Why I Hate Halloween #3

OK, let's review: CHILD costume. Spider freaking GEISHA! [emphasis sensible human adult.]

Why I Hate Halloween #2

Why I Hate Halloween #1

All About Solutions

Oh, the Places You Will Go

Today, the job took me--over the course of 11 hours--from the guts of the building to, if not the literal, architectural top, something precarious enough to feel pretty close to tippy top.

From HVAC to high wire.



In the lower picture, see the orange ladder? OK, now look above it. Way up there. Do you see another silver ladder? Yeah, it's balanced on two planks atop a flexible wire mesh that I've been told is walkable--despite looking about as sturdy as a screen door.

Today, I tested the claims when photographers I was escorting around asked if we could move a piece of plywood out of the shot. Thing is, the plywood was resting on that mesh: 30 feet in the air.

I had to ascend a series of ever-narrower, ever-steeper stairs to get to the doorway that led out onto the mesh. By the time I arrived at the top, I felt like I was in a submarine.

I stepped out onto the mesh, tentatively. The metal strands are woven together loosely, in approximately inch-square boxes, and the entire web gives considerably when you step on it--like a slightly stiff, nearly invisible trampoline.

I made my way to the far opposite side of the room, where the offending board rested--decorated with the abandoned soda bottle of someone far more relaxed about the location than I. (Like he was having a freaking picnic.)

After managing to nudge the board mostly out of shot, I returned the way I came, sticking to the solid metal support beams where possible and swinging around hoists, spotlights and cables in what I hoped appeared a more assured manner than was true.

They say you shouldn't look down.

I did.

Everybody was looking at the camera's display screen.

It was a pretty awesome shot.

Tea Square

Some days you've got to double up on the Tension Tamer.

(screen)Testing

Magic bus?

Feh.

Testing, Testing

Not only new gadgets, but new POWERS!

Mwaaah hah haaaa ha!

Sent from the force of my concentration and charisma.

Testing

After some time off, Submarine Screen Door is making a return--now,
with more gadgets!

Sent from my iPhone

Summertime, and the Living's Easy

Wow. August has just been . . .

Holy Mole!

Mushroom enchiladas with mole by El Mariachi.

Focus by pitcher of Magaritas--and by the wayside, pretty much.

(Excellent company by Nene, skfl and Lavinia, not pictured.)

A Happy Hyphenate

A proud Italian-American family in Troy.

'Tis Better to Give . . .

Things I'm thinking of purchasing for myself on my 40th birthday:

1. iPhone 3G
2. Clark's desert boots
3. a massage
4. a ukulele
5. a new tattoo
6. a GOOD digital camera

Unless, of course, you're feeling generous . . .

Don't Give a Damn if it Cracks My Back Window

OK, do you see what's reflected in the fender of this behemoth, this leviathan?

It's the sky.

My work-related rental was big enough to reflect large sections of the SKY!

I was conflicted: On the one hand, I was slightly embarrassed to be driving through my activist neighborhood in a vehicle that could easily gulp down the resources of a smaller country and still ask to see the dessert menu.

On the other--I mean, Christ, I got a chance to put, like, SIX miles on it. I wish I had 1) thought to pack the Nas disc my little sister burned for me, or, 2) found a radio station in the area that could muster something with a little more bass response than Bob Seger's "Night Moves."

Or stupid "59th Street Bridge Song."

Activism, shmactivism. I coulda held a battle in that thing.

Shhh, Shhh. Bad Man Go Bye-Bye, All Better

(Painting by Ramirez. www.realramirez.com)

Nothing to See Here, Move Along, Folks

Generally speaking, I'm going to avoid using Ye Olde InterTubes to vent. It's no fun--and not just a little cowardly--writing insults about strangers on the Web, where's there's such little chance of the dissenting, corrective punch in the mouth.

Generally speaking.

But there was this fucking idiot in the sandwich shop today . . .

OK, look, I don't know this guy or his situation, which sounds like it must be pretty difficult. Furthermore, because I don't know him or his relationships to the young women he was speaking to, I don't know what kind of social posturing, defensive compensation, or stupidity in the face of proximate cuteness may have influenced his utterances.

I'm trying not to pass judgment--trying. But, turns out, I am gonna vent:

The terms of a custody arrangement notwithstanding, you don't HAVE to spend time with your kid. If you don't want to, don't. Shut yer fucking yap, pack yer fucking bags and go. Send checks and stay clear. If it feels like an onerous obligation, then do the kid a favor and piss off before he's old enough to sense your reluctance and resentment.

But, jesus, man, don't hang around in coffee shops bitching about how you lose a Friday night to your kid. And please, please, please, don't follow the complaint with an account of how wasted you were LAST Friday.

Please.

"What's a custody arrangement for," he whined. Hint: It's not state-enforced babysitting, you jackass.

Nobody can stop you from being a self-involved idiot. If you're devoted to that pursuit, it's your right. But, thing is, nobody needs a self-involved idiot parent.

So, choose.

Or, at least, pick a different sandwich shop.

Are You Ready to Play Let's Lie About Lunch?

Lunch today:

• spinach and tempeh salad, with light drizzle of tahini-lime dressing
• black bean burrito, with organic tomato, red onion & cucumber salsa
• fresh beet-orange juice

Mmm. After 30 minutes of yoga and 15 minutes of journaling, it really hit the spot!

Photopunk

My daughter snapped this shot of Aimee Mann performing a free show in Albany's Washington Park. What it lacks in technique is, I think, more than covered by expressiveness and fun.

My kid likes Aimee Mann, and likes to dance.

Plus, you know, she just graduated kindergarten.

So, to the press photographer who made such a big fucking deal about my kid, all three and a half feet of her, standing in front of you and making you--gasp!--rise out of your plastic chair at the free show and actually STAND to get your shot over the dancing 6-year-old:

You're a hack.

It's Like Rain on Your Wedding Day

Pimp My Quiet Time

What psychologists can learn from interior decorators: The creation of a "happy place" has a LOT to do with lighting.

Books and whiskey may also be indicated.

(Please consult a doctor--and/or an accredited, badass vibe ninja--before attempting to recreate the soothing lighting conditions and masterful feng shui depicted herein.

By reading this post, you, the reader, agree that Submarine Screen Door shall be held harmless for all injuries, illness, ruinous relationships, professional setbacks, upset stomachs, impetuous tattoo decisions, recriminations, paranoia, self-pity, entree envy, or ennui experienced by you, the reader, as a result of biting my quiet-time style, in perpetuity and/or forever and ever, whichever comes first.

Be it also noted that all benefits, advantages, privileges, insights, punchlines, brainstorms, enlightenments, inspirations, giggle fits, high-spirited sessions of Charades, movie and/or book deals--inclusive of, but not limited to, graphic novels, Web comics, dance movies, operatic simulcasts, and animated series or features--experienced by you, the reader, will be in portion or in toto kicked back to Submarine Screen Door.

Solid.)

Why Literacy Is Important

'Cause you don't get your cookies without it.

A Putative "Peeb" Panders Parodically

Yeah, it's a joke but GOD I wish this were real!

I Will Do as I Please, Kate

My friend Kate missed this show. So, here's a song that contains her name.

And a helluva pretty song, at that.

Don't You, Don't You, Don't You, Now?

There are so many compelling arguments for stepping out of the torrents and checking out real live people performing real live music for real live people. This is just one: Jason Martin, backed by Vetiver's drummer, makes good his threat to "beatbox" if he doesn't get an on-stage volunteer.

Another would be the young woman in attendance who spent 20 minutes stretching--like she was preparing for a 5k--before the show. During Martin's performance, her limberness allowed for a seated dance routine that appeared to be equal parts voguing and American sign language.

You can't get that shit on Limewire.

Fun for Kids of all Ages

Inside the venue, people under 30 danced to the audio-video concoctions of djs Back from Japan and Jenkins and vj skfl.

Outside, at the cafe tables, the >30s drank, smoked and talked about serial failed relationships (both present or merely recalled), the efficacy of various prescription drugs and the region's sad dearth of skilled improv comedy.

The former group was the far more photogenic.

The Way and the Light and the Medicine Cabinet

Whenever people ask me, "Ivan, where do you get your inspiration?" I say, "From a luminous portal so brilliant it cannot be viewed directly, but only in reflection, from which emanates a pure stream of language-less knowing that is infinite and infinitely intimate. I thrum consonant with the music of spheres at its touch, and I know myself to be part of the ongoing song of the One."

And when they ask, "Ivan, where does one find this light, this portal? Can it be found externally, or must one find it only after long searching in one's own heart?" I say, "Nope, it's on my bathroom ceiling."

I'm sure a lot of you do the same.

Oh, It's On!

You win this one, Christie. But it's not over. No, not by a long shot.

Here I sit, Broken-Hearted . . .

OK, so, much of what you find on the Net is gibberish and vanity--given. Looking for wisdom there (that is, here) often feels as productive as reading a public bathroom's wall for life tips. But every now and then...

If you're really worried about your "branding," try to stop thinking about life as a press release and just focus on _making something_.

That's a tweet by Merlin Mann, whose ratio of restroom scribbling to legit insight, it must be said, is way better than most.

Inbox Noir

If there were a door, there'd be a sign on it that said "Ivan Juan Johann"--that's me. I'm a scribbler by training and a talker by temperament. Which works out OK, as the particular side of the street I'm working these days is called Communications.

In this biz, opportunity don't knock. It just strolls in, talking a mile a minute, itself, and plops down in your armchair--usually crushing your fedora in the process. So, if you've got anything good on your shoulders above your neck, you can do OK just by keeping your eyes and ears open near equal to the time that other hole is busy keeping your tongue neighborly with your Florsheims.

Trick is in telling what's opportunity and what's a one-way ticket to an outpost minding someone else's Outlook calender. It's well and good to assist, but "assistant"? Please, friend, the only thing in my life I want preceded by "executive" is the washroom.

So, when she spun into my 9-to-5--believe me, pal, you couldn't get that many curves to travel straight without welding 'em to rails--I had to think fast. I saw a flash of manila in her hand, and I don't mean a travel brochure for Southeast Asia.

"What's the rumpus, doll?"

"Oh, Mr. Ivan Juan Johann . . . "

"Hey, now, lollipop. Mr. Ivan Juan Johann is my father. Please, just Ivan Juan Johann."

The look she gave me would have had Al Gore securing funds for a sequel, and three Republican strategists working round the clock to prove that every Eskimo word for snow is a curse.

"Ivan Juan Johann, I've been trying to email you this file. I've been getting an out-of-office notice since last Wednesday."

"Just back from the tropics, sweetheart." I hadn't been anywhere more tropical than a Scorpion Bowl since last--or any other--Wednesday, but the sunburn from her earlier glance went some ways towards building my case.

"Well, I hope you had a nice time. But he's hounding me about the status of the Kleiner report."

She raised her arm toward my desktop, the folder--stuffed with every scrap of paper printed from Guttenberg to Google--inches from my inbox.

I took her by the wrist, gently, using a little Aikido move I picked up at an OfficeMax night course, and spun her on one of her more attractive axes.

"It's in great shape, jellybean. We're teeing some things up for Kleiner, trying to get buy in. Just refining the elevator pitch, you know? We don't need him drinking from the fire hose. We don't need to get that granular. We're working this one in modules. We can dial it up, dial it down, as needed. No pushback, so far. And, at the end of the day, it's about the low-hanging fruit."

She was almost back to the hallway. I was nearly there.

"But, Ivan Juan Johann . . . " I had to wrap it up fast or I was going to lose her and gain another half a yard of dead tree.

I went for broke: "You know, cupcake, I think you and me should take this offline. I'm not trying to get you to drink the Kool-Aid, but I think we could really levarage your skill set on this one. I'd really like to empower you to own this."

"Oh, Ivan Juan Johann, I couldn't . . . "

"Sure you could, cookie, with your core competencies, with what you bring to the table . . . "

"Can I bring anything else to the table, sir?" Two hours later, the manila folder had found itself a new home in the surprisingly rectilinear attache of my curvaceous companion, never to be seen again. In exchange, I provided for her a virtual tour of the tropics.

I love a deliverable with a paper umbrella.

"So, marshmallow, how's Executive Assistant sound to you?"

But "Wil Wheaton" Doesn't Scan

OK, so a few posts down there's a playful song on a topic suggested to me by my friend Rick Marshall. In his professional life--as the song indicates--Rick works for a publication covering the world of comics. So, the song incorporates a smattering of comic-culture references, including a mention of the above pictured fellow: Wil Wheaton, a writer.

In an earlier phase of his career, Mr. Wheaton gained some fame as an actor in a TV show with an unusually--even legendarily--devoted following. So, he is known to a number of people best under another, fictional, name--a name by which I referred to Mr. Wheaton, a writer, in song.

Now, my friend Rick one of Rick's colleagues, Chris Ullrich, recently had the somewhat rare opportunity to interview the media-wary Wil Wheaton, a writer, and they discussed this phenomenon. Turns out, it drives Mr. Wheaton, a writer, right around the bend to be referred to by that other name.

In fact, Mr. Wheaton, a writer, granted the interview only because he had confidence in the publication, in Chris and, by extension, in Rick, that he would not be so pigeon holed.

So, it could conceivably cause Mr. Wheaton, a writer, some frustration to be so characterized, were he ever to hear the song; and it may cause Chris and Rick some professional embarrassment to be associated, albeit only in silly verse, with such glibness and disregard for Mr. Wheaton's, a writer's, evolution as a real individual.

For the record: The views expressed in "I'm Not That Guy" are solely those of its author, and may not be shared or condoned by "Comic Mix," Chris Ullrich, Rick Marshall (any of them), the law enforcement communities of the state of California, Jake Gyllenhaal, Mark Ruffalo or the Sleestacks.

Now, get ready for my prog-rock opus, "I Saw Spock Thumping Melons at the Food Circus."

Kindergarten Cop

Sunday is becoming Movie Night at home. The kid and I drag matching chairs in from other rooms, make popcorn and watch videos in the office.

This week was "The Princess Bride."

Weird thing: At movie's end, when asked about her favorite part, my girl picked the scene in which the romantic hero is . . . uh . . . tortured. Waterboarded, essentially.

I'm now checking the house for hidden surveillance equipment, and refusing to let my daughter view my phone bill.

Of Course, on the Other Hand, the 'Net Won't Give You a Hernia

I had a bit of a reorganization spasm, resulting in a dining room table briefly covered in a shelving unit's worth of randomly neighbored books.

So, I'm wondering: Do you remember when information was, literally, weighty? When it could not only cover a dining-room table but prop up its short leg?

Freebird!

(Thanks to Mr. Marshall for playing our game--and suffering our inexperience. Next?)

"I'm Not That Guy"

I'm the managing editor of the magazine "Comic Mix"
not the guy from the sci-fi show that you watched when you were 6
about the lost family who in time traveled back
and not the serial killer who was known as Zodiac

Chorus:

I'm not that guy, as you know full well,
and still you try to associate myself
with someone whom you read about online
It's not amusing, for the fifteenth time

I wake up each morning, have my breakfast and I brush my teeth
I don't worry about the Sleestacks or the California State Police
I don't worry about the dinosaurs, doesn't occupy my thoughts at all
not a bit more than a cartoonist portrayed by Jake Gyllenhaal

Chorus

You should know I've got a few things
that I can claim for my own:
interviews with Warren Ellis;
I know Wesley Crusher's home phone number

If it seems I've got an attitude, that I'm reckless or I'm harsh I'll
admit to being passionate, earnest and quite partial
I don't want to be a stickler and I'd hate to have to be a dick
but it's not remotely funny to point out that my name is Rick

Marshall, Will and Holly
Rick Marshall, Will and Holly
Rick Marshall, Will and Holly . . .

Saturday Night's Alright for Writing

Sure, I could be out, getting my groove . . . or, shaking my . . . cuttin' the . . . whoopin' it . . . Look, I could be out if I wanted, OK? But the song requests are coming in. So, I'm WORKING! For you! For the kids.

It's all about the kids.

First requested song's written.

I'm trying to get the fondue fountain operable. They clog at the drop of a hat.

(BTW: Please stop dropping your hats in the fondue fountain.)

Anybody know Verne Troyer's people?

Watch this space.

Fatigue Fatigue

It'd be nice if we finally stopped fucking up our gardens with the need for monuments like this, yeah? Pretty flowers, though.

Accountant to the Stars

Background: I am no great fan of process. Step-by-step observance of protocol flips the Batshit switch in me. I tend to go about things in a more, um, intuitive--yeah, that's it, intuitive--manner. Here, then, is my horoscope for the day:

You have become more astute in requesting papers to be signed with definite rules for repayment, if and when you do make loans. Be sure to keep records intact in case of tax auditing. This is an excellent placement for gain from the resources of others.

I didn't know this could happen but apparently, I have been reassigned a new star sign: the Abacus.

(Seriously, though, is this the lamest horoscope EVAH? I'm trying to imagine how one gets a crystal in ball in a briefcase. Sheesh.)

If I Was a Sculptor, but Then Again, no . . .

Here's the deal: You send to ivan.j.johann@gmail.com the subject matter, style and mood for a song, and I'll write it and post it here--in some format or another.

Want a punk-rock song about your mailman? Or a country ballad about that wino you rolled on the subway? (Word gets around.) Maybe a heartfelt confessional explaining to Darla why you 1) ate the last blue freeze-pop (blue, her favorite flavor) and, 2) cuddled--only cuddled!--with her cousin, Lucy, under the tartan throw at the demolition derby? Let me know and I'll get to work on it.

Maybe it'll be a simple Flip camera video of a live performance. Maybe a full-on music video, with yachts and helicopters and vikings and a fondue fountain and Verne Troyer and claymation.

Probably it won't.

But, honest, you'll get something. If only the peace of mind provided by knowing that for however long it takes me to write, rehearse, record and post the song, I won't be calling you at home asking you what you're doing, if you're watching "Family Guy, " and doing my impersonation of Stewie performing "Baby's Got Back."

Win-win.

The Myth of Inbox Zero

Holy Homonyms, Batman!

Q: How great is it to think of the congregants of this church as Saint Anne-ists?
A: Very great.

Live Freon or Die

Here are the things you* buy first, to begin repopulating a completely barren** but resurrected refrigerator:

1. OJ
2. spreadable Philadelphia cream cheese
3. milk
4. Sierra Nevada pale ale
5. eggs
6. Stonyfield Farm yogurt smoothie (raspberry)
7. Oscar Meyer bun-length, all-beef franks***

* me
** except for a 9V battery
*** Dude, shut up. I was almost ready to eat the battery.

Sticky Wicket, wot?

In the eyes of an ignorant American--this one, anyway--this sport looks like a combination of Red Rover, Red Rover and "A Clockwork Orange." Badass.

Here Comes a Regular

"Well, a person can work up a mean, mean thirst after a hard day of nothin' much at all."
-Paul Westerberg

Technically, Wouldn't That Be De-Barred?

Apparently, Ron (the good-looking guy) is still welcome.

The Blue Collar Vote

I, for one, can honestly say that I've never seen him drinking anywhere else in Troy.

This One's (July) 4 You

(Handheld work by the most talented 6-year-old cinematographer I know.)

One of These Things Is Not Like the Others

Whether I will be equally interested in all the things here depicted 6 months from now is a matter for serious wagering.

"Vanity" May Not Be Quite the Right Word

Caveat Rocker

Hard to say if this is supposed to be an enticement or a warning. Though I know at least two people on whom this should be tattooed.

On the #!*% Road

Neal Cassady never stole a Honda CR-V. Maybe it makes a difference.