Balancing Iraq

Here's a newsflash: The situation in Iraq is complicated. I found this stated in a straightforward, non-partisan way on Neil Gaiman's website. A friend of his serving in Iraq sums up the situation in Bagdhad -- from burning garbage for light and Fallujah refugees to the city's future as a tourist destination.

"I’d have to say that Baghdad isn’t exactly doing all that well. I’ve flown over the central city several times via Blackhawk……and I don’t think this city looked nearly this much like Detroit after a championship loss (or win, for that matter) twenty years ago. There doesn’t seem to be a single block w/out destruction visible from the air. It isn’t just the damage we’ve done (although we have done and continue to do our share)….

The utter lack of garbage pickup…..which if someone suggests it, leads at best to twice-weekly neighborhood burns. Hence the phrase you may have seen elsewhere re Baghdad burning—one never knows if those plumes of black smoke are from the aforementioned IEDs, mortars….or mass garbage burnings. Things are burned for light, because there is only electricity a few hours out of 24 after the bad guys have taken out the power lines or even power station again. Burned for heat, because there isn’t enough kerosene during this cold (definitely below freezing at night!) weather.

This will be a beautiful city and great tourist destination someday. Really it will! The most incredible full moons over sparkling waters, reeds lining the canals, glittering lights leading up to mosques…. And skies that can go on just forever, at night with stars so sharp they poke your eyes.

Impressive summation of the challenges and opportunities. Also, awfully cool to find Neil Gaiman's journal.

"My Audience Awaits"

...or, staring at myself in the mirror and finding my blogs...wanting...

So, I'm rethinking the blog thing. I like what I've done so far here and on my short story blog, but I've come to a difficult realization: I want an audience.

The problem is that I've always been against, as a matter of principle, excessive vanity, narcissism and pretentiousness. But what is a personal weblog but an exercise in vanity, narcissism and pretentiousness?

Confessing your moral failures is the first step on the road to recovery and embracing the truth is, short of a miracle, perhaps the first step in averting one's chronic impending disaster.

Which brings me back to the point that I must admit that I really want an audience. The question is: how do I get one? What do I have to offer that would draw in the Internet masses to read about what I have to say? How can I convince the world to come to me, to read me, to love me? Or, better yet, to bookmark me.

One might begin by taking an asset inventory. What do I have that you, the Internet public need?

> Lots and lots of experience in public relations. Particularly for technology companies.
> A quirky take on family life, what with all of my children and stuff.
> In-depth knowledge of Marvel Comics between 1977 and 1984. I did have this goofy idea that I could do a blog reviewing something from my comics collection (about 1200 total) each week. That sort of thing does seem to be popular these days.
> A minor talent for writing, that I've been trying to nuture these days. But really, who wants to read short stories? What does that really offer the world? I need to write the damn book I've been writing...

What does this offer the Internet public? Here are a couple ideas I'll explore... if anyone's reading, let me know what you think:

> The Heroic News Blog -- Perspective on the latest in News, Politics, Entertainment and Comics (ok, that's just weird, but potentially readable).

> Dom's Blog -- A blog that tells the story of "The Boy Who Could Fly" through his own blog ... an experiment in episodic storytelling. (Possibly even weirder, but it might be fun. But would anyone read it?)

> The Yet Another PR Blog Blog -- a unique perspective on public relations written by yet another PR guy. (I'm bored just writing this one.)

I'm off to do the appropriate research. My audience awaits!

# # #

VPs with Guns

Have a look at the news reports on how Dick Cheney shot his buddy on a hunting trip. There's a missing issue that merits discussion. Namely:

Why in God's name are we allowing the Vice President of the United States to go on hunting trips? Why are we allowing the man second in the line to the Presidency to be hanging around with guys with guns who could easily -- accidentally -- shoot him.

Look, if it's this easy to make a mistake -- to fire on your friend coming up from behind -- shouldn't we be thinking that it could easily have been our VP?

I'm not a gun-control freak -- I think we should have reasonable gun control laws that ensure the general welfare of the republic. There's a debatable range here. I'm not a hunger, but I'm all for hunting by hunters who know how to be safe.

But think about it: Cheney and is friends are experienced hunters. The knew the rules, knew the customs and knew how to be safe. And Cheney still shot this guy.

Forget the PR bungle and all that. The issue is: is it good judgement for the man next in line to be leader of the free world to be hanging out in the woods with guys with guns?

The Boy Who Could Fly - Part 2

My comic book script, continued. Click here for part one.

Page 14

Panel 1: Caption: Day 2.

Large panel -- half the page. It's gym class. The boys are playing floor hockey -- each kid has a stick, and they're chasing a little ball. Dom is in the foreground, outside of the action, but focused, concentrating, waiting to see how he can be of use.

DOM (VO): I hate gym class. I'm too skinny, too weak. But I've always thought that maybe, if you let yourself go... forget what you can't do and just...fly...good things will happen.

Panel 2: Small panel: Dom raising his stick to take a mighty slapshot.

DOM (VO): I know how to fly.

Panel 3: Small panel -- big burly guys slams into Dom's back straight from behind.

Panel 4: Dom looking up from before at RON. He's smirking.

DOM: What the...?

Panel 5: DOM points stick at Ron's chest. In the background, people are pointing and staring. Ron is surprised, a little embarrassed looking.

DOM: "Hitting from behind. Wimp."

RON: "Yeah? I'll see you after school."

DOM: "No, you won't."

GYM TEACHER (off panel): "Hey! Break it up over there! Get back in the game!"

Panel 6: Dom, from a high camera angle, looking angry, but stifled. His shirt is puffed up behind him -- the wings are growing from his back... stretching invisibly.

DOM (VO): Like I said, sometimes it takes just one look and you find a friend. Or not.

Page 15

Panel 1: Dom is in the school hallway, banging his head against his locker, hand on the combination dial.

DOM: "Dammit!"

MICHELLE (speaking off panel): "You have to turn it all the way around."

DOM: "Shut up."

MICHELLE: "Aren't you a sweetie?"

Panel 2: Small panel. Reaction shot. Dom looking up, irritated...

DOM: "Yeah? Why don't you..."

Panel 3: Small panel. Irritation has turned into stunned and tongue tied. He's looking at a girl, and he's smitten.

DOM: "Uhh..."

Panel 4: Our first look at MICHELLE. She has very long brown hair, a little below her shoulders, that frames a sweet round face, brown eyes. Her eyebrows are arched in amusement and her smile says the same. She's a nice girl with a bit of a wicked sense of humor, and her reaction to Dom's anger ... and his smitten look ... is that he's kind of comical. She's very pretty in a sweet, down-to-earth way - not terribly cool. She's wearing a long sweater and skirt, and a leather-bead necklace. She's hugging a couple text books.

MICHELLE: "Nice to meet you, too."

Panel 5: Dom and Michelle in profile, standing in front of a wall of lockers. Dom has one hand in his hair, other hand reaching out to Michelle. He's smiling sheepishly, embarrassed. Michelle is still holding her books.

DOM: "Sorry. I'm Dom."

MICHELLE: "Don't be sorry about who you are. I'm sure it's not that bad."

DOM: "Aren't you the sweetie?"

MICHELLE: "Always."

SOUND EFFECT: Rrrriiiinngg...

MICHELLE: "And on that note..."

Panel 6: Michelle looking back at Dom over her shoulder, close up, still showing a playful smile.

MICHELLE: "I'm Michelle, by the way. Nice to meet you, Dom."

Panel 7: Dom, having fallen backward into his locker, with a look that says, 'whew.'

DOM (VO): Maybe this school won't be quite so bad.

Page 16

Dom and Brian are walking out of the school, backpacks slung over their shoulders. It's a beautiful fall day in New England. Red and yellow leaves blowing by. Other kids in the background. Bike racks by the door.

DOM (VO): But you never know what's coming next.

BRIAN: "So, I hear you're making lots of friends."

DOM: "What, gym class?"

BRIAN: "Yeah. Ron's gonna kick your ass after school."

DOM: "You mean, now?"

BRIAN: "Yeah. I guess so."

Panel 2: Dom and Brian, viewed from behind. In the distance ahead, in the school parking lot, right at the edge of the grassy field, there's a huge crowd of kids gathered around...something...

DOM: "And yet you're here."

BRIAN: "Figured you needed someone to call your mom after."

DOM: "Much appreciated."

BRIAN: "Hey, you think that's Ron up there?"

DOM: "You've got to be kidding..."

Panel 3: Dom and Brian from behind, right at the edge of the crowd. Voices from above the crowd.

VOICES: "Is he gonna be OK?" "What happened to him?" "Who did this?" "Geez, poor Ron."

Panel 4: Dom and Brian, having pushed through the crowd, shot from below, look down in shock. We see Ron's legs, laying in the grass, blue jeans peppered with bloody holes, like they'd been attached by a thousand hornets.

BRIAN: "Son of a..."

Panel 5: The crowd has split aside and looks on in confusion as Dom runs away, stumbling in panic.

DOM (thought balloon): "No...no!"

Panel 6: Dom has rounded a corner of the school. We see him from behind, left hand clutching the red brick. Dom is looking off, gaping and gasping. In the distance, we see Cyril's the trench coated silhouette.

DOM: "It was you!"

Page 17:

Panel 1: Cyril in close up. Sneering.

CYRIL: "He was waiting for you."

Panel 2: Dom in close up. Shouting.

DOM: "You nearly killed him!"

Panel 3: Cyril in close up. Facing Dom. Condescending.

CYRIL: "You should thank me. He won't bother you again."

Panel 4: Full view of Dom, walking toward Cyril, pointing, angry.

DOM: "No! This is wrong. I won't let you do this!"

CYRIL: "Careful, Dominic. You might lose control."

Panel 5: Dom's back. His backpack is on the ground and his shirt has ripped wide open. You can see a strange, jagged ripple in his back, a bunching of muscles where the wings emerge, as if they were real...

DOM: "Aahhggghh!"

CYRIL (he's visible in shadow, in the distance ahead): "See what happens when you get angry? You have power!"

Panel 6: Dom facing off against Cyril. Cyril's arm is raised, and the swarm of sand and rocks and dirt and grit swirls in front of him.

DOM: "You're crazy!"

CYRIL: "You're a fool. You choose to stand against me? After what I did for you?"

DOM: "Not for me! I'm definitely not with you!"

Panel 7: Cyril - arm out, rock swarm spreading out before him.

CYRIL: "So be it!"

Panel 8: Dom, in 3/4 profile, covering his face against the swarm.

DOM (thought balloon): No! I can't let him do this...and I know how...

Page 18:

Panel 1: We see Dom in profile and the traces of his shimmering wings, flapped forward...the rock swarm has blown between Dom and Cyril. Cyril is leaning back in surprise.

CYRIL: "Clever...you are strong...but...can you protect your so-called friend?"

DOM: "What...?"

Panel 2: Cyril, Dom and Brian in a triangle. The rock swarm has turned toward Brian. Brian has thrown a beer bottle, which is heading like a missle toward Cyril. Dom is reaching toward Brian, trying to protect him, but too far away.

DOM: "NO! Brian, get down!"

BRIAN: "Yow!"

Panel 3: Dom's face, grim, determined.

DOM (thought balloon): Focus...focus...

Panel 4: Dom striding toward Cyril. Cyril stumbling, off balance. He's being forced back by a powerful wind from Dom's wings. At the same time, the beer bottle is circling away from Cyril.

CYRIL: "No!"

Panel 5: Close up of Dom's face, inches from the beer bottle.

DOM: "Damn!"

Panel 6: Brian's face, hazy and unfocused, from Dom's point of view as he regains consciousness.

BRIAN: "Yo! Dom! You in there?"

DOM: "Yeah..Cyril?"

BRIAN: "Ran off. You wanna get up?"

DOM: "I'm OK."

BRIAN: "Let's get out of here."

Hindsight is Foresight

http://www.startribune.com/562/story/225235.html (registration required, I think)

Rick Horowitz' column, published in the Star Tribune on Monday, said it as eloquently as can be said:

"Hindsight alone is not wisdom," the president declared. "And
second-guessing is not a strategy."

Well.

First of all, it's not second-guessing -- it's certainly not
hindsight -- if you said it before it happened. It's prediction. It's warning.
And there were all sorts of people sounding warnings long before Bush sent our
soldiers into Iraq. People who did war, or reconstruction, or counter-insurgency
for a living. Who knew that they were talking about and were ready to share
their experience, and their concerns.

The president and his people
weren't much interested in hearing them. Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld knew what
they knew, and they knew better than anyone else. So we went into Iraq without
enough troops to get the job done. Without enough armor to protect those troops.
Without a coherent plan for the days and months after the statue came down.

The president and his people knew better.

They were wrong. Of
course they want to change the subject!
And it's hardly second-guessing --
or hindsight -- to use the past to help pick your way through the future. Or
would you prefer that every impression be a first impression?"

Exactly. The President is basically saying, "Whether or not we blew it before, we're here now so you have to follow us." The problem is that normally when you screw up, you're forced to admit it. You're chastised for it. You're forced to endure a great deal of oversight to ensure you don't screw up again. Our President, on the other hand, feels uncomfortable with the prospect of people reminding him how he screwed up. Uncomfortable that, perhaps, others may feel it useful to keep a closer eye on him, given past performance.

As we say in our office, we ought to put Mr. Bush on a "performance plan," one where we set specific improvement objectives and keep a close eye on him to see how its going. No more illegal behavior. No more pronouncments that fly in the face of reality. No more ignoring contradictory voices.

Or you'll have to talk to...Human Resources.

(DUM DUM DUUUUUMMM!)

Are You There God? It's Me, Monica

Are You There God? It's Me, Monica (subscription required)

I'm going to avoid the obvious "fun stuff" on this article and note that what struck me is Flanagan's characterization of the "heroic" efforts of Tipper Gore and the Parent's Music Resource Council of the 1980s.

I was in high school during the time of "Just Say No" and the dawning of the AIDS epidemic. The PMRC was roundly considered the epitome of meddling, middle-American evil. Today, Flanagan looks at the changing sexual mores of today's teen girls, and opines that what's missing is a sense of modesty, a sense that sex -- any sexual activity -- should be something special to a "nice" girl, and that whether there is an "oral sex epidemic"or not, girls need guidance. They need to know that they're hurting themselves -- and families aren't helping by letting them find their way on their own, or by insisting on pledges of abstinence.

Which brings us back to Tipper Gore and PMRC. Flanagan notes that the media and the left tend to vilify anyone who tries to protect children. And it's true -- they do -- hell, I do. And let's face it: the PMRC came off as a bunch of finger-wagging Chicken Littles shouting about how we'd all be corrupted by a bunch of songs. Frank Zappa was a bona fide American hero.

Now that I'm a parent, I'm not so sure. It's our job to help our kids make independent choices. It's also our job to instill them with values, to help them make smart choices. In the end, maybe the PMRC wasn't the right answer, or the right messenger ... but it doesn't meant they didn't have a point.

State of the Union, Part II

Whose Addiction? - Bush's surprisingly partisan speech. By John Dickerson:

Per my previous post: John Dickerson of Slate says it well:

"In 2005, Bush cast himself as groping for solutions to national problems
together with Democrats. Tonight, he depicted those who oppose him as lazy,
retreating, and negative. 'There is a difference between responsible criticism
that aims for success, and defeatism that refuses to acknowledge anything but
failure,' he said later in the speech. 'Hindsight alone is not wisdom. And
second-guessing is not a strategy.' He welcomes criticism in theory. But in
practice, he sees it all as defeatism, second-guessing, and 20-20 hindsight.

Politics is about defining your enemy. That's what the president did in
his 2006 State of the Union. But change the tone? This year, there can't have
been a person in the room who took that commitment seriously."

Maybe it was meant to be a political power play. Maybe he was throwing down his gloves to the Democrats. Maybe he's getting sick of being beaten up for bad decisions that led to the ongoing war in Iraq. If so, he needs to grow up. I just found all of it offensive.

State of the Union, or, I Have Seen the Face of Evil

I've never been so afraid for my country in all my life.

I'm watching President Bush delivering his State of the Union address. He explains how he's appreciated the criticism and input of both Democrats and Republicans. That Congress should speak freely ... it's part of Democracy. In the same breath, he says it's not useful to criticize the past, we must only look forward.

And looking forward, he says: "There is only one option."

I felt a chill go up my spine. I fee sick to my stomach.

There is only one option? So - it's OK to debate and criticize, as long as you realize there there is only one option - my option. To move forward, and then, he says, to support our troops in their efforts to finish the job - clearly a way to soften what was a harsh threat to Congress.

And Congress cheered.

There is no excuse for this. Mr. President, there are always options. There are many options. You need to hear them. You'll make your choice from among them, and you and we will have to live with that choice. But my country is a noisy, messy place, where people can argue, debate, choose to stomp their feet and stand their ground or to listen and find compromise. If I want to dwell in hindsight, I have every right to. If I want to point out your mistakes, I will. If I want to offer options, new ways to see our choices in the world -- or support people who have these views -- I will.

That's America.

I've never been scared of George Bush or Republicans in Congress before. I am now. He will clearly leave this country a worse place than it was before -- one where people are afraid to speak their minds, where freedom of speech is under increasing attack. Protect our country, but live with the debate. Argue, fight, and make your decisions, but never stop the voices.

You may not like the shouting, but that beautiful noise is much safer than the chilling silence ahead.

One Minute Stories

Not sure if anyone else likes them, but I do.

I've started a new blog. The concept: One new story posted every day that you can read in a minute: One Minute Stories.

The new blog combines some of the One Minute stories from this blog with new stuff cobbled together from whatever debris is floating around my mind at any given moment.

Click here to check it out.

Try, Try Again

Yet another One Minute Story

I held the flint in one hand, and the steel in the other. Clack, clack, clack.

Nary a spark.

I kneeled like a penitent over the tiny twig teepee stuffed with bark, wood shavings, leaves and pine needles. I closed my eyes. The sun was settling into a thick, rusty pink glow over the lake and the air turned colder, more solid, like you could bite it.

I opened my eyes and struck steel to flint. Sparks flew. Again and again. Clack, clack, clack.

Something rustled in the leaves above me, but I didn't look. Squirrel, probably.

Clack, clack, clack.

Sparks flew. One fell on a leaf and sent wisps of smoke from the kindling. The leaf dissolved from within, forming a ragged hole.

Clack, clack, clack.

More rustling in the trees, but I couldn't be bothered.

Something hit me in the head.

"Son of a bitch!" I said.

Acorn.

Clack, clack, clack.

Sparks flew with a vengeance, and a leaf caught fire. Small orange flames, billows of smoke. I blew gently on the kindling and the flames leapt up in thanks.

"Son of a bitch!"

Another acorn.

I laid carefully chosen sticks gently upon the teepee and watched the fire with deep satisfaction, like I'd just rescued a kid from drowning or something. I smiled and looked around for some sign of recognition.

It was completely dark now. The moon was high in the sky. Some thirty tents surrounded me, all zipped closed and dark. Cursing, I looked up to see a gray squirrel squatting on a low branch. I swear it was looking right at me. It held an acorn in its forepaws and must have had a half-dozen in its cheeks. I waved at it and then held my hands to warm them over the fire, and then I decided to...

"Son of a bitch!"

# # #

Kid's Stuff: A One Minute Story

A One-Minute Story (tm)

"G'mornin'," she said and I groaned.

"Hiya, angel," I said and stuffed my face back in my pillow.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked sweetly.

"Like a herd of sheep was marching on my head all night," I said into the pillow.

"Hmm," she purred. "Maybe we shouldn't have...you know."

I bolted upright, wrenching my back. "Maybe we should have," I growled.

She laughed. She always does that. Or, at least I imagined she always does that.

Anyway, she was already out of bed, sashaying into the bathroom. I watched her ... sashay. I listened to the toilet flush, and the water splashing in the sink. I listened to the soft thump of her feet on the floor. Then to silence. Then to the clatter of plastic and metal and a resounding crash of shattered glass, squeals of pain and shrieks of laughter. Then it stopped.

I raced to the bathroom and threw open the door. She sat, cross-legged, blood dripping from her arms and cheeks, amid the ruins of the shower door and the shards of the mirror, amid the clutter of toothbrushes, bars of soap, lipstick and makeup. She sat smiling, holding a small, squirming figure by the tail.

"Mouse," she said, unecessarily.

# # #

A Country Song (Annotated)

"Drivin' Down the Road"(1)

I was drivin' (2)
Down an old dirt road in the dark
Through a tunnel trees headin' nowhere
I was gettin' there fast (3)

I was layin'
In a field of grass diggin' my toes in the dirt (4)
Runnin' my hands 'cross your face,
Feelin' your curves like a blind man
Tryin' to remember your skin.

I was standin'
On a white sandy beach, ankle deep in the surf
Jeans rolled up, hands in my pockets
Like I was posin' for a postcard
Hopin' for a storm. (5)

Back at home now
Sittin' at my desk job (6)
Boss's words commandin':
'Get your head in the game.'
Wait'll they find out...
I'm gone. (7)

(1) Written by me.
(2) Note use of the apostrophe to replace the 'g' in my gerunds. That's how you can tell it's a country song.
(3) In song, all roads should lead to "nowhere" or "you". They should never lead to "work" or "the pharmacy".
(4) My wife took a picture of me like this. I looked cool. Or was it someone else?
(5) Use of visceral nature imagery gives lyrics a powerful edge, implying a certain musical fury that will no doubt come across on the pedal steel. Or should we add a synth?
(6) Use of "desk job" in song is risky. In the rock era, few if any serious lyrics have included core office features such as "desks," "copy machines," and "tech support." I believe I am on the cutting edge here.
(7) Yes, I am.

The Boy Who Could Fly - Updated, with Action

A comic book script (c) Impending (me), 2005. Newly updated 12-28-2005, 9:30 am.

Yeah, I know, the "boy who can fly" think has been done. But everything's been done... I've written 50 pages of this as a juvenile fiction type novel, but I wonder if it'd be better as a comic book. I've been reading about how to write comic scripts...Here's how I'd start it. The story is set on Aquidneck Island, home of Newport...

This is part 1 ... Click here for part 2!

Page 1:
Panel 1: DOM PARKER walks into the school gym. It's the first day of school. All of the students are gathered on the bleachers at the other end of the gym. Banners hang on the walls celebrating the "Portsmouth Patriots." Teacher types mill about on the floor in front of the students. We first see DOM from behind -- his view as he pauses to look over the assembled kids. He has a backpack slung over his shoulders. He's a typical kid, not one of the cool kids, above average smarts. He's wearing a hooded sweatshirt and jeans.

DOM (in caption -- voiceover(VO)): "First day of high school and it's another new school. Did this four years ago, and now here we are again. It's always the same, really. You look over the class and you pick a place to sit. If you're lucky, you find a friend."

Panel 2: DOM'S face. Again, typical kid. Skinny, good looking but not gorgeous. A little glum... a little thoughtful, a little standoffish.

DOM (VO): That's how it works. You just pick out a face in the crowd...

Panel 3: Closer view of the kids on the bleachers. Slight spotlight on BRIAN. Blonde hair, blue eyes. A bit tousled, a bit rough-around the edges. Wearing a crew-neck sweater, drawing in his spiral bound notebook.

Panel 4: Dom sits down next to Brian and gives a nervous wave.

DOM: Hey. BRIAN: Hey. You're new.

DOM: Yeah. Moved here from New Jersey.

BRIAN: Congrats. Brian.

DOM: Dom. What're you drawing?

Panel 5: Close-up of Brian's notebook. It's a scene with a knight in bloody battle with a dragon. Something out of Frazetta...or the brothers Hildebrand...but hastily scribbled.

DOM: Cool. You're pretty good.

BRIAN: Thanks. You play D&D?

DOM: No.

BRIAN: You want to?

DOM: Sure.

BRIAN: Cool.

Page 2

Panel 1: Dom sitting in class, among a bunch of kids at desks, next to Brian, mostly paying attention as Brian passes him a note.

DOM (VO): "Simple as that, you have a friend. You get an instinct for this after a while."

Panel 2: Dom walking down the street with his backpack slung over his shoulder, the school bus passing by in the background. He's at the top of the street, which is mostly unkempt field.

Dom (VO): "But it's hard. I used to like moving. I didn't like this one. But Dad's job moved and we had to move with it."

Panel 3: We see more of Dom's street. More unkempt field, but we see now that he's at the top of a hill that ends in the bay (one that looks more like a river -- we're on an island only a mile away from the opposite shore). The street is an unfinished development that runs in three esses down to the bay. There are five houses scattered about 2/3s of the way down. The one in the middle is Dom's house. DOM trudges down the street.

DOM (VO): "So I move on. Leave behind the old, take on the new. New friends, new school, new life. It sucks."

Panel 4: We see Dom's house. It's a colonial -- basically a big rectangle with an attached garage. The yard is a hill, the driveway winds a little. There's a really nice wide slate porch in front of the house, where you can sit and look over the street and down past a handfull of houses and see the bay. Nice house, not a mansion but a nice house. GRETA, a medium sized black dog is racing down the driveway. She's a black lab mutt -- smaller than a lab, a little chubby. "This is my new house. We moved here a month ago. Me, my brother, my sister, Mom and Dad and Greta, the dog."

Panel 5: Dom's point of view. We see the entry hall, stairs to the right, kitchen down the hall. Dom's mother, DEENA, is focused on her laptop computer at the kitchen table.

DOM (VO): "That's my mom. She's going to open her own business. Some kind of gift shop, I think."

DOM: "I'm home!"

DEENA: "Hi, Dom."

DOM: "How was my first day?"

DEENA: "How was your day?"

Panel 6: Close up of Dom's face. He's glum.

DOM: "Fine."

Page 3:

Panel 1: Dom's room. No posters on the wall. Bland walls, wood trim. Old style single bed with dark wood finish. Similar dark wood desk, flat, with books and notebook papers with on top. A bookshelf filled with paperback sci-fi and fantasy novels. Three longboxes holding comic books in the corner. Window that overlooks the bay.

DOM (VO) "This is my room. It's a room."

Panel 2: Full view of Dom standing in the doorway of his room. DOM: (out loud, in bubble): "I've got to get out of here."

Page 4:

Panel 1: Close up of Dom riding his bike down the street -- more field, some houses in the background. It's late afternoon, almost 4:30 pm or so. The sun is headed downward.

Dom (VO): "There's this thing you don't know about me. I need to be alone sometimes."

Panel 5: Dom walking out onto a rocky, shell-strewn beach. His bike is laying against an old wood post. A chain runs from the post across a driveway you'd use to bring your boat to the beach. A sign hangs from the beach that says NO FISHING. To Dom's left, the beach turns into a rocky shoreline -- big rocks that you have to climb and clamber over.

Page 5:

Panel 1: Dom is clambering over the rocks. Up ahead, there is a hill that rises into a cliff. Dom is clearly heading there.

Panel 2: Dom is pulling himself to the top of the cliff. Lush greenery -- trees and such is behind him ... this is a mostly private spot. But across the bay, there are houses. You might see a boat in the distance.

Panel 3: Dom pulling his sweatshirt off over his head. Panel 4: Dom, shot from below a bit, shirt off. He's skinny.

DOM (VO): "Something happened to me a few months ago. Something I haven't told anyone about." Panel 5: You see Dom's view over the bay. Some houses dot the opposite shore. You see Dom from behind again, arms crossed, clearly cold.

DOM (VO): "I haven't done this much. I can't. But...sometimes...I have to."

Page 6:

Panels 1-5 -- small panels. Dom in profile. 1) takes a deep breath. 2) lunges forward. 3) jumps off the cliff, falling...

Panel 4: Falling, head on, fear on face.
Panel 5: Face determined, wind whipping back his hair.
Panel 6: half the page...He swoops upward! Face set in a giddy, joyous smile. Great, transparent wings fan out behind him. Powerful, transcendent scene. For the first time, Dom seems fully alive.

Page 7:

Full page... multiple shots of Dom swooping and diving and turning. Ascending and descending... wobbling and catching himself at times -- he hasn't done this too often.

DOM (VO): "I can fly. But I guess you know that now..."

Page 8:

Panel 1 – DOM in close up, face grim, a little nervous, body tilted slightly downward.

DOM (VO): “The problem, of course, is landing…

Panel 2 – Dom from the side, long view, heading for the rocky, shell-strewn shore, still over the water, which is a bit choppy. It’s a gray September day, and the water is going to be cold. His arms are thrust out in front, to ward off the inevitable crash.

DOM (VO): “You can’t find advice for this on the Web. Some hang-gliding sites say you just kick your feet out and run fast. Sure.”

Panel 3: Dom swoops up a bit. He’s out of control now, arms and legs flailing. He’s about 12 feet off the ground, just at the edge of the shore, over a spot that’s much too shallow.

DOM: Whoaaa!

Panel 4: Splashdown! He lands flat on his back, in about 2 inches of water. It looks cold and painful. He lays there. His eyes are closed. The wings are gone.

Panel 5: Still laying on the shore, a shadow falls over him.

Panel 6: Dom opens his eyes. He’s startled.

Page 9: Part II

Splash page: Title: The Boy Who Could Fly, Part II: More Than Human.

DOM is on his back, inching backwards on his elbows. He’s open mouthed, wide-eyed and startled. He’s looking up at someone wearing black boots and a long, black overcoat. All you see is the left boot and the bottom of the coat.

DOM (VO): Great. First month in a new town, and I’m already busted. Of course, back in Vermont, they’d shoot at me. Thought I was a vulture or something.

Page 10:

Panel 1: Dom, still on his back, struggling to sit up. CYRIL still in shadows. You can tell he has long, dark stringy hair.

CYRIL (Mostly off panel): “That was extraordinary.”

DOM: “Who-who are you?”

CYRIL: “You know me.”

DOM: “What?”

Panel 2: Bigger panel. Our first view of CYRIL. He’s 16, tall, dressed in black. Pale face, shoulder-length, stringy black hair. A bit of a Goth. Black overcoat, black t-shirt, black jeans and tall black boots. His hands are in his pockets. He has a bemused smile on his face, like he knows a secret.

CYRIL: “This morning. At school. ”

DOM: “Yeah. Right. I was lost…”

CYRIL: “I showed you the way.”

DOM: “Uh yeah. Thanks.”

Panel 3: Dom’s standing, brushing himself off. You can see that his back and sides are scratched from his hard landing. Dom and Cyril are talking. Cyril is about 4 inches taller than Dom. Cyril is solicitous. Dom is turned away a little, not meeting Cyril’s eyes. He’s suspicious and nervous.

CYRIL: “I can show you the way again.”

DOM: “What?”

CYRIL: “Your power. You have no idea of your power, your strength.”

DOM: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Panel 4: Close up of Cyril, sneering.

CYRIL: “Don’t play dumb with me. I saw you. I know you. When you were younger, things happened. Plates flew off the table and shattered. Toys just out of reach, flew into your hands…”

Panel 5: Close up of Dom. Clearly, Cyril is touching a nerve.

CYRIL (off panel): “… You’d get mad, and glass would shatter. Enemies would back off with mysterious pain. Am I getting close?”

DOM: "And then, one day, you can’t take it anymore. So you shut it down. Turn it off. For your own good. And everyone else’s."

Panel 6: Close up of Cyril. Sinister…gleeful.

CYRIL: “Until something happened…”

Page 11

Panel 1: Full view of Cyril and Dom on the beach. Dom’s looking away from Cyril, gazing off into the distance, talking like he’s in a trance. Cyril looks gentler, expectant and excited.

DOM: “Yeah. Last year. It’s a family camping trip…I’m hiking in the woods. Me, my folks, my brother and sister…."

Panel 2: DOM’s family hiking up a mountain trail. Older sister, younger brother. Mom and Dad. Show them all from behind… Dom’s in the lead, happy, ready to take off up the trail.

DOM: “You guys are too slow… I’m going ahead!”

DEENA: “Be careful, Dom!”

Panel 3: Dom’s face…he’s running up the trail, around a bend. DOM (thought balloon): Shut up, Mom.

Panel 4: He’s rounded a corner. His family is out of sight. He’s facing a tall rock wall; behind him the trail falls off into a deep ravine.

Panel 5: Rocks falling from above…an enormous brown bear’s face staring down.

DOM (VO): I never saw it coming.

Panel 6: Dom from behind, flailing, plunging off the trail… a bear’s claw swiping the air where he’d been.

Page 12

Panel 1: Dom is falling. His shirt and jacket ripped wide open from the back, and the transparent wings spread out gloriously from his back.

Panel 2: Same view, still falling but now slowing, circling.

Panel 3: Dom laying on the ground, on his stomach, amid some trees, his body generally contorted.

DOM (VO): “I must have fallen 200 feet. I was even worse at landings then. Broke my arm here. Bleeding pretty badly. But I was alive. And I knew…”

Panel 4: Back at the beach. Dom and Cyril still talking.

CYRIL: “And you did it…again and again. You felt your power growing…”

DOM: “No…What?”

Panel 5: Closer in view of Dom and Cyril. Dom’s “trance” is broken and he’s looking skeptically at Cyril, who looks anxious, hungry and a little wild.

DOM: “Who are you? How did you…”

CYRIL: “Let me demonstrate…”

Panel 6: Close up of Cyril. Arms stretched out before him…gathering his power.

Page 13

Panel 1: Cyril gestures and a blast of rocks, shells and sand crashes over Dom. Dom cries out.

Panel 2: Dom looks up, and the blast of rocks, shells and sand has turned into a swarm, flying over Dom’s head.

Panel 3: Cyril, from behind. He gestures, we see the swarm scatter across the water.

Panel 4: DOM (VO): I’m not proud…I was scared as hell.

Dom runs away, toward his bike.

Panel 5: Dom racing away on his bike. Cyril laughing.

CYRIL: “You could learn a lot from me.”

Panel 6: Close up of Dom’s face, riding hard, a tear rolling down his right cheek. He’s scared, and ashamed.

CYRIL (off panel): "I’ll see you around!"

DOM (VO): That was my first day of school. It gets worse.

Click here for part 2!

# # #

A comic book script by (c) Impending (me), 2005

Winners and Losers: A One-Minute Story

"You win some, you lose some," said Coach Jim Brodsky to the line of 22 somber-faced 10-year-olds. The boys were quiet, muddied. A few dirt-streaked faces were cut with tears.

Kenny had played the game of his life. Too skinny, too slow, he hadn't been a factor on the flag-football team this year, and he probably wouldn't play an organized sport again. But this day, he flashed through the defense like he was standing still, and ripped the flag from the opposing quarterback's hip before he could take two steps...and then did it again. They blocked him well from them on, respect he'd never received before.

Toward the end of the game, he had one more chance. The running back came around the left end, and Kenny reached and grabbed the yellow flag just as he went by. He ran hard, pulling Kenny off the ground, bouncing him along like a string of cans hanging from a newlyweds' car. The coach screamed for him to hang on, and he did, and the flag finally clicked loose, dropping Kenny to the ground.

But at the end of the game, their last game, they lost. For the first time all that fall. The boys didn't know how to take it. They'd never lost before. Some stared at the ground and kicked at the dirt. Others cried. The coach was grim.

"You win some, you lose some," he said. "Sometimes it's just not your day."

And sometimes, thought Kenny, it is and it isn't.

# # #

My Inner Voice

My best friend of my high school years always said I had a stick up my butt, and he was right. I wouldn't ask out a girl unless I knew she'd say yes. It wasn't OK for me to take something just for me to be happy, or to do something, unless everyone would be happy. Other people were free to do what they wanted, say what they wanted... to be free. I was a man of honor, of duty. My job was to be sure that everyone was OK ... to take charge when I was needed ... otherwise, to hang back and help.

My friend, on the other hand, was obnoxious. He worked at Pizza Hut, and there was this waitress he was in love with (a Catholic girl!). He pursued her constantly, his smooth voice insinuating himself into her thought and into her life. I thought he was nuts. Clearly, she liked him okay, but she was a couple years older, and when someone resists that much, what's the point? Finally, she'd agree to go to the Howard Johnson's with him after the late shift, and then to a movie or something. He'd keep at it. I still thought he was nuts. Soon, he got pretty quiet about it with me...and eventually, I'm pretty sure she became his "first."

A month or so later, we were driving by her house to see if she was home, and talking about what went wrong...he was obsessed...she'd moved on...I was right -- she wasn't that interested, but he'd managed to convince her anyway. I'd have backed off long before...but who had the more interesting experience?

For various reasons, I'm finding it easier to listen to my inner voice.

It's a very simple thing...the inner voice says, "I'd like to go sledding today," and instead of waiting for my wife to bring it up, I say it aloud. Or my mom says, "What do you want for Hanukkah?" and my inner voice says, "I could use a nice sweater for work and some new DVD movies...but I shouldn't admit that I want anything," and, instead, I say it aloud and maybe I'll get a sweater.

I know, mundane. But it's a start.

It's a powerful thing -- not the inner voice itself, but the ability to recognize it, and to know you have a choice, that it's OK to want, to need and to act. It's OK to take as well as give. People may actually find that you're more interesting if there are things you want for yourself.

You might find yourself more interesting, too.

Bay Area Journal

I finally took a vacation. With a massive movement of men and materials, the Family traveled by plane to my parents' house -- 9 days in Redwood Shores, Calif., just a bit south of San Francisco, where we were joined by a massive influx of relatives.

The scorecard: My wife and three boys, 5.5 years and under; my sister, her husband, and one-year-old; my brother, his wife, and boy and girl, 3-years and under; my dad's mother and her husband; my mom's mother and her husband; and my mom, dad and their, dog, Sadie.

But we got there early, dropped off the kids and headed up to Napa for two days of wine sipping, fine dining, mountain hiking and spa treatments. The wine on Day 1 was OK, and dizzying... they took us for six bottles.

Day 2 may well have been my best day ever:

- Wake up late.
- Massive continental breakfast in the lobby of the Yountville Inn. Bagels, crumbcakes, fruit, juice, coffee and cereal; brought back more to the still-sleeping wife in our room.
- Relaxed in the whirlpool, then a dip in the well-heated pool.
- Shower and dress, head off to Calistoga, home of spas, hot springs and more wineries.
- We decided to hike up an old mountain mining trail...on the way there, we stopped at a spa and found a convenient appointment for mud baths and massage.
- A two-hour hike. Picnic on the mountain. Critters and birds flitting by. Massive, spread-winged vultures floating overhead (Vultures may not sound so great, but at the time, I thought they were eagles, so it was glorious...my outdoors-y brother-in-law burst the bubble upon seeing my digital photo of the bird in flight, but it was too late by then).
- On the way down the mountain, an amusing but embarrassing episode for my wife. The less said about this the better. Let's just say that it's good that we had a lot of napkins along.
- The spa -- I'd never done this. I must do it again ... first, a bath in hot steaming mud. Then a mineral bath soak. Then the steam room, a little relax time and a massage from my shoulders to my toes. Complete, giddy, bliss.
- Delicious steak dinner, then back to the hotel to seduce my wife and watch movies.

You can't really top perfection, and my extended family certainly would not be able to try. But there were no major blow ups, fist fights or hurt feelings to speak of, and everyone loved our kids. And we finished the trip with a visit to the Millbrae In-N-Out Burger, chomping down a fresh Double-Double and feeding french fries to the birds.

I know, positivity is boring. But this was indeed a good vacation.

And, now, back to our regularly scheduled misery.

People that I Miss

This blog is pretty anonymous, and it should stay that way (except for you special few, you know who you are, you little dickenses...). But I've been mulling the past, and how I've left too many people behind in my life, through too many moves across the country and too much laziness and forgetting and closing off my mind and my heart to anyone or anything that might cause an excess welling of emotion.

Given the power of Google, I thought I'd throw out a few names of people I miss, who I think about all the time but have lost from my life completely... If you come across this, and think you might know me, leave a comment or send me an email. In no particular order...

Brian Anton -- my best friend through 8th grade. Then I moved. Comic readin', Micronaut playin' buddy. I remember you asking me once, in 8th grade, if we would still be friends if it weren't for comics. Two answers: yes...and what does that matter?

Homer Cepeda -- It was Homer and Brian and me through 8th grade. Went off to private school after I moved. You'd think you could Google a guy with a name like Homer Cepeda, but nothing comes up but the baseball stats of Orlando Cepeda.

Scott Chankin -- My bowling and summer camp buddy before I moved. I've never gotten over my guilt for not replying to your letter to me after I moved out of town.

Dan Rubin -- College buddy. I'd heard you'd been laid off. You'd always kept in touch. Now you've disappeared and I'm regretting not keeping up. Where did you go?

Eric Geoffroy -- College buddy ... best friend, really, until senior year when you moved off campus and I got a girlfriend, I guess. Tremendous musical talent who opened my eyes to real creativity. What the heck are you doing now?

Lisa Spencer -- that college girlfriend. Hey, look, I'm happily married with kids and all that, but I'd just love to know what you've made of yourself.

There's a longer list, but I'll stop there for now...

Nooooooooo!

I'm at my office. I've got my pen, I've got my New York Times Arts section, open to the crossword puzzle. I'm ready.

And there's a line for the men's room.

This is so wrong.

Decisions, Decisions

that little song at the end of my previous post has been a theme in my life of late. I've been having problems with decisions. It's really very simple: I need to do something else with my life. I need to follow my muse for writing. I need a job that I feel some passion for, or at least I can tolerate enough that I can do decent work. I need to be able to order my life so that I have a few "perfect days".

I need to quit my job.

Unfortunately, I'm afraid I'm moving in that direction, but not on purpose. My main client is putting us up for review. My business will take a big loss for the work I'm doing, for a client we may not get back. And for my part, it's all I can do to get myself to do any work at all ... I've been distinctly unimpressive to the very people who will make the review decision.

Decisions, decisions.

The idea, of course, is to choose your own path. To chose a goal, chart a course, and boldly sail the schooner of life in that direction, not letting the storms of distractions and the icebergs of fate impede your path or trap you in the sargasso of indecision.

My alternative theory is to choose the river of your fate and to see where it takes you...and if you feel you're going the wrong direction, you can hope that it will divide somewhere downstream and you'll be offered a new path, right in front of you, that a mere push of the pole will set you on a new course. But what if the river never divides? You can choose a new river, but it's very hard to do...since the river never stops and neither do you.

Decisions, decisions.

More Songs in My Head

Some songs I'm imagining myself singing...

Livin' on the road my friend
Is gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron
Your breath's as hard as kerosene.

- "Pancho & Lefty" by Townes van Zandt

They say that these are not the best of times
But they're the only times I've ever known...

I have seen that sad surrender in my lover's eyes
I can only stand apart and sympathize
For we are always what our situations hand us:
It's either sadness or euphoria.

- "Summer Highland Falls" by Billy Joel

I've been driving
Sixteen hours
This rain is like a
Metronome.

- "Been Set Free" by Peter Himmelman

I was singing a song about open plains
I was singing a song about a rope.
I was about a southbound train
I was singing a song about hope.

And it's not like I'm goin' nowhere
'Cause I'm getting there awful fast.
It's not like I'm in a hurry to get there
Sometimes I wish I had more of a past.

Everyone is cheering
While I'm leanin' against the rail.
Everyone sees their future nearin'
While I'm just afraid to fail.

And what were you thinking when you told me you loved me?
Did you even know that you had lied?
What were you thinking when you looked me in the eyes...
And made just one..lonely ... plea:
Decide...

"Decide" by me, Impending, today