RANDOMNESS

First, a brilliant strip:

Heh. That post below sort of does sound like it came from someone who hasn't slept.

So. Quiz Night was last Wednesday night at The Craic, a bar along Jupiter St (above Max's), and it's a regular thing, with different sponsors. I wish I was able to post about it on this blog before the night itself. Next time I will, promise. We're thinking about having Indiefilipino and Hey, Comics! sponsoring nights.

Everybody should get the new Ciudad album! Now! It's terrific. And there's 18 songs, more than your measly PhP200 worth. And there's a hidden track, to boot! I have to admit, upon my first listen I somewhat felt that a few songs lost a little of their rawness, their edge, but now I'm really loving it. It grows on me the more I play it. Maybe my initial thoughts had to do with the fact that Ciudad is a band I tend to see live a lot. This and Urban Dub's Influence have given me new hope in the local scene. Not that Ciudad is a new hope, they're an old hope, have always been great.

Click here for a great, eye-opening poem about 9-11.

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That's a picture from the upcoming The Mirror of Love, to be released in February by Top Shelf. It's described as an epic poem about the history of same-sex love, and if there's anyone who could get me to read an epic poem about the history of same-sex love, it's my favorite writer. Actually, it's an old story he wrote back in the '80s, for a book that he himself published called AARGH! (Artists Against Rampant Government Homophobia) It was an anthology of stories, and the book's proceeds went to combat UK legislature (under Thatcher at the time) specifically targeting and victimizing homosexuals/lesbians. Moore himself isn't gay, but was in a "different" kind of relationship at the time, where he and his wife had a common girlfriend. This was shortly before the marriage fizzled and they divorced, his wife going with the girlfriend. It was an 8-pager back then, illustrated by Rick Veitch and Steve Bissette, if I'm not mistaken. I've not read it but I do have Moore's script for it, one of the few scripts of his I have. So I've read the "epic poem." The new edition takes the text and is given new visuals, c/o photographer/colorist Jose Villarrubia (who is gay), and it's now a 128-page book. Hardcover, with a bunch of supplementary material. If the other pictures are of this quality, then I can't wait.

I have not slept for 42 hours, but I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed myself tonight at Quiz Night at The Craic on Jupiter; we helped raise 4K for a scholarship fund, and had great fun to boot.

My eyes are bleary and sting a little from being awake so long, and partly from the cigarette smoke earlier.

I gave up my opportunity to see Kill Bill for a good reason.

Caught Intolerable Cruelty instead. It's a lot of fun.

More tomorrow. I mean today. Ehhh-- when I wake up.

THE GLORY THAT IS SHITHOUSE

More here.

If you can't appreciate the humor here... I'm sorry, how do we know each other again?

Sigh. Only about 60 strips. These are the kinds of great websites where you look up a little while later and realize 2 hours have passed.

Thank you once again to Steph, who provided the link to my new favorite website (and possibly the find of the year): Grouphug. It's nothing but anonymous confessions, and it's addicting as hell. It should be the new friendster, but I actually don't want too many people knowing about it because the bullshit factor will go through the roof. The entries can go from hilarious to sad at the drop of a hat. Some excerpts to pique your interest:

"Once i said that the BeeGees were not the best band ever, when clearly they are"

"i gave a turkey and ham sandwich, cookies, an apple and a banana to a bum who had no teeth"

"Even though my mother is delusional and has never approved of anything I have done, I love her.

I just can't bring myself to tell her."

"i went to a new kids on the block concert...with my sister and my parents...and I am a guy. please help."

"my cousin sexually abused me when i was 4 and he was 16. I dont remember it but i heard my mom telling someone. It's the reason my dad no longer talks to anyone on his side of the family. I feel like its my fault my dad doesn't have a family."

"I once helped beat up a retarded kid in grade school. Not because he was retarted but because he was annoying and nobody (teachers) would do anything about it. He'd speak out loud in class, pick his nose with impunity and wipe it on desk, make fun of you while you peed in the restroom, etc...

So one day, after school, we waited for him at the bus stop, and when he got off, we dragged him behind some trees and beat him within an inch of his life, telling him that if he ever did any of those things again, we'd come into his house at night and slit his throat.

If there was a plus side, this terrified him so badly, his behavior improved dramatically, and became fairly likeable until we all graduated high school and parted ways.

No one, including him, ever spoke of the incident."

"I stretch for about 1-2 hours a day so I will eventually be able to fellate myself. I'm getting close, because if I stick my tongue out real far, I can almost reach. I hope that I will be able to do it someday."

"i shaved my happy spot and now i have little red bumps. damn, it'd look so hot without the bumps! curses on you, bumps!"

"when i was younger, i'd planned out how to kill my mother. i always hated her. then one day, i just moved out and never went back. she has no idea how lucky she was.... it was a really good plan."

"My group of friends convinced a blonde that hobbits and stuff were real. It started out funny, now its just funny and sad at the same time"

"ive downloaded over 10GB of music. but i dont feel bad, most of the artists are dead."

There are some confessions that you can kind of "feel" are fake. Some are pretty rote; the most common one, for example, is basically a variation of "I masturbate X times a day." But the site as a whole is a revelation: it's like peeling the skin back on humanity and exposing just how petty, stupid, raw, vulnerable, manipulative, insane, and shallow we can be. But every now and then there's an entry that's got a glimmer of hope shining through the rubble.

I had a nice chat with Genie about it: there really is a feeling of... satisfaction, in reading some of the confessions. Though I somewhat feel as if I should feel guilty for it. Maybe it's perverted. Maybe it speaks to something shallow in me and, possibly, everyone. The anonymity, for example, helps us to believe each confession, just assuming that the honesty is there. Some confessions make you want to cry, and sometimes you wish that there was some way of communicating with that person to try to give them some reassurance, some hope, some solace.

One of the greatest things about the site is that at first, you think it's a peek into other people's lives and how fucked-up we all are, but if you start thinking about it, the site lets you find out things about yourself, in how you personally react to each confession. In that sense it doesn't even matter if the confessions are genuine or not. Your emotional responses are, regardless.

COMING UP FOR AIR

Hmm. It doesn't feel like almost two weeks have passed since my last post. I'm only on Chapter 2 of Voice of the Fire. Mostly things have been sort of dull. I've been busy helping around with family business, so have stayed mostly at home. There haven't been any good movies in theaters in a long time, so I was delighted when Master & Commander finally came out (watch it; I was so glad that the trailer was made from material seemingly from the first 20 minutes only, so the rest of the film was a genuine surprise).

What really consumed me for a while was TV. On DVD, that is. Burned pretty quickly through both seasons of 24. There were 2 days in the 5-day period where I practically didn't leave my room at all except to use the bathroom and to go to the kitchen to get a meal. The second season is better, though there are more instances of situations where things would be so much simpler if characters just explained who they were and what they were doing. It could be used as a drinking game: take two shots every time someone gets tortured; take another two every time Jack Bauer says "I give you my word." If you correctly guess the next person to die, take another shot. I wonder if it's difficult for Elisha Cuthbert, having to portray perhaps the dumbest daughter in all of fiction. The "shock" at the end didn't feel as organic to me as the first season's, though. Here it felt rote, like it was a requirement instead of something that emerges naturally (but I'm told it's picked up on in the 3rd, current season).

Also finished the 3rd season of The Sopranos. Man, did I miss that show. It's a little mellow and somber compared to the previous seasons, but it's still the best show on television right now. No one writes better endings. And the use of music is wonderful. I was happy that the 3 commentaries were all from the people I was interested in: actor/writer Michael Imperioli (his is the best), actor/director Steve Buscemi, and creator/writer David Chase. Now I really wanna see the 4th season.

Also caught a bit of model animation: Robbie the Reindeer: Hooves of Fire and Creature Comforts. Robbie's terrific, really funny: a concept by Richard Curtis (who I've discovered is a friend of Neil Gaiman's since before Hugh Grant made him popular), where all proceeds go to the charity Comic Relief. All performers worked for free. I wonder though if the some of the humor flies over the heads of children. Creature Comforts is a collection of some of the early Aardman shorts. As expected, they're great. Will go through The Incredible Adventures of Wallace & Gromit next.

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While I like Peter Travers's review of The Matrix Revolutions, I thought Keith Phipps's was the most dead-on.

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Found this wrapped around a piece of chocolate:

I burn with passion and the secret flame of love burns my heart. - A. Beccadelli

I've begun Alan Moore's sole (to date) prose novel, Voice of the Fire. It's a novel that moves through time as opposed to place. 12 chapters, each set in his hometown of Northampton, each set in a different time period, each with a different narrator. The last chapter is narrated by Moore himself as he takes a walk through modern-day Northampton, thinking about the book. The famously-impenetrable first chapter is not as difficult as I had expected. Let me explain: it's narrated by a caveman. What Moore did is he kind of approximated a language that would be used at the time (obviously nothing close to accurate because the differences would be too insurmountable to make sense to a present-day reader), coming up with a glossary of about 1000 words, and restricted himself to using those words only. So for a lot of people, it's really difficult to slog through. I have to read r e a l l y s l o w l y, sometimes even talking out loud. At times I don't get the minute specifics of what he's saying, but there's a general understanding as I go through it. But since it's Moore, it is, of course, utterly fascinating to me. In the beginning, the caveman describes "gray sky-beasts" and I thought, okay, some kind of prehistoric flying animal. Later on he mentions herds of sky-beasts going "from one end of the world to the other," and I realize that he's talking about clouds. Later on, a mention of a black spirit-friend who accompanies him, but disappears during the "dark" (night)-- this is his shadow, which they treat as a separate creature within his tribe. At one point he comes across the body of his dead mother, and his first instinct is to fuck her. Why? To keep her warm. He's surprised that she's stiff and cold to the touch. You can't argue with caveman logic.

It's not dissimilar in that sense to Flowers for Algernon, and reminds me of one of the functions of storytelling: to make you see the world through another's eyes. We've become inured to it because most of what we've seen recently is something close to our own level of understanding. Even if it's set in Middle-Earth. But here, the lens is skewed, and there's nowhere else through which to look, so you're really forced to understand things the caveman way. Certainly, reciting out loud, and slowly, at that, helps.

It's such a thrill to discover these things. :)

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Awww... too sweet for words. :)

LOT/EK (low-tech) is an architectural firm comprised of Ada Tolla & Giuseppe Lignano. One of their ideas is the MDU, or Mobile Dwelling Unit. Basically, they took one of those shipping containers you see stacked on docks and turned it into a makeshift apartment/workspace/office, with expandable slots. The idea is you can have your MDU shipped to anywhere in the world, and live there for a few months before moving on to your next country of choice. A portable home.

I think it would be interesting to do that: travel around the globe with an MDU. Just to see what it would be like, and to see the rest of the world, of course. Wherever you go, at least you'll sleep someplace familiar.

Go to the website for more information and pics. They don't allow remote linking.

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"The photographs in this suite are the result of mean averaging every Playboy centerfold foldout for the four decades beginning Jan. 1960 through Dec. 1999. This tracks, en masse, the evolution of this form of portraiture."

If you look carefully at each for a while, it sort of becomes eerily familiar (though maybe this observation of mine will only apply to other men who've gone through more than one issue of Playboy in their lives). It also occurred to me that one might feel like they're staring into the souls of dozens of now-dead Playmates. Like something's going to burst out, catch hold of your gaze and drag you in.

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And check out this sweet image:

One of my favorite covers of the year, for The Losers # 6, art by Jock. And for a series, almost all their covers are excellent (so far). Click on the image to see the version with the logo.

LINKORGY

Check out Yuko Shimizu. Lovely, clean art. Beautiful, warm colors. Interesting graphics. Mind-bending stuff. And guess what? She does comics! Also check out her series Alphabet of Desire.

Found her through Design Is Kinky, who've also featured Farel Dalrymple of Pop Gun War.

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Over lunch I heard someone get killed.

We were listening to an AM radio station replaying an interview that was interrupted by death this morning. A Col. Villaroel was being interviewed via cellphone when they were attacked at NAIA. He and his aide-de-camp were killed. You could hear the gunshots, and people screaming. Someone somewhere screamed "Ayaw naming mamatay! (We don't want to die!)"

But the strange thing is that Col. Villaroel's son is a pilot, who was at that moment about to land, but was told to stay aloft (as were all incoming planes. Must've been a hell of a headache for air traffic controllers). He was supposedly cursing the delay, not realizing it was the murder of his father that was the cause.

These strange things happen ALL THE TIME.

Genie is a genius.

Arcee, her costume, is the female Autobot from TransFormers. And, it being a cartoon from the '80s, you just know she's the female because a) she's pink, b) she's got lipstick, and c) she's got breasts. Of course, her being a robot, I don't know what the breasts are actually FOR, and it would've been nice if, in the series, they showed a proper function and purpose for the breasts, like a storage area for oil or something...

Click on the picture to watch them dance. And by the way, that's her twin brother Regan as Optimus Prime.

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Ah, finally finished ER Season 1. It's sometimes grueling to watch 5 episodes straight because the average episode can be pretty emotional already, but 5 in a row can be devastating on your tear ducts. Was also pleasantly surprised to see the Quentin Tarantino episode is in here. I thought it was in Season 2. Been noticing also how some of these episodes are structured. Two of my favorite episodes, "Blizzard" and "Love's Labor Lost," have opposing structures: the former shows a calm before the storm, then a disaster with many cases having to be handled at the same time, and the latter begins calmly but then sticks to one, long, grueling case, that keeps you tense throughout until the bitter, tragic end.

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I'm sorry, but this is just damn addicting! I know it's wrong, and there are a lot that are obviously untrue, but still...

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Got Urban Dub's 2nd album, Influence. Haven't heard all of it yet, but what I have sounds good. It came with a newsletter about Cebu bands. And from the newsletter, you really get the feeling that the Cebu music scene is a very close-knit community. There were announcements of birthdays, profiles of bands, announcements of where their music was used (a mention of First Time, I noticed), an ad for Influence, and a "catalog" of previous releases, like a real label. Which floored me, in a way, because I don't know anything about the Cebu music scene besides Dub and Sheila & The Insects. They're really putting out a lot of releases, and it kinda makes me sad that that kind of community togetherness isn't as apparent here in the capital of the country.

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And something interesting sent my way by Steph, whose CMJ stories are maddening, as will be Quark's, I'm sure, next we meet.

On Saturday my maternal relatives and I went to Cavite, where my grandfather is buried. I got stuck in the van with all the old people: my parents, my mom's siblings and/or their wives, two kids, and my grandmother. And it's interesting to be stuck in a situation like that for 2 hours. It's not my idea of a good time, but I can't say that I regret these experiences because sometimes I need to be reminded of how older people speak, especially with the generation gap. They tend to be slower, and are amused at the smallest things. It was also enjoyable for me seeing them rediscover old (to me) jokes through text messaging. You know, those jokes like "What do you call a scary vagina? Spuki." Some of them I haven't thought of since, uh, college.

During these kinds of family outings I always have a book, in the usually likely event that it'll be dead boring. If I'm not reading, I'm just messing around with some of my younger cousins, exchanging jokes, etc. We were ribbing my 13-year-old cousin who's on Friendster, because it says he's looking for a "serious relationship." Haha.

I also found out that Mars Ravelo is buried in the same graveyard as my lolo. My mom showed me.

Sunday was a nightmare. We were to go to Manila Memorial Park in Sucat, where my paternal grandparents are buried. We left the house at around 3, went to Max's where we'd meet my dad. He was 3 hours late because of the traffic. So we left at around 7PM, and in the middle of horrible traffic, got a flat. We changed the tire, I got a cut that I didn't notice until it was bleeding. What should've been a short distance was another 40 minutes of traffic horror. Finding parking inside wasn't as difficult as we'd expected but we had to drive a long way around because of some traffic scheme to keep vehicles moving. I can see the sense of it, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating, since our destination was pretty near the gate and we had to go all around the park.

I'm frustrated with a number of things: there are no clear signs to get to the comfort room. Every staff member I ask gives a confused answer. I find it myself. None of the lights are on, so I'm walking in the darkness when there aren't any lit candles. When I get there the women's is closed and so there's a long line of women outside the men's. When I get in there's no running water, so the trek was useless because I wanted to wash my cut. I walk back to where my grandparents are buried and bitch to my mom, who was wondering where the ladies' room was. She says that this used to be a good place, because it was run by foreigners. When the management became Pinoy it went to hell. What exactly are we paying for when we know the candles and flowers will be stolen tomorrow, when the lights aren't even ON? When there's no running water in the bathroom? I wouldn't be so incensed if it weren't so obvious. The cemetery, in this country, at least, is busiest on these 2 days. They should have prepared water, checked everything, including the lights, bulbs, etc. One of the park employees said that most of the lights were off because squatter children had climbed up and stolen the bulbs.

Without light reading my book was out of the question, and I'd nearly finished it in Max's anyway (The Best of Ray Bradbury: The Graphic Novel). So I was looking around, trying to observe people, which is what I tend to do when there's nothing to do. To my surprise and disgust, the yuppies behind us talked about nothing but Friendster, with faux-American accents, at that. Utterly irritating. Worse yet, they actually knew someone I know, one of my Comm blockmates now in the UK. At one point the pretentious bitch one was lecturing her idiot brother, saying "Not unhappy means you're happy," and I was rolling my eyes. My mom saw this and asked me "Does a double-negative make a positive?" I noticed the yuppies had shut up, maybe hearing my mom's question. I replied, loud enough for them to hear, "No. Saying I'm not unhappy just means I'm not unhappy. It doesn't mean I'm happy, either. I could be ambivalent."

Later on, a young couple arrives. They're curious because they're going around looking for a tombstone, reading everything around them. This is because THERE'S NO FUCKING LIGHT. Anyway, when they finally DO find the one they're looking for, all they do is set up two candles, light them, and walk away. No prayers, nothing. I wanted to ask them why they even bothered.

As opposed to this lone young woman tending to two graves. She had the candles and flowers set up. She was there before we arrived. I found her the most interesting. I kept wondering about the circumstances: is she an only child? Or is this her husband and son? Why was no one else with her? She just sat there pensively, watching the flames. Right before we left, she left, too, but removed the melted wax from the stones.

The epitaph on the tombstone of the person above my lolo reads: "Death is cruel loss and sad/but love I do not grudge/keep him love." I really hope mine has at least correct grammar. I like the idea of Alan Moore's suggestion: "Where'd everybody go? Why'd it get so dark?" And I remember fondly one of my favorite parts of John Berendt's Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil, where a Savannah poet had a bench made for his tombstone on top of the hill where he was buried, so people could sit and see the ships in the distance. He had the words "Cosmic Explorer" engraved; it was the name of one of the ships he saw. I was walking around looking at birth dates, death dates, epitaphs. A four-year old kid. A baby that died the day it was born. Sons that died before fathers, with an empty grave beside them. Meaning the mom's still alive. I found that sad, for some reason. The son had my favorite epitaph in the surrounding area. It reads "Looking forward to that bright morning when we will be together again." It's really touching. When I look, the son has the same birthday as me, but six years older. He would've been 29 if he were still alive.

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It's still strange when I discover ex-teachers of mine having blogs. And I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you all to check out CD's online gallery, which is so impressive it's intimidating. It's amazing to actually know such talented people. She has an exhibit opening this Wednesday, 6 PM, 4F Megamall. I forgot which gallery, though; just look around for her name (or a group of people milling about with drinks in hand).

I went diving last Monday. Actual scuba diving. And had a lot of fun. :) I was a little worried at first; I assumed I'd have difficulty because I have sinusitis, and if you know or have it, then you know what a bitch it can be: occasional hay fever, sneezing fits with sudden temperature changes, crippling headaches. But surprising everyone, especially myself, I took to it pretty well, though I basically had to equalize every 5 seconds. I didn't panic, swallowed water only once (pressing the purge button surprised me with the force of the pressure), and though we were expected to stay no deeper than 10 feet, I got to 25 feet. :) And for my open water dive, we got to go to a wreck! Just a small fishing boat off the shore of one of the smaller islands, with the top portion of the mast sticking above the surface of the water. But underwater it's fascinating. A bush of sea urchins had made their home around the anchor. Corals were beginning to form on the exposed side of the hull, fish swimming all around. I enjoyed the feeling of weightlessness, and just floating lazily around while taking in all the sights. I saw large blue starfish, an eel that scared the shit out of me, clown fish, and all sorts of other fish I couldn't identify (though I saw Dori and Gill from Finding Nemo). It amused me that clown fish are actually pretty aggressive, and defend their homes pretty stubbornly; one bit Neva near her lip. Another, darker fish seemed to be barking at me like a dog. All in all, a lot of fun and a rewarding experience. Thanks to Neva and her family for inviting me along. They're almost all divers, so I was the odd duck. They even went night diving while I-- uh, slept. Neva said it was terrific, though the current was very strong, and it was beautiful when you turned off your flashlight because some of the fish were luminous. Another amusing fact was that she'd bump into sleeping fish who just float around, waking them up with a start.

If you're thinking of diving too, tell us and we'll hook you up with our instructors, Hernel and Joy Castillo, who were very cool and accomodating.

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Am going through the first season of ER on DVD. I used to love this show, and probably still would if I didn't gradually disconnect all ties to watching television. But the first season brings back a lot of memories, and I remember learning a lot about structure from the show (especially the episode "Blizzard"), and it was one of the first shows that was almost dizzyingly fast with near-constant dialogue, presaging the arrival of Sports Night and The West Wing. It feels like I'm reconnecting with old friends I haven't seen in a while: Susan Lewis, John Carter, etc… and I'm glad that Neva's enjoying it as well. Best of all, I finally got to see the pilot episode and other episodes I missed. :)

DVD, how I love ya. Neva mentioned to me the other day how DVD was really made for people like me, because I love going through everything, so special features are a very important factor for me in considering whether to buy a DVD or not (especially since they're fucking expensive). So I almost always only buy those 2-disc sets (for films I really love), otherwise the less-than-legal versions can be mighty tempting… I remember when I last had fever I went through all 4 commentaries of both Fight Club and Seven in the same day.

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"But that's the beauty of writing. It's all just words. If you can find the right words for a place, you can conjure it out of the air."

I've finished the bulk of The Extraordinary Works of Alan Moore. Certainly, if you're a fan of Alan Moore then you'll love the book; it pretty much goes through his entire career. But there's still a lot of questions that editor George Khoury didn't ask, and they didn't go as in-depth into the works and thought/working processes as much as I would've liked. So it's still not the ultimate book on Alan Moore, but it's the closest we've seen. What comes to light is how, amazingly, so much of Moore's material still remains out of print. It's a damn shame. Some of my favorite parts are in the introduction and afterword, which were written by Moore's daughters. Hilarious stuff about what's it like having him for a dad.

"I am primarily a writer. That is what I'm best at. I love to manipulate words, and to manipulate consciousness by manipulating language. That's what I've always been interested in."

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And here's a nice little gallery: artistic interpretations of literary figures. All sorts of good art, including a sketch by Neil Gaiman.

Check out Adi Granov's site. Some really interesting stuff. Strikes me as definitely European, of the Heavy Metal/Humanoids variety. I wonder what he'd look like doing interiors. I've only seen covers so far.

This article sheds a little bit more light on things. He'd tracked 30 songs while working on his sixth album (called From a Basement on the Hill), and was considering a double album, even. He'd worked with JSBX drummer Russell Simins and The Flaming Lips' Steven Drozd.

It was a steak knife to the heart, in his girlfriend's apartment.

According to a source, anyway. When the news was just coming out, only one source identified the woman who found him as Smith's girlfriend (which would explain why she had a key to the place). Everyone else just said female friend. And only two sources mentioned multiple wounds, whereas everyone else either said wound in the singular or pointed out a single chest wound as the cause of death. I'm sort of anxious to see what the investigation turns up. The death was Tuesday but news broke only on Thursday so the authorities kept a lid on it until next of kin was notified. There was no suicide note, or if there was, it's been hidden away or destroyed. Stabbing yourself multiple times in the chest doesn't denote a premeditated suicide, at least to me. It sounds more like an act of passion than anything else. Don't most people with knives kill themselves by slitting their wrists? If he did have only the single chest wound then an accident might not still be out of the question.

None of this makes the loss any easier, though.

GOD DAMN

Elliott Smith is dead, an apparent suicide. Self-inflicted knife wound. This is something I dearly wish was a hoax, but it's not. Fuck.

This is really depressing news. I don't think I've felt this bad about a musician's death since Kurt Cobain. He was chronically depressed and battled alcohol and drug addiction, but it's such a fucking unfair shame that it had to end like this. I'm thinking now of so many things: the videos of Miss Misery and Son of Sam. Smith performing at the Oscars, dressed in a white tux with nothing but a guitar, as opposed to the lavish production numbers of Celine Dion and Michael Bolton. Realizing only after several months that "I Didn't Understand" is sung a cappella. Thinking that "Waltz # 1" could quite possibly be the greatest, saddest song ever written in the history of man. Bonding with Neva over both X/O and Either/Or, particularly "Waltz # 1" and "Say Yes." One of the last songs he recorded before his death was called "A Distorted Reality Is Now a Necessity to Be Free."

He had a terrific voice, that could go from a snarl to a lilting, reassuring whisper. He wrote some of the best lyrics I've ever heard/read, and really elevated songwriting for me in that regard. He played with song form and structure. His melodies were heartfelt, catchy, indelible. There's a nice line from the article above: "The songs floated like lullabies, though the lyrics could disrupt sleep for weeks."

Most of all, I'm remembering the night I was lucky enough to see him perform in Boston. It was glorious; I was happy like a kid who'd traveled halfway across the world and got to see one of his favorite musicians. I was standing up the whole evening, the whole day, actually, off to the side near the stage beside a post and a table, not trying to attract attention, alone but delirious. I was so fucking lucky to be there; read the email below for the full (somewhat long) story.

If you've never listened to him, do yourself a favor and get all of his albums; I don't think any of them will disappoint you. The standouts are Either/Or and X/O, though.

In the time before blogs, I sent this to the Heightsers mailing list on May 29, 2000. I was sending them emails about my month-long trip to the US:

HOW I ALMOST DIDN'T SEE ELLIOTT SMITH (or HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE THE LORD AGAIN)

Monday, May 15 -- The day before today, I wasted in Connecticut. So I wasn't able to reserve tickets, which, actually, I really should have done as soon as I set foot on US soil. Anyway, my family is supposed to be leaving tomorrow morning because my dad has overextended his vacation time, and my mom, working at a school, has upcoming enrolment to deal with. So it's their last day for shopping (and my last day of not paying for things myself). We go to another local mall, and then I'm dropped off at the subway station at about 430. Very early, considering the concert is 9, and doors open at 8. Even then, these things never start on time, and he had an opening act anyway.

My plan was simple. Get to The Roxy (where he was playing) first, get tickets, then go around to this store I knew that was in the area, which sold used CDs. So I took the T (Boston's subway, and first in the country) to Boylston, and come out next to this park where, as luck would have it, I chanced upon the graduation ceremonies of Emerson University. I figure, I'm early enough as it is, I have some free time, there might be a nice photo opportunity here, so I stay a few minutes to watch. The part where they all scream and throw their hats in the air is nice to see firsthand. This is my first time to see it happen, except of course my high school graduation, but that sucked because it was held in the evening and was inside the covered courts anyway. This was a beautiful (albeit cold and slightly windy) day. I must say, they're very LOUD. Screaming abounds, and continues for a good few minutes even after the tossing of hats, and the tumult subsides slowly. It's a very senti moment, because everyone's hugging each other, crying, or jumping up and down in pairs or groups. One girl even kisses me in her delirium, running around the grass. On the cheek, you perverts. After absorbing some more good vibes, I head towards The Roxy. When I get there, there's a small group of people outside of the building. A small knot forms in my stomach. I go up to the least-threatening-looking of the bunch, and ask if this line was for the show itself or for tickets. "For the show" was the reply. A little twinge of panic slices its way into my gut as I enter the Roxy and go upstairs, looking for a ticket booth. The walls are already posted with promotional pictures of Elliott Smith and the new album. When I get to the second floor, I see the ticket booth, with no one there. The lights aren't even on, so I have to go nearer to it to see the sign beside it, which I thought would say when it was open. When I read it, though, my heart freezes into ice.

ALL TICKETS
SOLD OUT

I'm in shock. Well, I should have expected it. I should have reserved tickets. Shouldawouldacoulda. I can't speak, and inside I'm kicking myself in the head. I go down the stairs with my heart heavy, and it doesn't even occur to me (as it does now) to at least steal a poster. What now, I think. Well, I should come back later, try and see if anybody's scalping tickets. It's worth a try. So, with a few minutes spent in shellshock and the onset of heavy depression out on the curb, I head for my other destination - the used CD store, Looney Tunes.

Turns out it's not in the area after all. Massachusetts Avenue is a long, long road. But I don't care. Depressed as I am, I decide to start walking since I'm really early anyway, and so I begin to walk, wallowing in self-pity. I pass the FAO Schwarz, even stopping by to check out the place. There's an entire section on Star Wars, and the people there just depress me further. It's nothing compared to the New York branch, of course. I walk further and pass 3 different Starbucks, 2 Au Bon Pains, several book stores (some of which I check out), the public library, and when I get to Looney Tunes, apparently it's at the END of Massachusetts Avenue. I figure I've walked about as far as from Ateneo to Greenhills. At Looney Tunes, I am able to get some CDs, then see a big-ass Tower beside me, and check it out too. Apparently, I was already on Newbury Street, though I didn't know it. I get a DVD (Short: 3; it was cheap), since I'm still depressed.

The Tower is beside the subway station so I decide to use that since I know I won't make it in time if I walk again. Besides, my feet were killing me, depression or not. I realize I've walked the length of 3 subway stops, which is pretty far. When I get to the Boylston street stop, I eat dinner at the nearby Subway.

It's a weird thing not to speak for an entire afternoon. I don't think I can really do it. Even if I tried, to spend so many hours just absolutely silent...it's just impossible. I'd end up singing a few tunes from my Last Song Syndrome. Or make up conversations, or at least maybe laugh at some people who look stupid.

Anyway, after dinner I go back to The Roxy, and it's about 9 PM already. I never have a watch so I'm never really aware of the time. It's also a nice excuse to ask pretty girls what time it is, even if you know perfectly well that they don't have watches too. But most of their voices suck. The line is pretty much gone, everyone's already upstairs. There's a cop car outside the place, and some cops hanging around, thinking there might be trouble. I position myself outside the place, trying to look as sad as possible. This is the routine, right? You hang around, and then someone approaches you asking if you'd like to buy a ticket? At least, so I figure. If the cops ask, I'll just say that I'm waiting for somebody to show up.

There are other people hanging around. Two girls, a group of students, and another solitary guy in an orange jacket. He's asking out loud, "Anybody got any tickets?", which was a better strategy than mine, but I somehow couldn't bring myself to do it, especially with the cops around. So I hang around, and the line becomes nonexistent. Everyone's already in, and the show should have started about now. Up until this point, I'd still been wallowing in my self-pity, and I had no intention of letting up. And while I thought I couldn't feel any worse, I was mistaken. As the minutes continued to tock by, I felt worse and worse, and the cold seemed colder. Then, one policeman started walking up to people, asking why were we hanging around here? Were we waiting for someone? Did we still want to buy tickets?

DID WE STILL WANT TO BUY TICKETS?! I ran up to him and asked "Are they still selling tickets?" He looks to the bouncer, who has a radio. He asks, listens to the reply, and says, "There are about five left." So of course I run for the door, bulky backpack and jacket and all, and head up the stairs. I'm stopped at the top by somebody. "ID?"

"Uh, I'm not a resident, but can I use my country's driver's license?"

"Do you have your passport with you?"

"No." I'm panicking, and I stutter out: "Look, I'm 19."

"When were you born?"

"1980. Besides, I won't be drinking anyway--"

"You won't be drinking? Oh, okay then, go right in." I get a red X on the back of my hand.

In my rush to get upstairs, I even accidentally hit someone. But I don't stop to say sorry, as I customarily do. After all, they might want tickets too. I get to the ticket booth, now manned, out of breath. The girl looks at me for a few seconds, and I manage, "Elliott Smith, please." (the booth was for other events as well) She, in turn, looks to the girl behind her, who is apparently in charge of the Elliott Smith tickets and already has her coat on, about to leave, and she says

"THERE'S ONE LEFT."

I slam my 16 dollars on the table and swoop it up.

The gig hadn't even started. Whiskey Biscuit was opening for him, and they weren't onstage yet. Meanwhile, I'm finally able to buy Figure 8. Unfortunately, they don't have Roman Candle, the only other Elliott Smith album not currently in my possession. I'm able to also get a video of the music video of Son of Sam, and steal another one for Quark.

Whiskey Biscuit are good with melody, but their singer needs some work. He's like a punk, but with a hick accent. The kind that's high-pitched and sings about lost loves.

Anyway, he comes on about a half hour after Whiskey Biscuit conclude their set, dressed in a simple black shirt, black cap, and corduroy pants (add respect points). The songs are, of course, mostly from Figure 8, since it's a promotional tour for a new album, and so I'm not able to sing along as I would have wanted. This would have proven awkward anyway, since I was alone. However, he sings some favorites, like "Bled White," "Bottle Up and Explode," and the newer songs are so good that I have no reason to complain. His third song was "Everything Means Nothing To Me," which is basically his voice, and a piano, until the end when the song erupts with drum accompaniment. This was one of my favorite performances, coming as it did after a noisy song ("Bled White"), where he just stopped, and held his guitar to the side while the pianist already began. If you've heard the song, you know how good it is. Don't get me wrong, every song he sang was excellent, and sang well, but some stood out. "Amity," which wasn't always my favorite song, featured a new arrangement and really impressed me. One time, during the fourteenth song, he interrupted himself when he said, mid-song, "FUCK! I CAN'T HEAR SHIT!" and waited while they got him a replacement guitar.

He had an encore, which is famous, I find out later, for being very intimate. This was no different. After a few minutes of the crowd's continuous applauding, he came out, alone, with nothing but a guitar, and sang the more intimate songs.

Here I have to digress a bit and address my appreciation for the crowd. Having been bred on insipid audiences back home who don't know when to shut up, this crowd was perfect. No assholes to shout during moments of silence, no immediate clapping when he ends a sentence. They knew when to be quiet, and even waited for Smith's prompting before they clapped. Maybe it was because he looked so fragile and vulnerable, and we didn't want to scare him away. I know I didn't. But God bless Boston, and its people. They were very well-behaved.

Another aside: most of Boston is young smart people, because it's a college town. In Boston proper alone, there are 19 universities, excluding Harvard, since that's in Cambridge. Perhaps this explains the excellent crowd. Lots of brainy people.

The best perk of the concert was Smith sang 3 brand new songs.

--

Rest in peace, man. God knows you deserve it.

This is horrible. I really feel like crying.

I realize that I haven’t written anything creative in a long while. Nothing substantial, anyway. Not to denigrate my recent projects. I think I did okay with both First Time and Captain Barbell, but they were both projects with clearly defined parameters: one had to have a girl getting devirginized, and the other was a remake of a character with his own history, powers, continuity, etc. And both were commissioned works. No, what I mean is I haven’t written anything purely for myself, to satisfy no one but me, in a long time. Where I can do anything I like. I thought I’d take the chance again, but it’s scary. I’m out of practice.

So I’m thinking of getting ideas from other people. Collaborating. Primarily, comics. At least, right now. There are some film ideas that are in various stages of development, but those can wait. I’m sort of excited to go back to writing for comics since I’ve been away from it for too long. I’m asking all sorts of people for their portfolios to get an idea of what they’d like to do, what they’d be good at, or just for inspiration.

So while I am writing for myself, I am also, in a way, writing for other people. The artists. Because I don’t want to simply hand them a script and wait for the art to return, I want them to become involved in the story and its creation, I want them to be enthusiastic about it. Also, I think it’ll be very interesting to see what I come up with in collaboration with others as opposed to merely working by myself. Should be surprising. At the very least, the prospect is exciting because I’ll be working with some people who I’m big fans of, and I feel that they’re truly talented.

And right as I was finishing writing this, I got asked to co-write another remake. But one that I was thinking about before Barbell even came my way. Ah, such is life… :)

--

Shotgunned through Douglas Coupland's All Families Are Psychotic in 2 days. Then, went through Hey Nostradamus! in a little over 24 hours. Whew. Haven't read a book in a day since... Choke, I think. Am now reading Chuck Palahniuk's Diary.

Saw Matchstick Men. It's terrific! Just a great little gem of a movie. :) Very nice surprise indeed. You think the con is the center of the plot, then you think it's the father-daughter relationship, then it's back to the con, but then, at the end, it's really about none of these things at all, and the center is what's been in front of you this whole time, and that's what makes it unique, to my mind. It very successfully plays several cons on the viewer, but as Roy says, "You didn't take it, I gave it to you."

Someone took the time to type my poem and put it on their blog (or lj, if you're anal). I don't know the guy (Paul Doble?). This is the second time it's happened (that I know of). Thanks to Alexis for the heads-up.

"Don't forget, with Lacuna, you can forget."

And here is the actual trailer, which is great, and just makes me more excited about it than I already am.

Some other great trailers have come out: Tim Burton's latest, Big Fish, which gives a kind of The Majestic feel. The Majestic was kinda bland, though not without its merits, but I don't want to get that feeling from a Tim Burton film. Some of the scenes remind me of Katherine Dunn's book Geek Love, which Burton was slated to adapt at one point, so it's looking rather doubtful he'll still do that. Also, a powerful trailer for Gus Van Sant's Elephant, and the latest from Alejandro Gonzalez-Inarritu, 21 Grams. It's a better year for film than I thought.

--

The Italian Job is a horrible film, way worse than I expected from director F. Gary Gray, with decent photography, and only the first 20 minutes takes place in Italy. It's a good ad for the Mini, though. I wanted one after watching it.

I'm currently enjoying Gabrielle Bell's When I'm Old and Other Stories. She's a real find. Good storyteller with good stories and an idiosyncratic art style that can change as needed. I can't remember the last time I was this impressed with an indy creator.

Also barrelling through Chris's copy of Douglas Coupland's All Families Are Psychotic, which goes straight onto my list of Favorite Book Titles. It's quite compelling, as I finished half the book in a day. Very difficult to put down. Got two books waiting for immediate consumption after this: Coupland's latest, Hey Nostradamus!, and Chuck Palahniuk's Diary.

--

Scary fact: California, by itself, is the world's fifth largest economy. And now Conan the T-800 is Governor. And he is a devout Republican. Who loves Bush. So we're looking at a 2nd Bush term.

We're fucked.

--

Go here. I don't have the words right now. See for yourself. And check out the health benefits.

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU'RE BORED

An example from the "graphic design playing" period, quoting one of the comics that dragged me back kicking and screaming into a final, conclusive, lifelong commitment to comics. Written, of course, by Alan Moore.

Dated Oct. 21, '99.

I've started downloading fonts again.

The other day Neva reminded me that I used to download fonts all the time, particularly when I was depressed. At the time I was still playing around with graphic design (and I do mean playing). It got to the point where I had something like 700 fonts on my computer. Sometime between then and now, my computer crashed and I lost everything. But the downloading fonts thing was something I forgot about until recently. So I have begun again, and am surprised that I still remember the names of some of my old favorites.

And the idea has struck me that you could use font selection as some kind of a personality test. I mean, the fonts I get now are probably much different than those I used to get. So if someone could analyze the choices and come to some conclusions, those would be interesting. Would it only be developing tastes, or would it have something to do with my outlook on life, attitude, etc.? What does it mean when I still love a particular font, and would now never use another font that I used to love?

--

Some new links for you: Rinzen and Floria Sigismondi. Sigismondi's one of those surreal visual stylists; she's directed some really good videos including Interpol's "Obstacle 1," Tricky's "Makes Me Wanna Die" (a nice disturbing video I recorded onto VHS back in the days...), one for Sigur Ros, but maybe the work most people have seen is the one for Christina Aguilera with all the butterflies ("Fight"? I don't remember the name of the song). My favorite video of hers is David Bowie's "Little Wonder." Amazing stuff. The photo gallery has a few pictures with Melissa Auf Der Maur, too. Sigh...

And it occurs to me that Aguilera's had some good video directors: David LaChappelle, my favorite photographer, Sigismondi, Jonas Akerlund...

Today I went over to Erwin Romulo's house and we were both photographed by his lovely and talented girlfriend Yvonne while in conversation in his driveway. And I saw his room which sort of looks like mine except it's bigger, with more space and shelves. He's got hundreds of books, all of which look interesting. He's a big Alan Moore fan, and has the original VG edition of Voice of the Fire and The Spirit Archives Vol. 1 which has a Moore introduction. He's got DVDs, VHS tapes, and CDs strewn about.

Best of all, he showed me a couple of comics that Yvonne did. One was from college. Both were good, but I liked the one from college better. It was bleaker than 8mm, if you can imagine that. Not a single ray of hope or sunshine in its sci-fi universe. Which is certainly not what I expected from the cheery and sunny Yvonne.

Meanwhile, recently Alexis told me about someone he knows who's also an Alan Moore fan, who got him to read the massive, yet unforgettable, From Hell.

See? EVERYBODY loves comics.

My desktop wallpaper for the past 2 months (and one of the pictures I'm proudest to have taken).

--

And here we go.