I have been led to believe I am not supportive enough of my brother's musical interests. I feel badly about this, and so, in his honor, and that of the Mono Monkey Music Experience, I ask that you visit his band's web-site. Which has broken links to the actual musical bits. You can, however, see a lovely painting of what appears to be the surface of the sun.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you: The Monkeying Ensemblage of Musical Mononucleosis

whoa... CNN.com has printed a review of Neil Gaiman's new work...

Y - The Last Man

Finished reading Volume 2 of Vertigo Comics' Y - The Last Man last night.

Vertigo puts out some real junk from time to time, but other times, they hit an absolute homerun. It seems like years since I've been really interested in what Vertigo was printing, but that's turned around with this new series. Y chronicles the story of Yorick Brown, who is the last man on earth. The story occurs in the present day, but follows a bizarre turn of events when every single male of every single species suddenly and inexplicably drops dead, except for Yorick.

The story is not the tale of sexual conquest you'd expect, but rather a sort of Omega Man/ 28 Days Later/ Mad Max look at the outcomes of such an event. I wish I could say that this is a story with a beginning, middle and end for you to look forward to, but the second volume of the series only goes up to issue 10, so i have no idea how far the creators are planning on taking the series, nor do I have any idea where the series is going.

I don't even feel terribly inclined to detail the fallout of the disaster, as the very real dangers of such an event are written in perfectly, and any review I would give would just do them a disservice. Anyhoo, if you're digging around for something new to try, I can't recommend this series enough.

I went to bed ridiculously early last night (9:00pm) for want of really having anything better to do, and trying not to be the zombie I usually am by Friday morning. I woke up before my 5:10am alarm after having a bizarre dream that I would rather not get into because it was both banal and disturbing.

As I may have mentioned previously, the Superman comics have not exactly been stellar as of late... but this winter shall see big changes in the books. Not the least of these changes will be a return to the "realistic" (aka - non-Manga inspired) renderings of the core characters.

here are some links to look at for what you will be seeing in the future of Action Comics. Supes and Captain Atom. Batman and thug. Superman and Batman escaping and explosion.

At any rate, I am totally pumped about the new art direction for Superman. The pencils here are by Ivan Reis, a young Brazilian artist (Brazil produces some great artists...) Let's hope the inkers and colorists don't muck it all up.

oh, and there's this...

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht frist and lsat ltteer is at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed ervey lteter by it slef but the wrod as a wlohe.

Jamie made me like football.
I didn't watch football as a kid. Anything not involving magic swords or light-cycles was kind of off my radar scope, and my folks never expressed much interest in the wide world of sports. My dad worked something like 80 hours a week the entire time I was growing up, and would occasionally watch the University of Florida play, or maybe the Miami Dolphins. When this occured, Dad went silent for the length of the game, eating popcorn and encouraging us to play with Legos on the floor so we would remain pre-occupied. Anything louder than a low whisper would result in expulsion from the TV room.
In 7th grade all of my friends went out for football, and, being an absolutely ridiculously large kid, I was happily recruited by the coaches. I played left tackle. And here's where things get weird... Dad's "be quiet and play with Legos" policy backfired. I had not absorbed one thing during a single football game. I played football for a season without ever understanding what a "down" was. Not a clue. I knew I was on offense. I knew that when certain plays were called out, I had certain actions to perform, but I wandered around without the slightest idea as to what I was doing or what was happening.
When my string went in, I ran onto the field behind them. Whistles blew, I got screamed at a lot, and I sweated profusely. But I didn't even know why you kicked for an extra point versus a field goal. But unless you count the little magnetic games where you line up players and they run in circles, I'd never watched a game of football.
I have no idea how, between 7th and 8th grade, that I came to understand the rules of football. 8th grade went much better, and I even made an interception that year and had some success as a 1st stringer. I also took to watching the sport. Particularly the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, who really, really sucked back then. But they sucked so bad they were charming, and I made a habit of following them for a few seasons, at least reading up on them in the paper.
When high school loomed ahead, I decided I was going to be a basketball guy. When approached by the football coaches in the hallway at school that first year (standing a full 6'3" and weighing in around 190 lbs.) I declined, stating I didn't believe in bleeding on Friday nights. The coach didn't think i was funny, either.
But I made a decision at age 15 or so that I was no jock. I was a drama guy! I wasn't going to be a walking stereotype seeking a letter jacket and a flat-top (which was actually popular at the time with the team). I decided to be a jerk about the whole thing and make a bad-80's movie out of guys I'd been friends with just the year before. Jocks were stupid jerks... not smart guys like, say, me...
Then in the mid-90's, I started dating Jamie. And Jamie loves the Cowboys. It made me nervous... my high school girlfriend was as bad off as I had been that confusing 7th grade season... and I was comfortable with that. It was something we could mutually agree not to be interested in. I don't even remember discussing the issue with other girls I dated... But Jamie... Jamie loved her Cowboys. No fair-weather fan is she.
And so Sundays and Monday Nights in the Fall have received a new significance. It is football time, and nothing is to come between Jamie and her Cowboys. It was fun in the mid-90's. Emmitt, Irvin, Aikman... didn't matter which Coach... and all was fun and well. But we all know what happened to the Cowboys. Under Dave Campo, Jamie's beloved team fell apart, but still, every Sunday, we watched the damn Cowboys clown their way up and down the field.
Enter Coach Parcells, and last night's victory at the Meadowlands. What the hell was that? 21 points from the kicker? Who cares! Cowboys win, 35-32 on a Monday Night game. The game was, for lack of a better term, a complete clown-show. 21 points by the kicker? Quincy Carter having a career high for yardage? Not that I foresee great things this season, but...

I still like things with light cycles and magic swords. But I've made room for football, too. The truth is, the sport is still a complete mystery to me. I have not a clue what a "West Coast Offense" is, nor do I understand half of what is coming out of Al Michaels' mouth. But I don't really care. What I do like is that I can watch the game with Jamie, and she's more enthusiastic than me. She gets Sundays and Mondays for football, and I have no reason to complain. That, and it gives me some leverage when I want to watch my Superman DVD for the 80th time.

One of the things which is entailed in moving far from family and friends is the cost inherent in travelling. I'm no Jack Kerouac. I've no illusions of roadside fun or white line fever. It's more of an endless procession of switching out albums and staring into expanses of nothingness between what I recognize as civiliation. And a lot of feeling awful whenever I linger in towns with populations under 10,000.

Flying isn't much better, but it's generally faster. The adventures of overnight stays in far-off places, the delays and hang-ups one comes to expect are not something which fill me with a rush of adrenalin. THe seats are cramped, the food presently non-existent, and the manners of others on planes has such a "me first" ring to it, that it's a miracle fist-fights don't break out every day.

I've gotten to the point where, due to my frequent bad experiences, I always carry a backpack which i don't have to place in the over head bin. In the backpack I carry a fresh pair of underwear, contact solution and case, glasses, a clean t-shirt, toothpaste, toothbrush and two books. Being stranded overnight just once has taught me the value of having these thigns onhand. The backpack is absolutely necessary as anything in the overhead bin is fair game and can and will be crushed by the little wheeled suitcases experienced travellers now carry so as to avoid waiting for their luggage to come off a plane. Somehow these little suitcases have been designed to be just small enough to make it past the flight attendants, and just large enough to not fit properly in overhead storage. Hence, you get the pleasure of watching a perfect stranger grapple and crush your own luggage as they struggle to fit their suddenly enormous bag into the tiny overhead bin.

Suitcases are lost, flights changed, delayed, overbooked. Clerks have bulletproof shells which are invulnerable to your harshest criticism. Once in the air, there's no escape. Being booted from a flight from Dallas to Oklahoma is almost funny to them (not so much to my wife). Service from in-flight personnel has gone the way of the do-do, and everything from "ticketless travel" to the necessities of baggage x-rays has made just getting to your gate a nightmare.

But still, I'm now more than a thousand miles from my folks' house, and the idea of driving home for the upcoming holidays is too mindbending to endure. As such, we are flying.

Due to the above mentioned misadventures of the past year, Jamie and I had accumulated $566 in travel vouchers, which I put toward our flight home for the Holidays. But purchasing tickets online doesn't show any clear way to apply vouchers, and so I decided to call the American Airlines reservation line in order to apply my vouchers toward the cost of our flight.

I waited thru a few minutes of chirpy airline spokesperson voice telling me junk I already knew before an operator was able to take my call. The woman on the other end sounded down, even as she greeted me.

Online, I had already found my selected flights and was able to simply relate times and flights to her. When i mentioned the vouchers, she grew short with me, somewhat snippy as suddenly she knew the call would be extended as we walked through how all of this was going to work.

At long last, we worked through all of the paperwork, confirmation numbers, addresses, etc...

I don't remember what was said immediately before, but suddenly she threw in: "Sorry if I sound a little hasty."
"Uh..." I kind of let it hang. She had sounded hasty, and it annoyed me. Bad customer service is something one expects, especially over the phone. She'd been cranky at every turn, sounded vaguely distracted, and had kind of berated me for failing to correctly identify the proper code she'd been looking for of the dozen or so codes on the voucher stub.
"Yeah, well," she said, cancelling out the short and un-prepared speech I was about to deliver. "Sorry. You're my last call."
"Oh, end of the day." It was 4:30 my time, PST. I guessed she was Central or Eastern time. Sunday night dinner was probably ahead, no weekend to speak of behind her. Probably a weekend of getting yelled at by geeks like me.
"No, after this call, I'm done. They're shutting down the St. Louis call center."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I'm your last call?"
"Yeah, this is it..."
I was quiet for a moment. Should I extend the call, push her job that much longer? Get her another 15 minutes on the clock? Or was she salaried... was she done and out the door to spend Sunday night, god knows where in a St. Louis apartment, knowing that tomorrow, she was out of a job, out of money...? Were there kids? A husband or partner? Anything...?
"Oh, God. I'm really sorry."
"Yeah."
"Is there..." anything I can do? I started to say. "Hey, well, good luck." I was picturing a bar, some poorly strung Christmas lights and a half-empty bottle of booze in this woman's immediate future.
"Thanks. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"No. I guess not."
"Well then, thank you, sir," she said too quickly. "And thanks for choosing American Airlines."
And before I said anything, she'd hung up.
I'm not looking forward to this flight. If this is any indication fo things to come, I'll surely be stuck in Dallas overnight and into Christmas Eve. And I know I'm going to be spending my time on this flight wondering if this woman has found work yet in order to have herself a merry little Christmas.