Dude Gone Mad

As it turns out, the new copywriter at the agency where I do my day work is a minor internet celebrity.

No, really, I'm not kidding. A blog star, if there is such a thing. Danny Evans is his name and his daily hit count is, I understand, somewhere up in the four digits. He sells adspace and merchandise and he has real-live fans. When he writes about his kin, he uses pseudonyms out of necessity. I asked him how he does it and he told me, "I don't know. I post nearly every day, that helps. I just started writing about being a dad and people thought what I had to say was clever."

And it is: DadGoneMad.com



The other day, he asked me if it would be okay to link to me. I told him, No thanks, I don't think I'm ready. Have to tidy the place up a little first.

Anyhow, give him a visit. And tell him old Slappy J sent ya.

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Boy, it's some kind of day when you watch a video proving one of your greatest heroes is not only a genius, but a seriously disturbed, Satan-loving lunatic as well. Get a load of Grant, if you've got the stomach:

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Do not, under any circumstances, drive to the store and buy a copy of The Information. Trust me. It's not worth it. You're definitely going to want to download it instead.

Don't hesitate. Possibly Beck's best album in nearly a decade.

And while you're at it, snag yourself a copy of The Tragic Treasury. The perfect choice for any Merritt fan. Or Lemony Snicket fan. Or both. Or neither.

Go on. Splurge. You've worked hard.

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Remember Dina Babbitt? Apparently, the battle rages on to have her art returned to her. It looks as if the cartoonists' petition has grown to over 450 names.

Strange to see my name listed among so many talents I grew up admiring.

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And finally, you've probably heard the legend: the notoriously wordy Hemingway was once challenged to write a novel with all the depth, intricacy, subtlety and nuance of a full-blown novel in as few words as possible. Eventually, he emerged with his opus... a novel with only six words: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

Wired decided to offer the challenge to a few other authors of note: the six-word novel. The results are pretty interesting. A few are downright fantastic.

Go have a read.

And good night.

Carey Bear XXX

"Well this is the end, Sam Gamgee," said a voice by his side. And there was Frodo, pale and worn, and yet himself again; and in his eyes there was a peace now, neither strain of will, nor madness, nor any fear. His burden was taken away. There was the dear master of the sweet days in the Shire.

"Master!" cried Sam, and fell upon his knees. In all that ruin of the world for the moment he felt only joy, great joy. The burden was gone. His master had been saved; he was himself again, he was free. And then Sam caught sight of the maimed and bleeding hand.

"Your poor hand!" he said. "And I have nothing to bind it with, or comfort it."

"The Quest is achieved, and now all is over," said Frodo. "I am glad you are here with me, Sam. Here at the end of all things."

It's October the 20th.

Big day in the world of entertainment, really. In 1973, the Sydney Opera House opened. Jerry Orbach would've turned 71, had he made it a couple of more years and Bela Lugosi would be celebrating his 124th. Viggo Mortensen is 48 and Snoop Dogg (straight outta the LBC) is celebrating his 35th.

Also, Carey Bear is 30.

I didn't like turning 30, frankly. In fact, I hated it. It felt like a Failure Number because it only managed to be a reminder of all the things I haven't accomplished. Silly, really. It's just an age and a pretty damned young one at that.

But Carey, bless her heart, strides into 30 without fear. She saw me lose it several months ago, sinking into self-loathing and depression, and decided "not for me." For Carey, it's a new beginning: a new career, a new chapter in her life. I love her. I'm proud of her. And I wanted to let her know, here, in front of all these people, why it's a big deal to me that she's 30:

Care, we met when we were kids, no doubt about it. We fell in love as a couple of swingin' teens and I think there was a part of me that half expected us to stay swingin' teens together till the clock ran out. But I guess it doesn't really work that way.

I think part of what scared me so much about turning 30, the big intimidating thing, was that it's the sort of age where you're more or less expected to be a grown-up. Neither of us went wild on the club scene or experiemented with drugs or anything like that in our 20s, despite the fact that your 20s is the age where all that is supposed to happen. Instead, we went to college and attended an awful lot of church services and married young. Just like we were supposed to.

And maybe it's easy to look at that and say we missed out. That we grew up before we had to. I've never thought of it that way, though.

In fact, when I look at you, Sweetheart, I don't really feel grown up at all. I feel young and stupid and lucky. I feel funny and arrogant. I feel alive and it's not terribly different than how I felt when we were 19. I feel like maybe I can stay young forever.

But I won't. And we won't.

We're not old, but we're not really kids anymore either. 30 scared the hell out of me, but I think I can make peace with it now that you're here too and here's why:

We can't avoid turning into grown-ups, but maybe we get to decide what it means. Maybe it can still be silly and stupid and funny and arrogant. Maybe un-grown-up mistakes are okay, as long as we make them together.

Like Frodo and Sam, clawing their way up the side of Mount Doom, I have the feeling we'll make it if we keep an eye on each other.

So, that's it. Adulthood: if you're in, I'm in.

Frankly, I'm excited to see what you decide to do with it. I've never made it much of a secret that you have much better ideas about how to do life than I do.

And goodbye, childhood. Glad to have known ye.

But I'm glad to be with you, Carey May, here at the end of all things.

Show 'em if you got 'em

I'm always interested to discover what people have chosen for their desktop wallpaper. It can be a big decision. If, like me, you have a job that requires your spending 8+ hours a day in front of a computer screen, your desktop image had better be lovely, character-defining and grand.

Currently, these are mine.

Work:



Home:



What're yours?

Another 24 hours later...

It's over.

I took the challenge once again and, I'm happy to announce, I once again completed 24 pages in 24 hours. This one was even hairier than last year and the wee hours were even more panicked... but it's done. 24 Hour Comic Day 2006: mission accomplished.

I'll eventually do a deluxe presentation of my experience in the vein of what I did last year... but, in the meantime, I wanted to get my pages out there for anyone who's interested. So...

Click here to read this year's 24 Hour Comic.

(Note: while last year's comic was sweet and adventurish, this one's a tad more grown-up and raw, particularly in the language department. Work-safe, but maybe not kid-friendly. There, you've been warned.)

Okay, I'm completely beat. Hope you enjoy it.