stuff is aimed at anymore. Judging by the woman behind us who was complaining about all the songs she didn’t know, maybe the guys do have to pander a little. (I don’t even think she was familiar with the more recent “Imitation of Life,” which is great in concert, despite being a little tepid on disc).

Similarly, despite being a great closer, Stipe’s jokey jig during “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” suggested it’s time to put that in the closet next to David Byrne’s oversized suit.

For those of you who are into such things, I was sent the set list by Keith (including album sources, which for me was damn helpful!):

main set

01. Finest Worksong (Document)

02. These Days (Life's Rich Pageant)

03. Drive (Automatic for the People)

04. Animal (New Song)

05. Daysleeper (Up)

06. Orange Crush (Green)

07. Bad Day (New Song)

08. Electrolite (New Adventures ih Hi-FI)

09. The One I Love (Document)

10. I've Been High (Reveal)

11. Feeling Gravity’s Pull (Fables of the Reconstruction)

12. Begin the Begin (Life's Rich Pageant)

13. Nightswimming (Automatic for the People)

14. Losing My Religion (Automatic for the People)

15. She Just Wants to Be (Reveal)

16. Walk Unafraid (Up)

17. Man on the Moon (Automatic for the People)


1. Everybody Hurts (Automatic for the People)

2. Imitation of Life (Reveal)

3. It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) (Document)


Using the word “tepid” reminded me of a recent coffee shop observation. I think there is something mentally wrong with people who order their coffee “tepid.” It just doesn’t seem right to me. It’d be like watching a movie with only partial sound, or asking for someone to give you a half-hearted kiss. “Plant one on my like you don’t really mean it, baby!” Pick a lane, dude. Iced coffee or coffee. None of this wishy-washy shit.


Work-wise, I am off the manga for a little bit. After a rather intense biweekly schedule of doing 4 or so books in a row, I am going on pause while the translators catch up. Not sure when the next volume of one of the books will come along. Scott Ciencin is ready to get back to the YA series, though, so that may start occupying some time.

Oh, and did I link to this interview?

Current Soundtrack: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Take Them On On Your Own; Kenickie, “Stay In The Sun” CD1