Of Playthings and Puppets

As I wrote last entry, I enjoyed myself several hours of Halo 3 rank Living Dead madness over the weekend, sucking all the life from my free time and leading to a very bored fiance. For those of you who haven’t played Living Dead… what the Hell is wrong with you? It’s not only the best gametype found within the FPS, but it’s only ranked 3 days of the year. That’s right, only Halloween weekend. Sadly, I again missed grabbing a 50 (the highest) due to playing far less than I did last year, though I did manage a respectable 41 for my time. Maybe next year….

But this isn’t about Halo 3. Or zombies. Well, maybe a little of the latter. You see, as I already mentioned, this past weekend was Halloween. Halloween! A night of ghouls and goblins and… uh… oh yeah, ghosts (a whole other meaning to “3G” huh?). Those of you who celebrate Halloween likely do it in many different ways. Hell, I even know a girl who has a birthday party that day. Certainly we can’t all go out and expect to get candy from strangers… unless it’s “candy” instead, which, you know, could mean oh so many wondrous things.

Yet I think that if you DO celebrate (there are far too many who DON’T) Halloween, there are certain ways to do it, almost all of which correspond to age. Let’s see if we can break this down a bit.

Ages 1-2ish: You probably can’t walk yet, let alone suck on some candy, so unless you’ve got some older siblings, you’re probably not going out beyond your house. Doesn’t mean you aren’t dressing up, though. You might go out in this (ain’t that friggin adorable? My God).

Ages 2ish-maybe 12: Now it’s candy time. “Trick or Treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!” Butterfingers, Skittles, Almond Joys, Reese’s, Krackle, Hershey’s, etc. and so forth all get lobbed into a random plastic bucket to be enjoyed either later that night or for the next few months. Some parents like to stiff their kids though when they check them for razors; always be wary of that. Oh, there’s also dressing up. That’s pretty fun, too. I think the Power Rangers and TMNT were the big ones growing up for me… don’t rightly remember what I wore now, though.

Ages 13-17: Ah, high school stupidity. Not content to go around at night only anymore, we now rock the halls in our outfits and later do one of three things: go scare kids or generally mess with people; go to a party and maybe get drunk; or go home and do nothing. Maybe a combination of the three. ‘Course, if you’ve got younger siblings at this point, it’s a completely different bag o’ tricks.

Ages 18-21: College stupidity now! Dressing up in slutty or stupid outfits never gets better than it does now, and with all the booze flying around campus this weekend, what better way to say “Hi” to the pretty chick than to drunkenly compliment her on her barely-there witches costume. Conversely, it’s a good time to see just how creative your man is, or just how far he’ll go to look like the biggest douche in the land.

Ages 22-28: This frame varies on a number of things, especially if you’re going to grad school and if you manage to land a job. You might be doing just what you did during college or you might not be doing anything at all. Then again, maybe you’re carving pumpkins with the person you loved or watching scary movie marathons. Whatever you choose, if you’re even remotely showing some kind of maturity, celebrating Halloween is starting to get a little… tiring.

Ages 29-40: Now it gets interesting. If you have kids, you’re starting the whole cycle over again, dressing them up in cute Superman costumes (cause, really, it never gets old) and getting candy out for other children. If you don’t have any, chances are you’re now going to “adult” costume parties, places with spiked (and non-) apple cider, background music instead of noise you can barely talk over, and people you actually wouldn’t mind seeing instead of the random slut in her latest “Feels like I’m wearing nothing at all!” costume.

Ages 41-60: Maybe you take the kids out for Halloween, dragging them down city streets with a flashlight to make sure Michael Jackson look-a-likes don’t snatch them when you aren’t looking, or maybe you’re sitting at home, carving your pumpkin and giving out candy to whomever comes knocking. It’s enjoyable. Relaxing. And you remember why Halloween was fun in the first place as you realize you’re not getting any younger.

Ages 61+: At this point, you’re probably not going to the costume parties anymore, what with that sore leg, and your ex always showing up with his/her new beau. The kids are busy doing their own thing now, so you’ve got to fend for yourself. Maybe you have a drink. Maybe you just do whatever you do every other night. At this point, it’s either special or it isn’t. And, once you hit the end, just knowing you’re alive and able to chomp down a Milky Way should you feel like it is enough to keep you feeling rather chipper.

The last time I was truly sick, to the point of having to stay isolated to a couch for a whole day, I was ten. It was a Saturday, my brother was in the backyard, and I was pinned under a blanket within running distance of the toilet. A black and white monster movie marathon was playing on the Sci-Fi channel. As I drifted in and out of a dazed stupor, I watched, lazily casting a glance at giant squids, fungal blobs, and growling yetis toppling landmarks. After a while, I noticed the commercials began to repeat themselves. Once, twice, three times. In the end, I wasted my day away tallying monster movie commercials on a checklist and sucking down popsicles. Not a very productive day, but certainly rather enjoyable.

Not so much this time. Though I haven’t been throwing up and, in fact, feel rather well today, being sick as an adult is not as much of a picnic as it was while being a child. Having contracted this illness somewhere either Monday or Tuesday, my sickness boiled to a head Wednesday night and led to a “randomly hit by a truck in the middle of the night” feeling Thursday morning. I e-mailed out (sure beats calling when your throat is throbbing), went back to sleep, and eventually scheduled a doctor’s appointment. Not much more needs to be said, but let’s just say I got a nice dose of anitbiotics and directions to not go into work for 24 hours.

Well then.

Any hopes of making good use of my time certainly went out the window, as Thursday was bascially spent in a pseudo-daze between random Facebook postings and channel changing. Concentration was certainly out of the question as, trying to do something useful by reading a book, I became dizzy from the printed page. That’s not to say I didn’t try. And I kept at it. By late Thursday night, I had stacked up some good time for my Creativity Chart. Today got even better as, though I was apparently rather contagious, and aside from still feeling like someone had beaten me with a baseball bat, I was fully able to concentrate.

After a late sleep, a tasty breakfast, and a beautifully hot shower, I sat down and wrote for well over an hour.  I then moved on to something else and edited for another good deal of time. In all, before even sitting down to write this wonderful piece of blogging literature (modest, ain’t I?), I managed to squirm in my computer chair for 134 minutes. Not too bad, I’d say.

The problem, however, is that these past two weeks have not been nearly as successful. You may have noticed my lack of a Creativity Chart update as well as there not being an excerpt to share this week. Well, it’s not that I’ve been busy really. I’ve just had difficulty forcing myself to sit down and type away. Not entirely certain why. Of course, the sickness didn’t help from this Tuesday onward, but there really was no excuse for last week.

I wish I were being paid for this, it’d make doing it so much easier.

See for yourself just how badly I’ve performed:

Would you just look at all of those zeroes? I don’t know how I’ll ever expect to become a published author with those types of figures. But I suppose there are on times and there are off times, and lately has most certainly been off. Here’s hoping I can improve and actually put the idea swimming endlessly through my mind down so they can just stay the Hell out.

In case none of you were aware, this weekend Wizard is hosting the Big Apple Comic Con in New York City. Supposedly, advanced tickets have been selling quite well despite an increased price ($35-$40 each compared to only about $12 in previous years [or free earlier in the year!]). Based on my past experiences with the Con… it’s really not worth that much. It’s far smaller than New York Comic Con and, honestly, just not nearly as enjoyable. I suppose this is what happens when NYCC is still a whole year away (!).

If you are going, though, be sure to drop by Terminal Press‘ booth (#418) and give them some business. The guys are cool as Hell and their books are just fun.

But, as I wrote in this entry’s title, I’m in Vermont, so it all doesn’t matter for me. Instead of comics, I’m looking at changing leaves and hiking on trails. Instead of smelling sweaty fat men dressed as Harry Potter, I’m breathing clean, fresh mountain air. And instead of bumping elbows and dodging crowds of fans, I’m driving along fairly deserted highways with my fiance in my new car.

It’s definitely a trade up.

We’re doing some fun things, too (though there’s nothing like the feeling of picking up a stack of comics and slashing them from my list). After driving up here today, taking our sweet time to look over the mountains and valleys, we took a tour of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream factory and partook in some free samples. If you’ve never taken a tour of the facilities (or even had a B&J!), I highly recommend it as the half hour journey through the bowels of the factory is both informative and fun and, at $3 for adults, a fair bargain considering the ample sample at the end.

We then travelled down to our present location, Killington, a small ski-town seemingly abandoned in the off-season months. No cars travel down two-lane highways. The tourist traps are all closed. A wall of menus in our hotel isn’t applicable as only three are actually open. The ski slopes are smooth, the gondolas silent. It’s rather romantic, actually, and more great times are ahead as the weekend continues (Keene Pumpkin Fest tomorrow!).

Yet all through driving to B&J, stopping by Long Trail Brewing Co. for a sampler, watching the Phillies/Dodgers game while munching at a Pulled Pork Sub, and dodging moose for 15 mile stretches, the idea of actually living in a place like this never really entered my mind. I just honestly don’t think I could do it. Having lived in Storrs, CT for four years, a location just 30 minutes from a relatively large shopping area, and absolutely hating every minute I had to drive, the concept of living miles and miles and miles away from what I consider civilization is simply not appealing.

I need the city. I need New York. I need a subway station, drunken and smelly vagrants, buildings reaching for the sky, trees surrounded by fences within a park, dogs on leashes, groceries from a super store. How could I live without a massive bookstore, a Post Road, a pick of restaurants respresenting every corner of the world, department stores, and let’s not even forget the natural wonder of wonders… the OCEAN! Yes, there are mountains aplenty, snow every which way you look, and some lovely mountain trails. But this isn’t me. I want to sit in the back of gypsy cabs, wind my way through traffic, eat a greasy hot dog boiled in sewar water, and bask in the sun on a sandy beach.

You know… this is probably why all but two of my currently planned books will be based in New York City….

My friend and coworker, Sean, asked me an interesting question today. He said, “Do you think the Internet does more good than bad?”

Honestly, I had a little trouble answering. Sure, the Internet has done some outstanding things for our civilization, particularly within the research and media industry. Whereas years ago, extensive library research was required for any type of in-depth reporting, a simple Google search could practically do exactly the same. Articles can then be posted to the Web immediately and be seen by millions across the globe.

It’s limitless information at your fingertips. Ingenious. Wonderful.

Yet the question is valid because the Internet has done as much harm as, or perhaps more than, good. Without even breaking the topic of online pornography (Actually, have any of you seen the latest episode of Family Guy? Resident pervert Quagmire displayed perhaps one of the most memorable scenes of Internet porn discovery ever seen on television) and the widespread purveyance of sex offenders, the Internet has led to increases in crime, particularly theft, impersonation and fraud. That isn’t to mention the massive effects instant access to news, statistics, and price comparisons has wrought on society.

But technology, particularly the Internet, is here to stay, so like any other massive change in the way we live, it must be adapted to no matter the consequences. Being only 23 years old, I’ve already seen far-reaching technological advances completely throw my world out of whack. Don’t believe me? Let’s look at a few examples (with handy dandy links for those who don’t know what the Hell I’m talking about!)

• The first family TV was a 23″ color floor model surrounded in faux wood complete with a remote affixed permanently with a thin wire.
• Our VCR came later, attached through the cable jack, and did not rewind the tape. For that, we had to have a separate Rewinder that sat atop the VCR.
• Around 8 PM, the channels “changed” between programs, and some even switched off around 11 PM, turning to a static screen or otherwise.
• Nintendo’s Entertainment System (NES) was my first video game console and originally hooked up to our second TV, a 13″ color screen. My first game was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Arcade Game, a 2-D side-scroller more enjoyable than most games I’ve played since.
• We had one phone in the kitchen. It had a cord that stretched just far enough to sit down at the dining table. An answering machine, with tapes, was next to it.
• Our first stereo system could play only cassettes and records and had two speakers.
• The first upgrade was the stereo system, with the new one offering a CD player (just one disc). This was later expanded by a 5-Disc CD changer.
• After stabbing the family TV with scissors to find out what was inside, we had to buy a newer, larger one. This was 32″ and was quickly joined by my own 27″ screen.
• I remember buying my first cassette. And my first CD. My first MP3.
• Our first computer was a Gateway with a 17″ monitor (tube) and no memory whatsoever. The sound of a cheetah accompanied by a video of one running attracted me to it. The entry was from Encarta.
• I didn’t have a cell phone until high school. It had a monochrome screen and no options for a wallpaper, let alone a camera, MP3 player, and whatever else is offered in phones today.
• My first DVD player was the PS2, my first Blu-Ray player the PS3. My iPod is a fourth gen, amazingly still works, and shows lovely pictures in full color.
• I finally have a car with keyless entry. Oh, what a wonderful thing.

Those are only some of the examples I can think of off the top of my head, an evolutionary overview of the technology I’ve owned. It amazes me to think, like I’ve done with black and white TVs, 8-Track tapes, turn-dial phones, etc., my children will look back at the technology we considered so advanced at the time and think it nothing more than a relic. They will find them at flea markets and tag sales, throw them into piles of junk when we die, and read about them in textbooks.

Of course, I’m without a doubt certain of this: technology will fail them just like it’s failed us. They will smash things, they will throw them against the wall, wonder why the batteries aren’t working, deal with slowdown, and absolutely hate whatever it is they’re buying in twenty years time.

Though, I don’t think they’ll ever have to blow dust off of an NES cartridge. That’s just for us.

Seriously, why did that work so well?

There’s only a handful of things I really, truly, honestly friggin’ love more than anything else. One of these is my fiance, Kim, who is much more than perfect (you’ll see why later down this post). And as much as she would love to have this entry be written about her… it isn’t. This is about another thing I absolutely love. And that thing is…

Ice cream.

I love it. Truly. I don’t know how people can live without it. It might be a family trait: My earliest memories of eating and actually enjoying ice cream occurred at my great-grandfather’s house, where a pint of Turkey Hill Vanilla Bean or French Vanilla was always chilling in the freezer, just waiting for my spoon to break its pristine surface. My grandfather, whom I barely knew, ate ice cream (I believe it was chocolate) the majority of his life, introducing my mom into the same kind of fate, who thus passed the idea of the after-dinner bowl into my life.

So, needless to say, I’ve been eating ice cream almost as long as I’ve been able to pee (2 seconds in!). My tastes have changed drastically over the years, from vanilla to chocolate, Neopolitan to Fudge Ripple, Cookies ‘N Cream to Chocolate Chip Cookie Cookie Dough, but in 2007, my current favorite was introduced by little known ice cream makers Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield with a little help from one Stephen Colbert.

My infatuation with the wonderful creation boldly named Americone Dream began one fateful night during my junior year of college. Perry, my possibly insane yet lovable roommate, happened to stop by Store 24–the local get-everything-you-can-possibly-need-while-in-college shop–and picked himself up a pint of cold, delicious goodness alongside several other assorted nick-knacks.

I thought nothing of it. I believe, actually, that I was knee deep in a game of Halo 3 and subsequently couldn’t care about anything except if it happened to block the TV. So, sitting at his computer, reading Wikipedia, listening to music, and breaking into random hysterical bouts of laughter, Perry peeled the wrapper from the B&J, and began slowly and methodically chomping away. Several minutes later, with half of the ice cream in his stomach and the rest steadily melting into a viscous pool of milky splendor, Perry, decidedly finished, said, “Dude, you wanna finish this?”

Now, I’m not the biggest germaphobe in the world by a long shot. I fully abide the five second rule, believe I have the spit of the Gods, and trust fire to kill anything that happened to land improperly on a slab of meat. But, you have to understand Perry. Junior year, there was a visible line separating our two sides, dust on his side, clean carpet on my own. Mountains of laundry, rags, empty containers, tissues, crumpled pages, and other indiscriminate filth populated his area. So, if I said no, the precious B&J would simply be added to the crude trophy case of trash that was his desk; yet, if I said yes, I somehow felt I would be violating some unspoken medical rule regarding the spread of germs and death and… I don’t know. It just didn’t seem right.

In the end, I simply couldn’t refuse ice cream. So, of course I said, “Yeah, sure.”

Oh, what joy. What an amazing flavor! My mouth was ablaze with excitement! That sweet, pure vanilla base! And what’s this? Fudge-covered waffle cone pieces! A caramel swirl! Heaven in my mouth!

What more, after I stop my momentary gasp of exclamation, I go on to discover that, through the Stephen Colbert Americone Dream fund, proceeds from each sale are distributed to national charities.

My God, it was the best of all worlds.

I went on to finish that container, smiling the whole while. The next week or so, I bought another one and did the same. I was hooked. When I was sucking down a spoonful, I hadn’t a care in the world! Americone Dream was my drug, and you can be damned sure I was getting in my fix.

Then a sad thing happened. I went into the store, headed straight for the frozen foods, reached for the door… and saw, much to my dismay, that the slot officially reserved for Americone Dream had another flavor in it.

Infidel!

I couldn’t believe it. No more Americone Dream? Had it joined the B&J graveyard that had claimed so many worthwhile flavors (Black & Tan, Bovinity Divinity, Fossil Fuel, Orange & Cream, White Russian and so many others)? Say it ain’t so!

Alas, it looked to be the end of my joy. Americone Dream was gone, as was my taste for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. I just couldn’t commit myself to their $3+ pints when the best flavor in the world was simply kicked to the curb like a stray puppy. Sure, I’d try a Half Baked, dip my toes into some Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, but it wasn’t the same! I could drown my lost flavor sorrows in these staples… but all I wanted was a chocolate covered waffle cone piece….

I would walk past the freezer section, stopping midstride, and scan the shelves. Week after week, month after month–nothing.

Then, one day, I saw it. A column of Americone Dream! OMG!!!!111

But, I didn’t buy it. The pint was $4.59. $4.59! Seriously? How the Hell could I pay that much for ice cream? Sure, it’s the best ice cream to ever be made, but I can’t justify that! I walked away. I didn’t buy it.

The next week, it was gone. And so went my life. Americone Dream-less. I would never taste it again.

Except, of course, that’s not true. In fact, I’m spooning the last of a pint into my mouth as I type this sentence. Oh, how delicious.

It happened like this. An hour after a grocery trip saw me once again staring at an infuriating freezer, my absolutely wonderful fiance (see how that came back around?) began reading through Ben & Jerry’s cemetery.

“I don’t see Americone Dream,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

I yanked the computer from her and typed “Americone Dream” into the site’s search bar. Five entries down, a title stuck out: Flavor Locator. I clicked the link. A new window came up, with a drop-down menu asking me to “Choose a Product.” I scrolled to A… only to see there were no A’s. What the Hell. I go back to the previous page and notice… “Stephen Colbert’s Americone Dream.” It starts with an S!

JOY!

I go back, I drop-down, I click, I type my zip code like there’s no tomorrow and I press FIND IT.

And I wait.

And I wait.

“Load!”

Six places around me have it!

“We have to go now.”

And we went. And there it was. And on sale! Two for the price of one. I didn’t care, just grabbing a random second flavor (Cookie Dough) as I pulled out my debit card (I only had $1 in cash at the time) and got the Hell out of there.

Within seven minutes, I was spooning me some Americone Dream. And all was right with the world.

As I’ve mentioned in the last few posts, I’m in the midst of a runaway Robert A. Heinlein marathon, everything from his Future History series all the way through the later World as Myth titles. So, for the last week, I’ve been heavily engrossed by the 1987 To Sail Beyond the Sunset, the last book published before Heinlein’s untimely death in 1988, though not the last on my relatively long reading list (more on this in coming weeks).

An homage to the lines of Tennyson’s Ulysses, To Sail Beyond the Sunset is, beyond a doubt, unequal in work and imagination and, above all else, an epic finale to a lifetime of work. But this is not a book review. This is a blog. So, before I go further with this, let me just say that I bring this title up not because I want to promote it (though you should read it anyway), but because between the numerous episodes of deviant sexual behavior, there are unrivaled analyses of our culture from a most unusual point of view: a more than century old woman with experience in multiple time lines.

I’d like to quote one of these passages for you, found in the fifteenth chapter entitled, “Torrid Twenties, Threadbare Thirties.”

Jubal Harshaw also pointed out to me a symptom that, so he says, invariably precedes the collapse of a culture: a decline in good manners, in common courtesy, in decent respect for the rights of other people. “Political philosophers from Confucius to the present day have repeatedly pointed this out. But the first signs of this fatal symptom may be hard to spot. Does it really matter when an honorific is omitted? Or when a junior calls a senior by his first name, uninvited? Such loosening of protocol may be hard to evaluate. But there is one unmistakable sign of the collapse of good manners: dirty public washrooms.

“In a healthy society public restrooms, toilets, washrooms, look and smell as clean and fresh as a bathroom in a decent private home. In a sick society–” Jubal stopped and simply looked disgusted.

He did not need to elaborate; I had seen it happen in my own time line. In the first part of the twentieth century right through the thirites people at all levels of society were habitually polite to each other and it was taken for granted that anyone using a public washroom tried hard to leave the place as clean and neast as he found it. As I recall, decent behavior concerning public washrooms started to slip during World War II, and so did good manners in general. By the sixties and seventies rudeness of all sorts had become commonplace, and by then I never used a public restroom if I could possibly avoid it.

Offensive speech, bad manner, and filthy toilets all seem to go together.

After having originally read this section, along with two others surrounding it that I will not repeat here for brevity’s sake, I had to stop and just think about what had been brought to my attention.

Public restrooms. We’ve all been in one at some point. And, certainly, the man did have a point. These are places of absolute filth, where strangers come to have sex, where phone numbers and crude drawings fill the walls, where toilet paper, hand soap, and paper towels are precious commodities. No one, unless they are paid, cares to keep these areas clean. I’ve seen overflowing trash cans, broken doors, upturned hand dryers, unflushed toilets, etc.

Would you ever allow bodily excrement to liquefy and stagnate in your own toilet? I should hope not.

But this lack of care stretches much further than simply public restrooms now, much as Heinlein indicated. Before I elaborate, I know fully well that examples could run on forever and make this blog simply a list of what’s wrong with society. I don’t want to do that; it’s been done far too many times. Instead, I’m going to concentrate on only two examples affecting me on a daily basis within my professional life.

The first is in regard to personal space. Everyone enjoys their personal space, it’s true, whether a few inches or a few feet, but there are times when this barrier must be suspended, particularly when dealing with mass transit: it is simply impossible to maintain a proper space when traveling via trains or buses, and so we let that go.

Yet, let’s expand the train example. On a normal MetroNorth train, there are two rows of seats, one with three seats and one with two (diagrammed: XXX I XX). With the suspension, but support, of personal space, travelers are expected to seat in the following order: (XO), (OXX), (OXO), (OO), and finally (OOO). Please forgive the crude diagrams, but they are much, much easier to convey this concept without having to tirelessly explain every action… so, continuing.

The first three steps go without a hitch, usually (though there are exceptions), but the last two usually require someone to actually demonstrate some courtesy as, despite the abundance of storage racks, most individuals are now too preoccupied (lazy) to place their bags anywhere other than the seat next to them. Why, just yesterday, I was forced to sit between two stubbornly rude women who, after I asked to sit, mumbled under their breaths and looked sternly at me as though I was the most ungrateful asshole to ever walk onto a train (as a matter of fact, the larger of the two couldn’t contain her body to her own seat without being uncomfortable, so a hefty roll lay within my small area… she didn’t move until leaving the train in Bridgeport).

My second point is more a general gripe aimed at PR firms and others in the professional realm and is something I’ve had to deal with quite often since the market collapse late last year resulted in an abundance of layoffs. It is the inability or the lack of desire to respond to a person’s or organization’s request or submission. I understand time is money and that being rude and secretive in regard to answering questions penetrating “strategic practices” has been well regarded in capitalism’s wake, but to simply ignore an e-mail or phone message or erase it and act like it never happened is simply childish and unprofessional. Hell, people are paid to answer questions and yet they still can’t find the time to do such.

I digress.

Heinlein had a point. People are rude. They don’t care about anyone other than themselves and others who directly affect their lives on a long-term basis. Am I guilty of this? Undoubtedly, as are you. It’s part of our culture now to be rude and inconsiderate. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you said “Hello” and “How are you?” to someone walking by you on the sidewalk you’ve never met before? People used to do this all the time! In fact, people didn’t have to do this with strangers because, at least in small towns, most knew each other.

I don’t even know my neighbor’s name.

I am rude. You are rude. Heinlein knew this, or, at least saw it coming. What can be done about it? Heh, probably nothing. But who cares?

(Can you see the irony? Love it)

When I was much younger than I am today, my paternal grandmother, after living in Hawaii for a dozen years or so, took an extended vacation to pay her (my) family a visit. Since I hadn’t seen her since I was able to keep a recollection, you can imagine this was big news that managed to get me extremely excited.

Unfortunately, though, it did mean I’d have to give up my bed and sleep in the top bunk usually reserved for sleepovers and shirts I was too lazy to hang (soon after, this bunk was forever filled by my foster brother, Billy, so my plan was quickly torn apart anyway). After some grumbling, I acquiesced, and I spent a few weeks sleeping in the same room as the grandmother I hardly knew.

There are two things I remember quite vividly from that time. One: due to the temperature and humidity difference between Connecticut and Hawaii and the fact my grandmother was already quite frail, she almost immediately came down with a cold. I remember this not because her coughs were memorable or her tissues piled into mountains high enough to reach my bunk, but because, every night, before going to sleep, my grandmother would take a spoonful of Vick’s VapoRub and swallow it whole.

Now, being a young child at the time, Vick’s was probably the one thing I hated most–aside from canned Tuna–due to the fact that, whenever I was sick, felt a chill, had a runny nose, or just looked funny, my mom would break out that blue container and lob a mound of slimy gunk on my tubby tummy. To this day, I still don’t know if the concoction actually worked or not, but when it was on you or if it was even in the room, you knew (funny thing is, some researchers recently conducted a study that showed Vick’s isn’t even good for children. All that suffering for nothing!).

Aside from that gross image, the one other thing I recall is rather sweet. At the time, previews for GoldenEye, the quintessential Bond film of the nineties, just hit screens, and (needless to say) I was ecstatic. Honestly, it was all I could think about (Pierce Brosnan! Guns! Planes! Snow! OMG!).

Hold on, hold on. Before I get into this story, I want to say one thing. I can almost 100% guarentee this will have absolutely nothing to do with what you’re thinking about.

With that said, back to the story. One day, I found my grandmother painting a wooden nutcracker. It was small, maybe three inches high and an inch or so wide, and she was using simple watercolors and a brush. After some time of silent watching, she asked if I would like to paint one as well. Of course I said sure (what kid doesn’t love messing with paint?) and sat down beside her with a paper towel and a grin.

The result was modeled very much after hers, except for two key differences: my nutcracker had a jetpack and a patch of gold ink wrapped around its left eye.

See, I didn’t really quite get the whole GoldenEye-is-a-Top-Secret-satellite-up-in-space-that-could-wipe-out-civilization-in-an-instant theme. In my young, imaginative mind, GoldenEye was like Gold Finger, in that, instead of having a finger made of gold, he instead had an eye composed of the rare metal. Logical, no? Yes, I know Gold Finger didn’t have any gold on his index finger or anywhere else, but I was like eight years old–cut me some slack.

My point is that, in that moment, my grandmother and I clicked like we’d never done before, all because we sat down at my mother’s kitchen table and painted some wooden dolls. And after looking mine over and laughing about the jet pack, she caught my eye with a smile and said, “That’s the Pawlowski gene; we’ve all got to do something creative or we’ll go nuts.”

(I think the “or” part is a little flexible)

It’s true what she said. I’ve written somewhere within this blog before that I’ve been writing since the first grade (whether a simple story with me and the Hulk, a twisted take on my classmates and a declaration of prepubescent longings, a pseudo-Matrix story written long before a Wachowski even thought Keanu Reeves would look cool in a black trenchcoat, or anything in between) but what I haven’t written of were the many paintings I produced alongside the pages, or my absolute fixation on art class and its teacher (Mrs. Polizzo!), or the many forts I’ve created and subsequently destroyed, the numerous images created in Adobe Photoshop, etc. and so forth.

A product of two families blooming with creativity as well as an imagination -nurturing childhood, I have an endless desire to build, write, paint–anything that can be considered artistic at all. And, honestly, I just let the fluid spill out. Sometimes results are quite good (the Master Dew, for instance) and sometimes, not so much (the many comics I’ve attempted to draw over the years, including that one [Love at the Rink] I drew many moons ago with my old friend John… good times).

Whatever the case, I have to do something. It’s not a choice. Honestly, I wouldn’t be writing this now if I didn’t feel it necessary for my sanity. When I can, I focus the energy and write something perhaps worth a glance, but, as you can tell, that’s only a fraction of the time (oh, modesty, you heartless wench).

Yet, whatever the case, I do use the energy to be as creative as possible (unless, of course, I’m playing a video game. Those horrid, addictive beasts are the giant, alien sponges sucking the life from everything that is innovative… and I LOVE THEM). However, as I’ve hinted, I don’t always employ my inspired juices toward the most fulfilling goal… so, I’ve decided to draft a Creativity Chart.

This is something you can do at home as well, and, for those who consider themselves rather inventive, could acutally quantify how well you are performing within your desired profession. The Chart highlights several activities, such as writing, drawing, etc., and keeps track of the time spent on each during the normal course of a week. Simple, yes?

My goal, to help myself become a better writer and to simply amuse you in the long term, is to write for at least an hour a day, every day. I’ll be sure to keep you updated, as I wrote in the previous entry, whether you want to be or not (it’s fun to be in control of content).

I want to be a professional writer, and this is how I will do it. Practice. Practice. Practice.

It makes perfect, so I hear.

As I said a few entries ago, it took me a moment to react to the entirely new interface Blog.com recently introduced. Now that I’ve had the chance to peruse these changes (most notably the “categories” option), I’ve decided to update warrenpawlowski.blog.com in several ways:

• Reviews will be posted on many more things, as these posts seem to be the most visited. Expect to see graphic novel, book, movie and game reviews coming on a regular basis.
• Blog posts on random thoughts, idea or other rants will be appearing on a weekly basis. These will be aside from the usual reviews and writing updates and will be collected under the category “Teh Blog.”
• Aside from the blog, there will also be a weekly update on all creative activities (outlined further in today’s inaugural Teh Blog post). This will not be handled on the same day as blog postings.
• Twitter and Facebook will be more integrated integrated into the daily grind than before.
• Categories will be integrated into back matter while tags are as of now no longer used.

These changes are all well and good, but, what does it mean to you, the reader? It means you get more content, more reviews, better reviews, and actual, MEANINGFUL thoughts on various subjects. It should be a great experience, and I hope to see you come back every week!

By the way, be sure to use the RSS Feed option!

-Warren