To acquire a computer, to discover programming, and to eventually be eaten by a Grue

Green text placed me in an open field, West of a white house. I didn't know how I had arrived there, only that I was looking at a boarded up building with a mailbox, and surrounding this house and field were thick woods. I was in Zork.

I didn't have a computer growing up. The only one I had some access to was my maternal grandfather's IBM PS/2 system, on which I was only able to play with a golf game, interactive educational software, Minesweeper, Solitaire, and Paint. It was important that I didn't do anything else with it, and there was no attempt to teach me more about how it worked. It was basically a limited-use toy, when it wasn't being used for grandpa's business. 

It wasn't until I received a grant for my first year of college that I was able to afford to go out and buy a PC of my own. The machine was supposed to be for school work only, but I knew that its primary use would be gaming. I even knew the games I was going to buy for it, and when I picked up the HP PC bundle from Walmart (which I understand now is not the way or the place to buy a decent computer), I also purchased Star Wars Jedi Knight II: Jedi Outcast and a Doom collection which included Doom, Doom II, and the extra levels. 

After a couple of years of fooling around with my greatly treasured PC, exploring how it handled and played games, and using it to write papers for English and History, I eventually decided to switch my academic focus over to computers. I had always wanted to know more about them, but I had no idea where to begin. It actually wasn't until I watched a making-of documentary which came with the collector's edition of Halo 2 that I realized that programming was a thing and a major part of making these beautiful machines do everything they do. So, along with a series of technical classes which spanned telecommunications to office application usage I also took an introduction to programming course. 

Every Saturday morning I would bus down to Grand Rapids Community College and spend three hours, 8am to 12pm, to take an involving and exciting Introduction to Programming class taught by the affable and inspiring Donald Hruby, a former Bell Labs employee, IBM remote project manager, and adjunct professor. While there we'd move between writing pseudo-code and drawing flowcharts to understand logic structures and mapping logic to getting into building programs with QBASIC. It was a terrific environment, a sterilely lit computer lab with a sizable group of people, all there because the prospect of programming computers was too fascinating not to pursue. We worked in teams, analyzed each other's code, and we learned how to avoid common pitfalls and the sin of producing a mess of spaghetti code. All the time Mr. Hruby would walk around encouraging us and telling us, sincerely or not, that if he could he would hire us all into IBM because we had what it took to do the work. 

I took what I learned in that amazing course and brought it home. I dabbled in writing small QBASIC programs, and I read and re-read the class texts on logic design. That was the only year I didn't sell my textbooks back to the college bookstore because all of them seemed so invaluable, especially for what I wanted to do. 

Unfortunately, my depression and self-doubt swooped in and began chipping away at my confidence with programming. I fell off the rocket ship that was code and watched it sail away without me into the stars. I felt lonely and insufficient here on the ground, seemingly incapable or undeserving of taking the stellar trip which programming appeared to offer. My mind told me that this was how it had to be for me. For years after I avoided the idea of taking up the keyboard with the intent to program, and sadly, this did more damage to my general prospects and confidence than that initial doubt.

I hadn't entirely abandoned everything from that class and that period in my life, though. While there, on breaks between coding segments, a peer in the classroom would talk with me about video games. He started bringing me CD-Rs full of emulators, classic console ROMs, and various other types of gaming software. On those discs I discovered several games I had missed from my childhood as an Atari and Nintendo kid, but they also introduced me to an era of computer games I hadn't known. Through those discs I discovered text adventures. 

Zork was legendary, and it didn't take long to find out about it through research. I hit the college computer lab internet hard after trying out one of the random text adventures included on those discs, the title of which sadly escapes me. I learned about Infocom and their contributions to the world of games. I learned of Colossal Cave Adventure, Steve Meretzky, and a universe hidden behind text parsers and entrancing cover art for old game boxes. I didn't know how to acquire a copy of these games, though, as I didn't have home internet access. I had a computer but no internet, because the monthly fees for maintaining even dial-up service were too much for me at that time. 

Years later, I moved in with my girlfriend, who would eventually become my wife, and I discovered how the internet was not only amazing, it was absolutely necessary. She had constant access to it and treated it as a utility, which to this day I strongly feel it should be. It was through that regular home access that I was able to download games and dive further into the world of computers. I started programming again, because readily available resources restored some of my confidence and eliminated some doubts. I found and experimented with games and software I had only heard of or seen glimpses of through my early research. Then I found games I had never heard of. A new world opened up to me. 

Eventually, I found my way to a copy of Zork. I had to learn how to make it work on my miraculously still-running HP PC, which I kept going for about ten years after the original purchase. The game deceptively appeared to be so simple, as many text adventures do at the beginning, but as I put in time I realized how many layers it had and noticed how deep the experience was taking me. Of course, I became Grue food on several occasions, but each time I failed I started over. The value of graph paper, which I had only used for D&D up to that point, became apparent after a few attempts at running through the game. It became an experience which tapped into so many parts of my brain and my creativity. Zork, though a mere text adventure, was, for me, an awakening. 

So, here we are in the present, the cursed year of 2020. Zork is still available, and it is still as entertaining and as entrancing as ever. It can be played on PCs, tablets, and phones. It's available on archive sites, ROM sites, and through GOG. Last year internet archivist Jason Scott uploaded the entire collection of Infocom source code to the Internet Archive. There's no excuse for people not to play it at this point. 

I will always return to Zork and the Infocom library. Those games are priceless, and they have inspired me in so many ways. One of the most important was that they helped me trick my stupid brain into getting back into programming. It's a tough uphill path for me to climb, and there are times when I scare myself off of it, but every time I think of Zork, Grue, the phrase and documentary "Get Lamp," and those Saturday morning programming classes which started me on the road to Zork, I find inspiration to once again go back to the keyboard and keep trying. 

Maybe some day I'll be able to finally begin a career programming. Maybe I'll eventually be able to make my own Zork. Maybe all of it. Maybe some day. 

Thoughts from a Sick World - Entry 3

The period of isolation continues. Anxieties are still running high, and the news which pops up across the internet is sensationalized and grim.

I can see the green glow of bobbing leaves outside the dining room window as I type this, and I am, for once, thankful for the coming of Spring. The only season I have ever really enjoyed is the Fall, but I guess the renewal which comes with Spring, this year specifically, has finally seeped in and gotten to me. At least nature seems to be doing well, or so it seems.

Humans are terrible. That doesn't really need to be stated, but I needed a transition and to just type that sentence to get it out of me, because it's been bouncing around in my mind, all chrome and shiny, like the wobble text screensaver from Windows XP. We are under assault by a dangerous virus and a tremendous number of people are only thinking about themselves and defying logic, good sense, and science to stupendously live up to and redefine the term, "Sheeple."

We should have seen this response coming, though. For years the anti-intellectual movement has been growing, bolstering itself on a sturdy diet of anecdotal evidence, fallible logic, and the strongly worded sentiments of shallow, mentally deficient talking heads who actively seek out an audience to net them sponsorship dollars so that they can live lavishly in spite of being the exact human equivalent of slimy turds. In short, these people have thoroughly exhausted their rights to expression and influence upon our society as individuals. They should be shut out, dismissed, and fought with tooth and nail and dagger and pistol at every opportunity.

This is the great conflict of this age, this battle between humanity and virus, between science and ignorance. It's not as simple as Republican or Democrat, conservative or liberal. We are in a fight for our existence against other humans who, consciously or not, are tearing at the foundations of civilization in order to advance utterly stupid and intensely greedy individuals who are as obsessed with power and the high they get from being central to everything which has nothing at all to do with them. The intelligent and logical are at war with the myopic, moronic servants of a gluttonous class of scum.

The glow of the leaves is still visible through the dining room window, and I'm getting lost in it as I try to calm myself. The northern hemisphere might be experiencing Spring right now, but the world of humanity is deteriorating. We're in a fall, and not the natural, charming Fall I enjoy. This is the era of decline, and I'm wondering how to get off of this planet before the bad people win and bring about a Winter which will set us back so far that we'll lose everything of actual value to our existence. If they succeed, most of us will fade away, choking on the noxious waste of their decadence until true humanity, the humanity good people struggle to preserve, disappears entirely from this universe.

Thoughts from a Sick World - Entry 2

I used to think that I could sing. The other night, though, I was told that I was tone deaf and that it's something which has been bothering others for a while.

These kinds of revelations can be shocking, sure, but when you have so few abilities in which you're confident, it's devastating to learn that you've been kidding yourself. It breaks a piece of you, in a way, and it's difficult to recover.

This might seem silly, but I only have a couple of things which I seem to be decent at doing. Those things aren't the focus of my life, and they don't define my daily existence. However, it's believing that I can do them which gives me a sort of comfort and hope in my abilities and this helps me to keep going. Now I'm unsure if I'm actually decent at any of them. Maybe I've been lying to myself this whole time, and my reality is based around lies of comfort in which I've been hiding.

It's a dark time, these days of pandemic. It's hardly the time to have one's foundations compromised, especially when existence seems so pointless already. But here I am, shaken, shattered to pieces.

I hope that there aren't too many others out there who are each, like me, being slowly consumed by some darkness produced within their own minds, but I know better. I've met others. Who knows how many of us will actually make it through this period.

Thoughts from a Sick World - Entry 1

Two days ago, on Wednesday, it was my birthday. It was a relaxed day at home. I turned thirty-five, my wife did her best to celebrate it, and the world outside continued in its decline in this age of viral devastation.

That's a thing now. We're in a time of existential dread brought about by a virus which has, so far, killed over 50,000 people around the world and is still spreading amongst the ignorant and irresponsible, who fail to heed warnings from scientists and experts. We have been given shelter-in-place orders to limit or stop the spread of the virus, but a great many people are actively ignoring or defying this. This is our reality, a world in which a virus is killing us and stupid people are accomplices to it because they don't feel sick, hate being told what to do, or just can't grok how viruses work. The ignorant and foolish are the hammers which will shatter the foundations of our species.

Well, it looks like we made it. After so many years spent dreaming of a dystopian or devastated world we have finally achieved it. It's like my college English professor would say, if you aspire to something, good or ill, you will achieve it. He cautioning us by referring to mediocrity related to writing, though, and not the downfall of humans and their society.

It's a great time for people to see lies revealed, fallacies unveiled, the confirmation of the fragility of systems we took for granted, the confirmation of the ineptitude of leaders who should never have been, and how truly horrible and selfish our neighbors can be. It's a period in which we can and should learn so many valuable lessons, but I have sincere and powerful doubts about our ability to do so. The people of today are incapable of something so simple, useful, and intelligent, it would seem.

My natural pessimism and misanthropy are bolstered every day now. It doesn't feel good. It's like getting kicked awake when you're trying to sleep after not resting for years. Every negative confirmation is like an earthquake of sadness.

I'm trying to look up, though, to be more positive. I'm trying to do things which help my mind and take me away. I've been playing a bunch of video games. Thanks to these wonderful digital experiences I have been and continue daily to successfully escape. It's doing my sanity wonders.

I haven't expressed it here before, but I've been wanting to create and live in worlds beyond the physical for most of my life. One day, if it all works out, I would love to be a part of creating an alternate existence for humanity. In the worlds to come we wouldn't have fears like this coronavirus (the type of virus currently plaguing the species), and we wouldn't have to worry about leaving important decisions regarding supply and care to imbeciles who craved power and have thus far been woefully incapable of doing the work part required of people in their roles.

One day I will create, or help to create, a world, or worlds, in which we will be able to live the lives we need to live in order to satisfy our hearts and relieve our minds of the burden of existence which was forced upon us by chance. I have to be a part of such a thing, not because my ego demands it or because I feel like I'm somehow exceptionally equipped to do so, but because I want it to be so badly that every moment I am aware of such a thing not existing I notice that it's absence feels like a hole in who and what I am. Such a thing has to exist because it would help complete me. I need to bring about and confirm a better world to finish the being that is me, to be made whole.

Well, that's enough of that. My mad ramblings will continue some other time. Now I need to go back to living at home, in isolation from others, all so that I don't contribute to the spread of the virus through my flawed human body, which has no choice in playing its part in the distribution of disease and death. Sadly, we are apparently designed to break ourselves and each other, one way or another.

Until next time, kids, stay safe, stay healthy, help others, and dream of better times and worlds.

It is finished...5,000 Words Later

My spin on an updated version of a classic ghost story is complete. I have some editing to do, for sure, but I handed it over to my wife for a read and she seemed quite affected. I had to clarify her opinions, but her reaction was ultimately positive, though she admitted to feeling disturbed.

Once this story is completely edited and print-ready, I have about six or seven more to prepare before I will be able to start down the road to publication.

When I reach the end of the line and can hold the completed collection in my hands, I intend to throw a party or something. I mean, I’m not a very social person, but why the hell not?

Now, to bed and then on to the next tale!

Writing Progress and Feeling Weird About Ghosts

Yesterday, I spent most of the day working on a weird tale which borrowed from my experiences as a boy in Florida as much as it did from my interests in odd and horrific fiction. I wrote for hours, getting out well over three thousand words, but as I surveyed my progress and the consistency of the tale I realized that I was making a mess of my original intention.

I have abandoned that story for the time being.

Today, though, I am in the midst of another series of hours of pouring out words. This time the story is different, and I'm getting a little too invested in it. I decided to write my version of an update on the model of a classic ghost story. Like the story from yesterday, this one also borrows from my past experiences, as I find myself loosely following the old, "Write what you know" directive.

I'm tapping into a cold February from years ago, in a historic town where my wife and I managed to escape for an unforgettably strange, yet charming Valentine's Day. The story doesn't involve the holiday as much as it focuses on the oddity which is the Victorian bed and breakfast, and it goes into the feel of an old town and the old establishments which comprise the town. There are also ghosts, because a ghost story would be kind of crap without them.

The trouble with trying to capture the feel of a good ghost story, I find, is that you tend to creep yourself out and cultivate a mild paranoia about the quiet corners of your home. I try to get into the moments and the atmosphere when I write, and when I do this in a ghost story it creeps me out, thoroughly.

Regardless of my personal terror at my own process, I'm hoping to try and sell this story, if at the end of its composition I am satisfied with it. However, if it doesn't sell, I will certainly be placing it in my short story collection.

Anyway, back to the writing. Progress updating and blog massaging for this day is complete!

Cringing, Sighing, Shame, and What's Been Happening Here for Almost a Decade

If you want to embarrass most writers, or at least knock them off their guard, you should seek out their old work and show it to them. You will probably witness eye rolls, looks of revulsion, sighs of shame, and maybe even a knowing chuckle.

I have been writing since I was a small child, and I have been writing here, on this blog, since May of 2010. I know for a fact, having reviewed my old posts here and the notebooks I've carried around for decades, that I have trailing behind me a legacy of shame and embarrassment. But as they say, "It is what it is."

Through writing all of this awkward, unquestionably bad, painfully embarrassing, and occasionally surprisingly decent material I have learned so much. Without the scraped knees and broken bones of failing to pull off the voice of others or moronically abusing the thesaurus, I wouldn't be capable of writing how I write today. Hell, I'm sure that in a year or ten I'll look back on what I create today and shake my head.

Regardless, I have to keep going. One letter after another, making words which will follow words, and eventually they'll communicate ideas or tales which may or may not shame me greatly in times to come. It's the process, and I embrace it, wincing all the way.

To those of you who have read my odd posts, ignorant ideas, silly reviews, and dumb-dumb opinions, thank you. I'm sorry for the pain, but I appreciate your support.

Maybe I'll look back on this blog in another ten years and write a similar post. Who knows?

News of an Upcoming Self-Publishing Project, and Other Things...

After years of self-doubt, uncertainty, apathy borne out of depression, and other nasty things, I have managed to drag myself free from the mire of creative paralysis and dedicate myself to publishing a collection of my short stories. I even have an artist in reserve for the cover, which I've been told is something quite rare for those who travel down the pathway of self-publishing.

These stories are mostly new, having been written within the last year and over the next few months. However, some of the ideas popped into my mind years ago and have sat in a sort of file box in a dusty corner of my brain ever since. It never hurts to horde ideas, but it would damage the integrity of the ideas less if one were to act on them while they were fresh instead of letting them sit unattended, to deteriorate with time.

If you were to attempt to categorize the stories which will be collected you could assign them to the genre of horror, though some fantasy might creep in, depending on the tale. It has felt most natural to write about the horrific and to meditate upon darkness, and in a way it always has. This isn't because of the ridiculous state of the world, as I'm sure most would shallowly assume or declare. It is due to the fact that my interests in literature have always tended to lean toward the dark and macabre.

I'm not some self-labeled goth, or aspiring edge-being, who's trying to express some contrived dark persona through excessively grim and cliched writings. I'm just a person who has always enjoyed the stories of the supernatural, mysterious, chilling, and unfathomably horrific, whether I read them myself or heard them spoken aloud by the people who influenced me most in my formative years. Considering the exposure I have had to horror throughout my childhood, it's actually not at all surprising that I would naturally end up outputting tales like these.

I will chronicle any and all developments here, on my now nearly decade-old blog. So, please look for the updates and blurbs I deposit about the experience. It is possible, depending on the publication and plans for marketing the book, that I will set up a separate site and blog for it, but until then, this is my home for writing my mind on the vast and unsettling Internet.

Joe Bob Briggs

I remember Monstervision. It was one of the few programs on cable television which really meant something to me as a kid. Along with early Nicktoons, Are You Afraid of the Dark?, MTV's Liquid Television and Oddities, and Mystery Science Theater 3,000, it created an atmosphere unlike anything else I had encountered. Altogether, through tone, aesthetic, and rich content these shows provided near endless entertainment and helped drastically shape who I would become.

The host of Monstervision was one of those personalities who boldly stood out on the ridge of excellence above the depressingly mediocre valley of TV content. Joe Bob Briggs was the charming, witty, and insightful guide to a world of some of the strangest, worst, and best horror films to have ever been printed upon celluloid. His Southern qualities made him seem disarming and familiar while his knowledge of cinema astounded many who happened upon his program. The set for his show, a kitschy sort of trailer, which almost seemed like a less surreal Wayne White design, was incredibly enchanting, and it made me long for such a trailer in a movie set-like desert landscape where I could one day move and contemplate film.

Unfortunately for many of us television viewers, Joe Bob eventually moved on from Monstervision after TNT altered and eventually brought it to an end. He continues to write with an entertaining voice and an admirable outlook on life and movies. In the last year he made a return to a sort of televised host position, reprising the role of himself on Shudder where he once again takes the time to talk to an audience which is settled in for the best and worst of exploitation films and horror cinema.

Television and cinema history owe a debt of gratitude to the work Joe Bob did and continues to do. He's one of the more qualified and reliable voices which expresses itself in regard to film and film history. If you're someone who needs a compass to guide you toward worthwhile viewing experiences, you can't go wrong with Joe Bob's recommendations.

Reaching for a tonally appropriate quote with which to draw this brief blurb about a beloved Southern television host and movie critic to a close, allow me to paraphrase and slightly alter a line spoken by Sam Elliott's "The Stranger" in the movie The Big Lebowski: "Joe Bob Briggs abides. I don't know about you but I take comfort in that. It's good knowin' he's out there."

Joe Bob Briggs, back in the Monstervision days.

The beginning of a daily routine designed to go on forever...

It has been some time since I wrote anything, especially here. That's mainly because I lost a lot of hope and a lot of faith in myself, which lead to the loss of a great deal of time. Too much time.

Today I decided to fix that. I decided to make daily writing a mandatory exercise. It's time to get to work. It's time for regular output. It's time to get to going somewhere different than I've been.

I'm continuing here on Random Verbosity, because I hope that putting the new beside the old will allow readers to see some development over time. Seeing that development might explain some things about who I am or who I became. It might be like a useful copy of a marked, notated, and raggedy map from some great journey.

I'm here to write. I can't think of any other reason why I was born or why I continue to live. So I will write. I must.

I hope that you'll join me and read.

Thank you.

Leonard Nimoy - A Great Loss

I was little. By little I mean I was three or four when my uncle first introduced me to the original Star Trek. It's been in my life since such an early stage that it's a part of how I began to perceive the universe around me. It's practically a part of my personality's core, its DNA. Basically, I can't remember a time when I didn't know the Enterprise and her amazing crew or think about them as regularly as I thought of family members.

While I didn't grow up in the 1960s, or the 70s when the original series was in syndication, Star Trek was present at such an early period that I feel an ownership of it similar to the folks who were watching back when. Before I saw The Next Generation, which was a whole other part of my childhood, I was aware of the men I'd come to call my "Three Dads." James T. Kirk, Leonard McCoy, and Spock were the power trio of the Enterprise and each an equal part of my early concept of manhood. They taught me to think, to feel, and to face life in both good and bad times. There are days throughout my life when I know I would have faltered and possibly shattered if I didn't have their lessons ingrained in the structure of my thinking processes.

So, to simply state my point, Star Trek is such an important series to me that it defines me in a way. That being said, the news I received today that actor Leonard Nimoy passed away hit me like train. I read a text from my wife before my lunch break at work. It just read, "Leonard Nimoy is gone." Like that, gone. Even at this moment I'd rather think of it in those terms than to use the word "Dead." To say that he is gone or that he's away is accurate, and it's certainly far more comforting. Not to mention, it's appropriate for a man who seemed to be the kind of celebrity and actor who was able to transcend this existence and become a genuine living legend. He's gone. The legendary Leonard Nimoy is away.

Not only was Leonard Nimoy a great actor who defined one of the most iconic characters in Twentieth Century Popular Culture, he was also an incredible artist and from most accounts he was a kind soul. I never had the chance to meet him. I heard he retired from conventions years ago anyway, so I didn't expect to ever get the opportunity. I wish I could have, though. There are so many things I would have said. I would have thanked him for his acting, his art, and for his contributions to my personal development. I would have asked silly questions about Star Trek, and I would have thanked him for his part in The Pagemaster, an animated film which really affected me when I first saw it (I knew his was the voice of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as soon as I heard it when I first saw this movie).

One often reads or hears accounts of how Star Trek actors are confronted with the differences they made by just putting on a suit and standing on a sound stage for hours, days, months, and years. I can't imagine what it's like to be a working actor who suddenly, one day, is told that they actually saved a life by bringing their craft to some words on a page. Leonard Nimoy, I'm certain, was informed of this constantly, and I'm equally certain that almost all of those claims are true. For my part it is, at least. If it wasn't for his portrayal of Spock I'd have had no model with which to confront technical and complex forms of work or thinking strategies to sort out the chaos of life. Whenever things get rough I I think of his Spock and I get a sense of clarity. I can't explain it more than that. I just do.

I hope he's well wherever he is. He's done more in his long life than most people ever do, and that is really amazing when you think about all he accomplished. It's heartbreaking to know that he's gone, but he'll never be forgotten. I'll see him again soon, sitting there at his station on the Bridge of the Enterprise or in a documentary. I'll hear his voice when I go "In Search Of" one mystery or another through his classic series on the strange and paranormal. He's one of the amazing few who, unlike most who pass on, will always be with us. That's comforting, enough to diminish the sadness. He will still be sorely missed, though.

Thank you, Mr. Nimoy.

Nintendo Kid - The First Glance

I'll take you back in my timeline for a moment. It was a Christmas in the late 80s. The fog of age slightly obscures certain details, but there are those portions which remain crisp regardless. We, my little sister and me, were handed a large box and told by our grandparents that, "This is for the two of you to share." The wrapping paper quickly gave way as clumsy kid hands desperately assaulted the generic holiday designed layer to tear free a box with an image which will remain burned into my memory for all time. There, in front of a star field background was the image of a grey and black box with two rectangular items adjacent to it. Above this curious-looking object was emblazoned, in silver and white, the name "Nintendo." At that moment I had gazed upon one of the things which would influence my creativity and provide me entertainment in various ways for the rest of my life.

I wonder if the heads of the Nintendo company could have realized the impact of their decision to branch out and experiment in the video gaming industry. This was something beyond mere novelty items, toys, or hanafuda cards. They were going to be making legendary items which would be revered by millions for many generations to come. They were, themselves, becoming legends.

I look back on my early Nintendo days and can't help but feel that warmth which pervades the center of my being whenever I gaze back fondly on the good times of old. I spent so many hours beating bosses, wandering through dungeons and levels, and bathing in the flickering glow of power-ups and in-game success. Those were truly halcyon days for a kid who didn't have much else. Nintendo, comics, cartoons, and some toys all made my childhood and shaped who I was and who I became. I owe so much to those stern old Japanese guys (and that one amazingly eccentric guy, Shigeru Miyamoto) in suits from years past. It's been almost thirty years since I first joined the elite of "Club Nintendo." My glob, has it been that long?!

Giant Monster Movies and Childhood

There was a time during my early childhood when my family would gather and watch a large assortment of bizarre science fiction and monster movies. To this day I still can't recall how my uncle acquired copies of some of those movies, whether through some unknown cable channel or a video source. Regardless of how we were able to view them, we watched all kinds of films and classic series, some of which I can't easily find today. It was during that period that I learned of Godzilla, Rodan, and several other amazing Japanese giant monsters. Come to think of it, that was probably also when I watched my first Ray Harryhausen films, as we would occasionally throw old black and white American monster films into the mix. No offense to the great Harryhausen, but I found and still find the Japanese monsters to be the best.

Over the years since that time I've been fortunate to discover so many other giant monster-related wonders such as the Ultraman and Gamera series. I was that kid who took part in one those typical and silly discussions with classmates about which was the stronger monster, Godzilla or Gamera. I even attempted to draw the great daikaiju legends from time to time, never quite to my satisfaction.

These days I find that I keep returning to those old films. Maybe it's my subconscious reaching out for a connection with my childhood. Perhaps it's just the nerd in me flexing itself in a different direction for a change. Whatever the reason, I have to say that I can't help but dismiss the poor effects, the floopy storylines, and the overacting. I feel compelled to embrace the "Suit-mation" created and perfected by the mighty Eiji Tsuburaya. Kaiju Eiga (Japanese monster movies) was and remains a genre which knows itself, and it's that confidence and the continued honoring of that approach to movie-making which makes it so endearing.

So, join me when you can. Pop in Destroy All Monsters or Gamera vs. Barugon. Sit back and enjoy the high sci-fi look into a world where giant monsters walk the Earth!

Robin Williams

Sifting through tears over the last nearly twenty four hours I realized that the death I first heard about yesterday evening after completing the unpacking of our library was the most powerful death of a non-family member I could possibly endure. Robin Williams' passing was like hearing that a beloved uncle or father-figure had died. It was, and still is, like an unrelenting shockwave of sorrow.

I interact with entertainment media with an open heart, and if it's media I enjoy then I embrace it wholly - I suppose it's why I'm such a fan of movies and such. Robin Williams' work has been some of the easiest to embrace and the warmest, most beautiful to enjoy. I grew up with Mrs. Doubtfire, Aladdin, Hook, Bicentennial Man, What Dreams May Come, Patch Adams, and others. In some way each character Williams played in each of those films reached me. They were pitiable, loveable, and they led the viewer into the heart of humanity and, to a certain extent, the meaning of existence. If you were to watch them with the right eyes and in a certain emotional state you could find yourself understanding them and, surprisingly, better understanding yourself.

I can't get rid of the thought of a lonely, horrifically depressed genius making a horrible decision because all hope had fled. The thought is like a nightmare which won't fade no matter how distracted I attempt to be or how much I think of other things. I just replay the imagined scene of a crying man lost in despair. I think about that and I unfortunately relate. I've known something akin to those kinds of feelings. I even believe that I can in some way understand what led to that tragic choice. 

Even now I'm still processing all of this. At this point I'm certain that I need to escape the world for a few days to clear my thoughts. It's difficult not to be in a dark place now, especially since a person who seemed to posses the soul of joy surrendered to the darkness surrounding life. What good can possibly be left if the good people willingly lay down?

I hope that Mr. Williams' family will be able to get through this and that they will be well. I hope that they can process all of this at some point and move forward. I hope that they can find a reason in their lives to illegitimatize the shadowed logic of their lost loved one.

Fenian's Irish Pub - A Somewhat Hidden Emerald In An American Landscape

If you wind your way back through the crisscross of country roads around the Northwest region of Grand Rapids, Michigan and then beyond, traverse some hills and dip through modest valleys, pass orchards where the smoke from wood fires carries the aroma of dreams, and remain vigilant for a sign which reads "Conklin," you might just find Fenian's Irish Pub. It's positioned prominently on the village's Main Street, which is an apt name for it appears to be the only street in Conklin of any importance. So, cease the aimless wandering which carried you over the distance, park your vehicle, and shuffle on inside. 

My wife and I made such an excursion a few years ago and have found ourselves drawn back randomly ever since. Whenever we hear a spot of Irish music or if I find myself suddenly salivating over the thought of a Guinness with a basket of fried pickles and chips we, like enchanted pilgrims, strike out near the end of day, Conklin-bound.

Truly, there are few places which hold any significance for us around Grand Rapids (where we've lived for too many years). Most of the places in this area which one might haunt are geared toward a clientele consisting of neophyte drinkers, aspiring alcoholics, or sad folk who have become so invested in the idea of having themselves defined by the fleeting fancy of a fad-fueled scene. Organic, comfortable environs are a rarity in this burg of cheaply manufactured culture and hollow motivations. It is its distance from such a shallow hive, not only in miles but also in spirit, which makes Fenian's a wondrous escape.

I learned of its existence and heard hints of its character while attending college. It was during Professor Roger Schlosser's Irish History course that I was informed of Fenian's charm and warmth and its owner's ability to pour what might possibly be the best pint of Guinness in America. After a time, well after I started living with the woman who would one day be my wife, I suggested that we locate the pub and give it a shot. It turned out to be one of the best suggestions I've ever made. 

For years since we've made a point of paying as many visits as we can. It's especially magnificent toward the fall when the apples are ready for picking and the Fall weather is at its most magical. It's then that the shimmering green hills and the multi-colored leaves of the Autumn season inspire dreamy thoughts. It is this aspect of Fenian's and its surroundings, often enhanced by drink-fueled mists of the days and nights of pint guzzling, which I think will stay with me and forever preserve it in my mind.

Now we're readying ourselves for a move to Atlanta, Georgia, and we've spent the last couple of weeks making an attempt to visit the few places we hold dear. Last Wednesday, Irish Music Night naturally, we ventured out to hear the old songs and enjoy the food and drink. Classics were played and sung, with the usual renditions of "The Old Dun Cow" and "The Old Triangle." We drank and ate and conversed with familiar faces, and some new ones as well. At the end, riding high in a fog of Guinness and joy, I had the opportunity to finally personally thank the owner, Terry Reagan, for everything he and his pub have done for me. Quite the bittersweet moment.

And so ends an era of my life. The pub lives on, though, like the legend that it is and still lies out amongst those beautiful hills and stands of marvelous trees. If you find yourself in Grand Rapids, Michigan, do yourself a favor and go exploring out Conklin way. Tell Mr. Reagan that Jonathan Sample said, "Hello."

Forced

Why can't I just write like me? That's all I want to do in this moment, but I am instead finding myself incapable. The writing sounds off or foreign. It sounds like attempts at being someone I'm not.

I had a voice once, or so I was told. Professors, confidants, and my wife have all identified it at one point or another. It was mine. Leave it to me, the guy who couldn't detect it in the first place, to go and lose it.

I've been away from writing for too long. So many plans were made in the last few months, plans to redirect my path toward something more profitable and bearable as a future career. Plans to do anything other than write.

I was writing. Eventually I discovered that writing wasn't something I could continue. I became afraid of it. Too afraid to try, apparently. So, here I am, a clock-punching stooge like a majority of people in the world. I've turned my back on the last year of half-hearted attempts and failure of self.

I still have ideas. There are pages and pages of notes and fragments detailing potential  stories, comics, plays, movies, etcetera. All of it is going to sit there, now because of avoidance begotten by dread. Why?

I'm going to try and break through. I don't know if this will work.

This is all I could get out tonight. Maybe I'll manage more some other time.

Return to the Life of Sisyphus

The dream has ended and the work is frozen. That line accurately describes both the status of my life and of my ailing sprout of a writing career. The development of the composing of stories has been arrested by the needs of life. I have had to return to a punch-clock job to help my wife and I recover and maintain. Once again it is time to push the boulder back up the hill and then to chase it down again, to repeat the process without ceasing.

I must admit, the work I do for my new employer could be worse, and it does pay very well, but a tiny portion of me, powered by a nagging trait carried by my unfortunate genes, demands that I dissect this new way of living and never give up on finding a reason to complain. I tire of being me, or at least that version of me. So, I've all but completely dispatched my inner self and found a way to bite down, ignore the life that moves around me, and ride out this ride known as "The Way Things Are."

I mean, it's only for now. Right?

As for creative pursuits, I'm sure that I'll find the will to continue them and to continue trying to put stuff out there for people. Eventually malaise will evaporate, giving way to partial numbness, and I'll feel okay about continuing my efforts. For now things of that sort are the last things on my mind.

Home Intruder

My wife and I arrived home after attending a gathering at her friend's house. I was exhausted and Trudy was a little tipsy from a few drinks. All we wanted was to unwind and drift off to sleep. 

As soon as we walked into our apartment, though, I noticed an offensive odor. It was a revolting amalgamation of ammonia and dung. I immediately assumed that one of our cats had released some foul waste product in their litter box, but the smell from the "Cat hallway" was not as nearly as offensive as the smell in the dining room. 

After half an hour of wondering what was causing the smell, relaxing, and swearing harm to the cats if they took up urinating in the dining room, I noticed a flicker in the air beyond our bedroom door and a sudden wave of panic which rushed through our cat Molly and our dog Goldie. When they both settled into a half-seated stance we noticed that they were both gazing at the top of the refrigerator. What the hell, I wondered?

Some more time passed and they became less concerned with the fridge. We assumed that it must have been some noise from our upstairs neighbor and nothing more. We assumed incorrectly. 

My curiosity eventually got the better of me, and I went out to begin to remove items from the top of the fridge. I took down some spray bottles and a box of garbage bags. I grabbed the dog food bag and a container of dog treats. I then went for one of the two last things atop the icebox, a package of paper towel rolls. That's when the panic returned in full force and all sorts of hell broke loose.

A winged shadow leapt into the air and began bobbing around about me in a mad flight. I quickly fell back into the bedroom and shouted, "It's a bat!"

A small brown bat was apparently nesting behind the paper towels inside a small cooler we were storing up there. We don't know how long it had been in the house or how it managed to make it inside. All I knew was that it was in the dining room flying circles around the ceiling fan, attracting the attention of both of our cats. 

Furious, I considered my options and shouted back potential plans to Trudy who just wanted it out of the house. It took some time for me to figure out where it might be, how I might approach the removal, and to steel myself for facing a small, speedy flying grotesquerie (I'm not a fan of bats). Eventually, with winter gloves pulled over my hands, stretched as far as they would go up my forearms, and with a tan fedora atop my head, complete with a small brown feather in its band, I charged out to survey the room.

It didn't take long to find the fiend, dangling from atop a slightly ajar cabinet door. Jellybean, the older of our cats, was watching it, showing an uncharacteristic interest in this new oddity. I moved to the kitchen to retrieve a broom, certain that my initial plan of braining it with a wooden dowel would be fairly ineffective in comparison.

With broom in hand I moved up, positioning my legs for a stance which would allow a lung as well as the opportunity to dive into the bedroom should my aim fail and the creature dive at me. I swung and dislodged it, which naturally sent it back into a frantic spin around the ceiling fan. It managed to dodge the broom head several times, making several more rounds, until the broom finally connected and sent it crashing to the floor. After it hit it went somewhat limp and supine, apparently only able to move its head from side-to-side. I was certain that I'd caused enough damage to prevent it from moving, but I couldn't just let it sit there suffering or throw it outside to slowly die in agony. 

I brought the broom head down upon it slowly, and with my free hand I aimed the dowel so that I could strike at it through the straw of the broom. One. Two. Three. Four heavy strikes rained down upon it, and I gently lifted the broom to verify its expiration. Based on what I saw, it was quite deceased. 

The clean up was fairly easy, though. I found a spare rag to throw over and wrap around it, and then I threw that into the cooler which held a few pieces of what must have been its feces. I carried it out to the dumpster and threw it away. 

Our animals have calmed down now, and Trudy seems to be resting easy, though she showed significant fear in response to my killing of the bat. Perhaps it was the irrational anger I released upon it. I know that I loathed killing it. I'm sorry that I was too disturbed in the moment to think of another way. 

So, that's tonight's bat story.

My Work On My Webcomic

Comics have been a part of my life since practically the beginning. My paternal grandmother provided me with Uncle Scrooge books in my early years, and my uncle took me to my first comic book shop, which was in West Palm Beach, FL. I grew up learning the concepts behind the "Funny books," their inner workings, and the various types of stories you could tell through the medium.

For years I've wanted to create my own comics. I taught myself to draw when I was a child and have spent many years doodling in the depths of my own, technically weak style. It's been fun, regardless of the quality of what I've produced. Considering the joy and experiences I've had drawing throughout my years and ignoring the pangs of self doubt, I decided to launch into my own comic-making venture in the Winter of 2011 with a comic zine. I prepared it for a local toy and comic expo and assembled it within a week's time. The book didn't do well, but it was a terrific and humbling learning experience.

Shortly after, while considering the contents of another zine, my wife suggested that I attempt to work on a webcomic. The benefits of such a venture would be that I might gain the discipline of creating a comic work on a regular basis and so that I might attract a readership. It took some time for me to appreciate and plan this move into an area of comics with which I was mostly unfamiliar, but in May of this year I jumped in full force.

Since then I've been releasing a weekly webcomic titled "Saves the Day." It's the product of my overactive imagination and a brief bit of inspiration I received after driving past a Day Labor Office one afternoon. Thus far it's attracted the attention of familiar folks from comic message boards and various friends from past jobs and school. The important thing is that it's entertaining someone and teaching me some priceless lessons.

What's the point of writing about all of this? Well, I needed a place in which to organize my thoughts and detail my future plans as they pertain to the comic medium. In the next two-to-three years I would like to move "Saves the Day" to its own website and develop it into a widely known brand. I would also like to make attempts at publishing several comic scripts I've developed over the years. I'm hoping that in time, after paying my dues and humbly learning lessons, that I'll be able to write comics professionally while maintaining some form of webcomic presence.

Sometimes one needs to spell out the details of their dreams for the sake of attaining clarity as they move forward down their chosen path. I think that's the case with this post. Wish me luck!

Racism - A Supreme Failing

I'm going to diverge from the usual comic book, film, and random nerd rant format and discuss a topic which should be explored and reflected upon by every person, especially if they're a citizen of the United States of America. Racism is that topic. It is an irrational, sub-intelligent, inhumane doctrine which separates, divides, and weakens the unity of a species which desperately needs to unite so that it might have a strong chance at a long, fruitful future. It is a cancer which thrives within members of every cultural and racial background, unfortunately, and it has marred the history and reputation of the US since its inception.

I grew up in South Florida with a Southern family. Racism was a part of life in that part of the world when I was a child, and it is still active today. We see evidence of it in the case of the late Trayvon Martin, who was recently dealt the injustice of having his murderer acquitted. He was a black boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is unfortunate for him that he was in this country and of his race at the time because the existing racism of which I spoke was actively causing a certain man, George Zimmerman, to profile him. Sure, Mr. Martin should probably have taken a different route, but it is not his fault that he was seen as a black person - followed, harassed, and then shot because of what very much seems to be racism.

Let's face it, based on the general outline of the incident (I found such an outline on CNN) it's difficult to read the events surrounding his death as anything other than yet another case of a non-black person following and assigning judgement on a black person because of what they are. Maybe Zimmerman was just responding to someone who shouldn't have been where they were. Perhaps Martin's reaction to Zimmerman was uncalled for. Did it have to lead to a shooting? Should a neighborhood watch member, out on patrol, have been armed? Why did Zimmerman actually choose to shoot? These are questions which will always be asked, and sadly no one will ever know the exact "Whats" and "whys" which occurred, except for the deceased and the acquitted.

I don't use the words "Maybe" and "seems" and speak of what might have happened because I'm a white man. I use them because I wasn't present at the time of the incident. No one can say without a doubt that it was truly racism or it was clearly self-defense. To proclaim such with any surety is foolish and suggestive of a bias which is just as corrupting in this case as racism.

Getting back to racism and looking at it in the context of this recent event, it is an amazing thing that President Barack Obama recently spoke out on the feelings of black men in America, citing his personal experiences. It is unfair to assume the worst of someone because they are of a certain skin color. This goes for religion, philosophies, and lifestyles as well. Prejudice is myopia. You cannot clearly see someone for who they truly are when you attempt to discern them from a place which is inherently prejudiced. The President gave all of us a window into the mind of a minority which has too often felt the sting of a biased, hateful society. We should be grateful that someone as respectable took the time to open up in such a way.

I have been guilty of racism at times in my life. I could excuse those times as part of a condition of having grown up with an old Southern family. I could say that it's just a natural aspect of life. I would be terrifically missing the point and ignoring mine own ignorance. Looking back, I can admit that I have been stupendously stupid and angry in those moments and chose to process them with a base-mind. I was wrong, and I know that I was wrong. Seeing the error of my ways and reflecting upon the troubles of the bigger issue will, I hope, absolve me for my past failings in some way at some point. Also, in writing this, I hope that I will present a case for reparations in society. One small voice crying for necessary change to fix the failings of a system which belongs to all of us. One voice at a time and maybe we will eventually have that change at some wonderful future point.

I wish that all sides and all peoples would acknowledge their racist beliefs. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian, everyone. We as human beings need to leave behind the thinking of our primitive forebears and assemble ourselves without prejudice to build a successful future. I imagine the question of "How?' would be a popular one to those willing to neglect their biases. I wonder if whites and other non-blacks questioned the expectations of blacks in the last week as the Martin case resolved. What can we do to change things, to make blacks feel differently about society? To ask such questions or to consider change for the good of all isn't appeasement or surrender. It's a logical step toward fixing our world.

A wise man once gave me some clarity in regard to racism. His name was Lewis Meriwether. He was a black man and a former city commissioner for Grand Rapids, MI. I had the privilege of meeting him as my Political Science professor during my first year at Grand Rapids Community College. In his class we one day discussed racism and the position of blacks in the nation's history. After class I approached him and foolishly suggested that it would be best to make everyone happy by going out of the way to respond to every issue so that no one could complain. He corrected me and said, specifically in regard to black people, that people deserved to be treated as they want to be treated. In his suggestion of the "Platinum Rule" I believe that I caught his meaning. Fair and equal treatment on an individual-by-individual basis is more effective than an attempt at offering a social panacea which completely ignores the specific needs and feelings of individuals in society.

It is my hope that one day we will put all the petty bickering, bias, prejudice, and needless hatred aside so that we might repair our species and move forward to great, long-lasting success. May we survive our mistakes and never forget the lessons of our past.