Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Why am I pulling over again?

I loathe funerals.

Seriously... funerals are one of the most pointless rituals that humanity has ever practiced. Take for example my experience today. As I was driving into town, I passed a police officer preparing to close off a major intersection. At that moment, I knew what was coming. Like clockwork, the bumbling driver before me started to swerve towards the shoulder, then gunned it through the intersection while the light was still green. Of course, I passed on through. As far as I could see ahead, traffic was backed up and at a stand-still. Scattered about in various angles of disarray were cars trying to pull over for an oncoming funeral procession.

I groaned with utter aggravation. I do NOT willingly pull over for funeral processions.

At this point, you're probably ready to snap at me and ask why I'm so disrespectful - stop and listen!

Tell me what the act of pulling my vehicle over does for the deceased party in question? Do they know I'm pulling over? For that matter, would they even care if I pulled over? No.


Whomever is playing coffin jockey in that hearse could give two craps about whether or not vehicles in an opposing lane pulled over! Much less, the ritual of pulling off the road for a funeral procession actually generates more opportunity for vehicular accidents to occur. Hence, more chances for more people to die! Think about it - multitudes of drivers with no knowledge of what the car in front of them is going to do; people slamming on their brakes; drivers tailgating each other. It's a damn recipe for disaster! Why? All because someone ages ago decided that their deceased kin was so important that living, thriving humans (whom probably don't even know the dead person, lest they'd BE AT THE FUNERAL) should halt their movement and wait for no reason.

Give me a frickin' break.

If it's a small funeral procession, I can usually get on past the morons whom pull over and go on about my business. Not in this case. I sat... and I sat... and I sat. Endless streams of motorcycles went by first (don't even get me started on the egotistical sense of superiority most bikers project). Then I watched as more aloof drivers shot past me with their silly hazard lights on.

You know whom funeral processions really serve? The jack wagon drivers that participate in such processions.

"Hey, look at me. I'm so important that I can drive past you while you're pulled over and there's nooooothing you can do about it. Look at how important I am. LOOK!"

Humph. Eat a dick. I'm sure driving in your silly funeral procession is the highlight of your existence. Say hello to the trash next door for me when you go home to your trailer park.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

I'm just a hack.

I'm feeling pretty good today. Or at least so I thought.

I packed some customer shipments and went to the post office. Worked a little bit on my store inventory, too. I also finally finished a really freaky and enthralling graphic novel I've been reading - The Furry Trap from Josh Simmons (check out his blog here). If you know me well... and some of you do... then you know that my particular tastes in comics can venture out into the land of weird and horrific. Trust me, The Furry Trap continues that trend.

As I finished the book, I came to feel a deep sense of regret. Why have I not published my own comic yet? Where did I leave the path? What took me away from my lifelong goal of being a comic creator? Now don't get me wrong - I absolutely LOVE what I currently do. Setting up my own vintage toy business is one of the best decisions I've ever made in my life. I'm my own boss. I set my own hours. I control what I sell and how I sell it. No longer am I trapped working for a bank that I have major ethical conflicts with. Literally, creating The Cybertron Armory is one of the accomplishments I'm most proud of in life. But... for years, all I wanted was to be a published comic creator. Eventually, I guess I just gave up on myself. There were numerous lies I'd tell my inner being... I'm not talented enough... no one would read my work... I'm just a hack with no real vision... the list could go on and on. Yet, here's a comic filled with strange stories, unique art and a singular vision. If this creator could do it, then why haven't I? What is holding me back from making something all my own?


It's the only true answer. No... the only answer I've never wanted to accept. This absolutely infuriates me. Here I am... thirty years old. In thirty years time, I haven't been able to publish my own comic. THIRTY YEARS! That's a long time! Consider this... in the same thirty year span I could have gotten my own comic published:

- A man of color finally became President.
- We've had three Robocop feature films, and the remake is about to come out later this year.
- Two wars have been fought in the Middle East.
- The US Military has confronted Saddam Hussein twice.
- The Berlin Wall and the Soviet Union both fell.
- I've owned not one, not two, but seven different Nintendo Game Boys.
- Duke Nukem Forever was finally released. The video game that was never to be finished... was finished.
- Family Guy was created, flopped, then got canceled, then was shown in reruns and became successful, then got brought back to life again.
- Speaking of animated programs, we got King of the Hill for thirteen seasons... no one will ever top that show.

My point is this - I've had plenty of time to become a big shot comic creator. Hell, not even a big shot... just a good creator. Yet, all I've managed to do in thirty years is keep myself from completing my goal. This dilemma is not just filled with deep-seeded anger with myself, but it's filled with pure, unfiltered disappointment.

I have to admit it to myself and the rest of the world. Perhaps I'm scared of success. Deep down, something has told me that I don't deserve to be as successful as I can be. Something has programmed me to be afraid of what I can become.

Maybe Yoda has some insight for me...

“Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.”


Fear does lead to anger. It seems I'm living proof of that. That damn green, big-eared puppet was right.



Thursday, January 17, 2013

Pulling the zipper.

I have a hard time expressing myself face to face. At least... expressing myself in a manner that's genuine and not a total facade. Those of you that know me probably understand that aspect of my personality. Prickly. Opinionated. Domineering. I can be pretty hard-headed at times. My personality is... an acquired taste. For those of you that have stuck around, your companionship is appreciated. That being said, my circle of friends and family is not large. In fact, it's downright depressing. I can count my close friends on one hand, with fingers to spare. My family is small. I can't even name many of my extended family members anymore. Literally - I don't [a] know or [b] remember their names. Hell, I don't even know when some of them breed and produce offspring!

Look at that... my first blog post and I'm already rambling. That's what my anger does to me. It's like a persistent poltergeist whispering bad things in my ear, telling me to drive the car off the road.

"Yes, drift into the ditch. Kiss that light pole. Yesssssss."

Anger - it's always with me. Being pissed off is my default gear position. Not neutral, not happy... just pissed-off. Sure, I'll have moments of fleeting happiness and laughter. Plop me down in front of one of my favorite television programs or movies. I laugh my ass off. Those of you that know me can readily recognize my laugh - high pitched, wheezing and obnoxious. Yes, I admit I'm obnoxious at times too. Deal.

But where does my constant fury come from? How did it get there? I can barely remember a time in my life when I wasn't angry about something or someone. As I've aged, it's grown larger. Anger is my tumor. It's a festering boil of contempt and bitterness that shapes my entire environment. Many of you can attest to how I can destroy your good mood. Hell, two of you (you know who you are) just told me that today. For that, I really am sorry. I don't wake up in the morning with a mission to sink your battleship of rainbows and lollipops. It just happens.

If I'm ever going to determine why I stay angry, I think I've got to decipher what made me angry to begin with.

"Won't you help me sing... these songs of freedom. 'Cause all I ever had... Redemption Song."

Sorry, listening to BBC Radio Scotland. Great cover of Bob Marley came on. Poignant moment, though. I could use a little redemption right about now.