Mr. Thompson (part 1)

            Mr. Thompson drank the last of the whiskey and reached into the cabinet to grab another bottle. He returned to the couch just as Nancy’s old cuckoo clock reminded him it was only 7 o’clock. He tossed the cap at the bird and knocked it to the floor. I used to tell her everyday how much I hated that damn clock and still I’ve yet to throw it out.

            “Real nice, dad,” said Kyle as he picked up the bird and put it back on the clock. He also tossed the cap into the trash can. “Looks like you’re starting earlier than usual today.”

            Mr. Thompson took a swig from the bottle. “Actually, that first bottle was only half full so it shouldn’t really count.” And he was right since his blood could still fight off poisons almost as fast as he could drink them in. The one ability The League left me, or just forgot to take, when they retired me, he thought. He started reaching around the couch for the TV remote. “By the way, what are you doing tonight? I thought we could spend some time together since it’s your birthday and all.”

            Kyle crossed his arms and started at his father. If his mouth hadn’t been slightly open, Mr. Thompson might’ve thought he was angry instead of just shocked at what is father was asking. Even he knew just how little time he’d been spending with his family recently.

            “I did forget to buy you a present, but I did remember that today was your birthday.” Mr. Thompson said, putting the bottle on the coffee table. With the bottle finally out of his grasp, he found the remote and immediately fumbled it onto the floor. He strained forward, never leaving the seat as he stretched his arm for the remote. He heard a sigh and the sound of footsteps. Another hand grasped the remote and lifted it into the air. He started to lean back. But since I’m here, he thought, and grabbed the whiskey he’d just put on the coffee table. Kyle was already sitting on the couch next to him, the remote in his hand.

            “Dad.” Kyle paused, staring at the remote in his hand. Mr. Thompson smiled a bit. You were never really good with words or tact.  He took another swig from the bottle before Kyle started talking again. “Dad,” he said, “I know you’re trying and maybe you’re actually ready to be a part of our family again, but you need to give Katy and me some time to get used to having you around. Katy still doesn’t want you to have anything to do with your own grandkids, but I think eventually she’ll come around.” Kyle extended the remote. “Dad, are you ever going to tell me what happened?”

            Mr. Thompson opened his mouth to speak, staring his son in the eyes. He wanted to know about how his mom died. And if he found out that he’d want to know what happened while Mr. Thompson was locked up by The League in the same prison he helped to put supervillains in. He’d want to know how they took his powers from him and why Mr. Thompson never trained him when his similar powers began to manifest themselves.

            “You’re planning to apply at The League today?” Mr. Thompson said instead. And he was right, seeing the shock in his son’s eyes. He turned 18 today and like other super-powered kids of age, he wanted to make a name for himself with The League. “I don’t want you to. When you get home from school, listen to what I have to say and decide tomorrow morning if it’s really something you want to do.”

Mr. Thompson took the remote and turned on the TV to one of the many twenty-four hour news stations, looking for any story about recent supervillain activity. He could feel Kyle’s stare bearing down on him, but he continued to look at the screen as he did everyday for nearly a decade. Looking and searching for anyone with any ability which might match the power used to murder Nancy. He could hear Kyle start to protest, but instead he stood up and walked out the door, his only parting words that he would be home for dinner.

            The clock struck two and Mr. Thompson’s bottle hit the floor. He grabbed a t-shirt off the couch and attempted to soak up the spilled whiskey, wondering if it would be possible to squeeze the drink back into the bottle. Or at least into my mouth.

            He paused. Something was in the air, not a smell or sound, but a presence. He dropped the shirt and stood to face the door. The feeling was so overwhelming now he almost forgot to grab the half-empty bottle off the ground. Almost. He took a quick swig to steady his hands.

            Footsteps. Though he didn’t hear the front gate open, those were definitely footsteps he heard coming up his front steps and onto the porch. Someone, or possibly something, was at his front door. He felt into his pocket for the small, silver flask. It was still there, its contents untouched and still potent enough to revive his powers for hopefully a good five minutes. Three quick raps on the door followed by a loud thud let Mr. Thompson know he wouldn’t need the flask. Yet. He took another swig. After all, it wasn’t a someone or even a something at the door. It was more akin to a god.

            With the chain still on the door, he opened it just enough to get a decent view of the man outside. He wore glasses, as is traditional, with the lenses removed. His suit was ill-fitting and he wore it uncomfortably, as if he was unaccustomed to wearing anything that didn’t cling to his muscles along with its matching cape. The colors would change every so often but his need for justice and order never would.

            “What do you want, Captain?”

            The man at the door smiled. “Still the same aren’t you, Count.” He leaned to get a better view through the partially open door. “Why can’t I just come by to catch up with an old comrade?”

            “It’s been ten years since anyone from The League came to see me and we didn’t exactly part on good terms.” He slammed the door. “And don’t call me that. I’m not The Count anymore.”

            “Okay, you caught me. I’m here to talk to Kyle. I hear he turns 18 today.”

            Mr. Thompson almost dropped his bottle again. He had demanded that Kyle stay away from the recruiting center but he didn’t think that The League would send someone to his house, much less Captain Shield, to persuade his son.

Because Breaking Them Will be Just as Much Fun as Making Them

After a New Year's Eve spent the traditional way (for the past 3 years anyways) - with a bottle of whiskey, watching illegal aerials, and listening to the rest of my family telling me just how much of an alcoholic I've become - it is once again time for some New Year's resolutions. And this year, I actually have more than one!

1. Write more. I know I'm always saying this, but I figure if I put a definite number, like say "I want to write one page a day of anything, everyday" it'll hopefully turn into something. I'll even take one, filled page of just doodles and sketches to be thrown away later on. I'm not asking for one page of productive work, just a page of anything to show myself at the end of it that "Hey, look. I just sat down and did something on paper. And I still remember how to hold a pen!"

Besides, it would give me a use for all these notebooks I've collected over the years. I'm most proud of the thin, Naruto and Gundam ones in the front that I got in Odaiba when we went to see the Giant Gundam and what appeared to be a Shonen Jump festival, I think. And those 5 Moleskins in the middle row are great too (I think its something about the paper, or maybe the covers). Also those unlined composition notebooks in the top row since they're pretty hard to find most times.



I guess regarding the whole writing more... I'll try to update this blog more often. Don't get your hopes up - I'm not talking about everyday or even once a week. I'm thinking once a month (by the way, this counts as one for this month) so I at least feel like I'm putting my English degree to use. I hope this is enough to satisfy all three of my readers (you know who you are). Hell, maybe I'll even start using pictures too... though don't get your hopes up. I don't think its fair for either of us to put in the extra effort - for me: the work to take and post pics; for you: the extra time it takes to scroll passed them.

2. I resolve to stop being so lame and go out more often. During these past three months of employment I've turned down dozens of invites to dinners, bowling, and just mere post-work happy hours because I was too tired from work or because I had to go to work the next morning. These, I've decided, are no longer valid excuses (starting today if you're keeping track since the new year began). I've treated post-grad life with too much responsibility and its time to start surviving off of the mere 3-4 hours of sleep like I used to back in college. Its not like I drive anymore so I can get a good hour long nap on the bus. Besides, I've got an income now so why the fuck not spend a couple dollars on a beer or three a couple nights a week? It's not like my job requires me to be that attentive and as long as I maintain a semi-professional appearance I don't think anyone is gonna give a crap. Of course, there will always be other circumstances in which I will not be able to make it (like not having a ride there or back home, etc) and I'll leave these as loopholes so it doesn't count as breaking them.

3. I'm going to try to care more. This one I'm keeping vague so I won't feel bad about breaking it later (or when I decide it was a bad idea to begin with). Mostly though it means actually paying attention to that blabber coming out of other people's talking holes and maybe even staying on topic during a conversation. I'm also gonna try things like remembering people's names the first time I meet them, not getting unnecessarily drunk, and recycling.

Sadly, this is what I normally look like on the inside while
you're talking, sometimes even on the outside too.
(photo courtesy of Diane)

I even plan to, once in a while, have a mature, adult-like conversation about important things with a serious look on my face (perhaps even one that shows concern or even interest in the topic). Because, trust me, right now that smile on my face while you're talking means that not only am I not paying any attention to the words spewing from your mouth, but that the next words from my mouth are guaranteed to bring a smile or scowl to your face (though its usually the scowl).


4. I guess on this same topic, but I think I can still consider it separate, one good deed a day. "Alan can't do one good deed in a month," you say. Well, trust me, you're right. But this isn't Pay it Forward. By "good deed" I don't mean giving someone a car or letting a homeless man live in my garage. I just mean simple shit that I probably do everyday without realizing it. Like holding a door open, letting someone else take the last seat on the bus, not smoking in a spot where people walk often, not tailing someone for 10 miles after they cut me off. Easy stuff that I'll now get a chance to feel good about doing since I've resolved to do them. Maybe it'll even spur me into doing actual good deeds... maybe.

"This is a test of endurance. Hold book above head and time yourself"

I guess four is good enough for this year. Besides I'll probably break them several times over just this next month.

I also plan to complete this book, This is not a Book, by the end of the year. So, if you catch me doing anything stupider than what I normally would do I hope I can use the tasks in this book as an excuse.

Its looking like the start of a great year yet again.

Life Outside the Funhouse

Now that I'm finally done with my JET application, I can finally get back to writing. But first...

Taken last week, this is the cleanest my desk will ever be

As you may or may not know, I got a job! Its just temp work, but I could get hired full time as long as I don't let my personality get in the way. So that's something to look forward to in case my application for a trip to Japan isn't accepted.

In case you cared, as most of my relatives seem to, the job is mostly as a mail boy (receiving and filing faxes, faxing and mailing exams when they've been processed) but the pay is good, the soda is free, I can listen to my iPod as long as no one needs me, I take regular smoke breaks, and I get to make annoying reminder calls to the clients to make sure they show up for their disability examination. All in all, its a pretty good job to have right now.

Unfortunately, a couple of the perks have come back around to bite me in the ass...

Yeah, I still haven't taken off the Halloween ribbon

As you can see, they gave me my own phone. Not only is the number a direct line to my desk, but it comes with a headset, voicemail, and it even has my name on it! I thought this was the coolest thing I'd ever gotten (if you didn't know, my last job was washing cars at UH Manoa, all day). It seemed great at first, until the shit started to hit the fan when I gained responsibilities (I hate when that happens). All the calls coming in became my problems to deal with, and by deal with I mean listen to doctors bitch, complain, and bitch again to me about new procedures I have no control over and ask questions I don't have the answers to. This has sadly taught me to become a lot more professional when taking calls but for a while there I would release a string of profanities every single time the phone rang (its safer to do it before answering).

Those paychecks I'm receiving also come with their price. Now that I actually have a substantial (just not sustainable) income, I now have money I don't feel guilty about spending on beer, cigarettes, whiskey, videogames, a round of shots, or comic books. Downside: to earn these paychecks means that I not only need to work while at work, but I need to show up to work so that I can work. In short, I now have drinking money but no time to go out and drink. Even while I was only earning cash from three days at the orchid farm I would still manage a happy hour once a week. I can't tell you how many times in just the last month that I've turned down going out because I was either too tired from work or knew that going out would mean not waking up on time the next morning.

Now that I've got a job, my wants have also been reduced to some pretty simple things:
1. An empty seat on the bus I can sleep on to and from work
2. Good specials at the two plate lunch places I eat at
3. My iPod to last the rest of the day (especially when I forget to charge it the night before)
4. A hot pot of coffee
and finally,
5. A clean, working toilet for when I release the mudsharks ("Legend of Neil" reference)

Thoughts That Keep Me from Greatness: Superpowers

Time Heals All Wounds: Assuming you were supposed to live for an precise period of time (precise like say eighty-three years, four months, twenty-three days, fourteen hours, twelve minutes, and two seconds rather than just "yeah, most people live til they're in their eighties"), subtract the time you have left to live in exchange to instantly heal whatever current wounds you have. Example: Let's say you have a broken leg (roughly 6 weeks to heal, I think). Trade in six weeks from your current total of time you have left and your leg will be healed. Trade in a bit more to account for rehab and you could be back to normal in minutes. One downside, of course: No one knows how long they're going to live. Perhaps you were destined to get hit by a bus in two weeks because of your broken leg was supposed to slow you down as you jaywalked across the street. Obviously then you don't have a full six weeks to trade to heal that leg. Within the minutes you were supposed to heal, you'll be dead though your leg should be partially healed.

Split the Difference: Assuming everyone's traits could be listed as statistics (ex: Strength-6, Speed-4, Ability to do long division-2, etc) this ability would literally even out two people until they have exactly similar physical and mental capabilities.

What you See is What you Get: Whatever one person perceives about you (true or not) becomes not just reality but a trait which becomes amplified in you whenever that person is around. Let's say someone's first impression of you is that you are an asshole, then you're an asshole whenever you're around them. To the nth degree. Pretty simple. Let's say you strike out the side at the next company softball game. You are now Nolan Ryan. Obvious downside: Pretty difficult to use when confronted with a group of people all with different perceptions of you.

Chekov's Gun: For anyone who doesn't know what it is, here's a quick link to Chekov's Gun - http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ChekhovsGun?from=Main.ptitlexn9xzsjd5fif. This will give a user a sort of "sixth sense" in perception and foresight. With this ability, a person will be able to "perceive" (through some form of sense like touch or smell) when a seemingly unimportant object will play an important role in the near future. These objects can either help or hinder the person depending upon how the object is used.

Walking the Timeline: Multiple existences existing independently at every minute interval but with the same consciousness and knowledge of the present self (thus past selves will not be able to see anything past your current self). Example: Currently failing a test but the you that exists last night now knows what is on the test and so knows what to study, as does the you that exists every minute between then and now.

A Boy and His Dog

They say there's nothing more natural than a boy and his pup. Watching the two grow and play in the yard, in the house, at the park. No cares, no worries, no thoughts. Existing not as two independent creatures but rather a flurry of actions and events resulting in the simple joy of just "being". A personification of happiness we only find in the deepest parts of our memories - memories not buried but rather forgotten through the daily stress of living - resurfacing only through nostalgia and dismissed just as quickly.

And as natural as it is to feel this resurgence of childhood happiness, it is equally tragic to see a boy and his dog. One still growing into his prime while the other's passed. To tell him he can't play as rough as he once could, but not find the words to say why. To know the boy is too old to believe in "The Farm" and yet too young to understand why his best friend no longer moves; why Dad is in the backyard with a shovel; why he isn't allowed out of the house until we finish filling the hole.


For Sammy and Rascal...
gone, but never replaced

Sadly I couldn't find a picture of Sammy and this was the only picture of Rascal I could find. I think all of our old pictures were on the old computer before it crashed. or else still in the pile of photos that still need to be put into an album.

And this is my sister's dog, Candy. Though she's been outside for about three years now, she still gets tangled around that stump in the picture of Rascal. She also refuses to sleep in that igloo house.

Moving Day

Twenty-four rooms in the hallway of my mind and the new room is just next door, the last one on the right. The new Tenant is already moved-in, a confused look on his face – unsure as to just what happened in the last year as if he wasn't a part of it, or merely too separated from it to remember.

I've always hated new rooms. The lock is intricate, dead-bolt – complex to keep everyone out. The door is heavy, solid wood – restraining to keep everything in.

Inside the paint is an off-white color. Its only begun to dry and yet its already starting to fade. There's a crack in the ceiling and a creak in the floor. I can't tell if its the age or my flaws.

The room is already furnished. Organization becomes Compartmentalization as everything is hidden away in its proper place. Hobbies in a chest, Vices on the shelves, Problems under the rug, Secrets in a dresser, Nightmares in the closet.

But its all wrong. It shouldn't be this neat, not this clean. It needs to go, all the furniture needs to go. Scatter the remains of myself onto the floor. Because my Legos have never played Call of Duty; my Power Rangers have never met the Marlboro Man; my Teddy Bear never tasted Johnnie Walker; my Saturday Morning Cartoons have never seen my Friday Night Binges.

I remove the hinges and drop the door. Twenty-three pairs of feet shuffle in the hall. Twenty-three Tenants I've still yet to meet but already know too well. Twenty-three who stare horrified at the living landfill I've turned my room, my year, into.

Turning back I see the pile mix and mold, already starting to take shape – an ear here, a toe there. I don't remember if I'm supposed to water it or not. Its been too long since we've grown a complete Tenant but now's as good a time as any to start again. An itch on my neck reminds me I'll need to buy a screen door. I don't want mosquitoes getting in, after all.





I really did plan to update this on my birthday as a way to write a new Introduction piece for this next year (the first one was the first post I wrote). But like most plans, it was doomed to fail, especially after I found out the deadline for this comic script contest was in a week (later it got pushed back to Sept. 23). Thus everything I was working on, including job applications and resume revisions, got pushed to the back burner for awhile (this is actually one reason for my current, unemployed status). Luckily I finished and submitted my entry so I'm just waiting til tomorrow with my fingers crossed.

And now I've completely forgotten what I was going to say. I've always sucked with transitions (which is why moving into post-grad life has been a pain-in-the-ass). Honestly, aside from graduation, I can't really think of anything really big that I've accomplished in this past year. My only immediate goals seem to just be getting a job that I can at least tolerate going to.

"Happy Birthday [insert name here]!"

Because just saying “Happy Birthday [insert name here]!” never sounds like enough. What I mean to say is that, well, of course I’d be wishing you a Happy Birthday. It’s not like anyone would wish you bad things on such a special day (though how would I know what kind of enemies you’ve made after all these years?). Saying “Happy Birthday” just seems like something everyone says, or at least the other 379 friends who wish you the same thing do. It doesn’t seem personal enough, especially when it takes a notice from Facebook to remind me that you still exist, let alone that it’s also your birthday.

So why can’t I just take the five seconds to write the same post everyone else wrote and be happy with it? I guess it's because the only present I can give you is in words and so I want it to mean something, especially since I’m doing it through Facebook means that we are either too far apart to say it in person or else I’m too cheap to actually buy you a present. I assume at this point in your Facebook career you pretty much just scroll through your birthday messages until you finally see one longer than three words and a clever little emoticon or one of those semi-colon faces (which I’m assuming is the only reason the semi-colon is still relevant in today’s society). But to muster up something witty or heartfelt that would actually brighten your day for just a single, brief, fleeting second before you click “Like” and continue scrolling – that’s what I really do try to aim for.

Maybe it’s because I don’t know you as well as I should or as well as I want to. Or maybe we haven’t seen each other for such a long time that I’m not sure what’s appropriate to write anymore (“turning 21 – round 5” or “Fuck Adulthood” seems inappropriate now that a lot of people I know are looking for new jobs and would very much not like their co-workers or bosses see that kind of crap on their Facebook page).

Maybe it’s just because I’m so used to writing now that to provide a mere three words for such an important occasion makes me feel lazy to the point that it’s almost unprofessional. So for everyone who feels cheated when they receive just those three meager words on their wall to add to the dozens, if not hundreds, of the exact same thing, I really mean to say more but … ah, fuck it – its your fucking birthday so make your fucking wish, eat your fucking cake and have a fucking good time dammit!

full permission for anyone to use when they want to say more but can’t seem to find the words