I’ve been watching the second season of Robot Chicken, which I picked up cheap a few weeks back. I was a big fan of the first season, and you know, I reckon I’m a big fan of the second season as well.

It occurs to me, though, that I’ve reached a point in my life where a whole generation simply won’t understand the references of things I dig. Take the above clip, for example. I haven’t seen it before, but I figure that it’s the opening for season three, since at the end of season two, everyone died (as you see at the start). Anyhow, it’s pretty funny, and even moreso when Mom rights, and the Michael Jackson thriller music begins to play, and the zombies break out in dance. You’ll have to follow the link to see a black Jackson, because for some reason, all the videos on youtube have had their embedding disabled.

But still, there’s a whole generation of people who’ve never seen this song, never lived through the eighties, with the hair, and with the capitalism. In truth, I barely remember the fucking decade, which I suspect is a sign how little it held in interest for me, except that its from here that so many pop culture references were birthed. Not that, of course, any of us knew that was happening: who knew Star Wars would be embraced so fully, that Michael Jackson would become so god damned fucking weird, that old cartoons such as Voltron, Transformers, and others, would settle into the back of our brains so heavily that we would carry them around with us well into our creative years, and let them out.

Yeah, Nowhere Near Savannah is back in full swing now. Our first three parter (a trilogy, even) is running, though the truth is, I could’ve spent a lot of time writing about my time in the World Fantasy Convention.

I met Jack on my second night there as me, Cas and Deb Layne headed out for dinner. If I remember right, we were walking down a street towards a bar that Cas and I had eaten in the night before, and which had made pizzas too big to fit on the table. We didn’t end up eating there again, thankfully, but we were just heading in that direction with the knowledge that down there was food. Jack had the look of someone who had just spend the day at a sci fi convention and was looking for either alcohol or suicide to redeem her, and we all ended up at a place whose idea of a salad was to include sausages. Another night, Hannah Wolf Bowen agreed to let me shave her head and we walked about four of five blocks in the cold down to a chemist, who, in the American style of chemists, seemed a little more like a convenience store than a place where you could actually get your medication filled. We ended up with a shaver that needed to be charged, unfortunately, and so it never happened, though she promised me that her head would be shaved the next day. I don’t think she ever did that. I also met Alaya Johnson, who I managed to convince to go to a bar because it was a dive, but awesome in it’s diveness. I seem to remember a conversation with Jack and me telling Alaya how the more of a dive a bar was, the better it was, and I considered making that into a dialogue for the comic, but I felt there were already too many characters in it at this time. Likewise, I had to throw out the first time I met Sean Wallace and he said I could take what I wanted from the Prime table, since he owed me. I’d sort’ve prepared myself for things to be difficult when I met him, but Wallace wasn’t a bad sort, and in truth he’s not; though I did have to laugh when I walked into a party and found him sitting in a large, black chair, with a semi circle of young writers sitting at the floor of his feet. I tried making that into a comic as well.

But, no matter how true Nowhere Near Savannah is, I have to tweak things around, or chop things out at times. Good things, too, at times. I never expected to meet Jack at World Fantasy, but it’s coming up to ten months or so since then, and we still shoot the shit through emails, often complaining about the price of ham. It would’ve been nice if I could’ve slotted her into the comic, but there was never a way. Another example of this involves Alisa K who crashed at my place the night before catching her plane to New York. I used the time to introduce her and Cas, since they were suppose to be sharing a room later on–this got changed–and Cas bought over this bottle of something he called Raqea. Or something spelt very similar. Apparently, his girlfriend’s grandmother had bought it back from Czechoslovakia, and it was this illegal booze of the potent kind. What was strange about it was that it came in this old wine decanter, clearly having never seen its own bottle, or at least to me. In fact, I remember, real clearly, after taking the first drink of this shit that could only be compared to paint thinner, that it was nothing but moonshine, and that Charlie’s grandmother was going back to the old country and, with her friends, filling up a bathtub of homemade moonshine.

About a month later, I learnt that I was right about that, but it was a secret, and shhhh.

So shhhhh.

It was kind of a shame to cut this stuff out, but narrative necessity, really. After all, I’d spent more than enough time talking about the behaviour of my friends, and it was now time to bring myself out and paint unflattering pictures. Turns out I needed a trilogy to do that, though.

You see that?

Chick with the camera?

Yeah, taking photo of a bagel shop. That’s fucking weird.

She’s not taking a photo bagel shop, man.

Dude, we’re in a fucking bagel shop. The only thing here to take photos of is bagels.

And you.

Well, I did just purchase a bagel.

She’s not taking your photo cause you’re in a fucking bagel shop, man, she’s taking a photo cause you’re a fucking writer at this convention I find myself at.

I think it’s more realistic that she’s taking a photo of the bagel shop.

You’re an idiot.

Come on, I don’t know who she is. Fucking stranger to me, man.

Shit, man, everyone has treated you differently since we left your sister in New Jersey. Frankly, I should’ve stayed with her.

You’re talking about the train again, aren’t you?

That fucking dude Strahan snobbed us.

Half the Australians on that train snobbed each other, man. Don’t stress it.

You meet someone, you say hi. You don’t turn your fucking head. I don’t give a fuck who you are, you do that shit, I’m fucking gonna remember it.

Look I hear you, I was there. Not something I’m going to forget, either. But what you going to do? We’re here three days-I appreciate you coming and all, cause you didn’t have to, but it’s just a pass through. Go see museums and shit and then we’re back in New York.

I should’ve stayed there. Americans are polite.

You can go back, man. It’s not a big deal.

No, I’m here now. I’m watching a college football game with that nice publisher we just met-who, hey, is fucking American-so I’m not going anywhere.

But that dude snobs me again, I’m going to rip him.

Gonna send another man to the hospital, huh?

You were more pissed off about this yesterday.

I’m pacing myself. I got three days of this. By the third day I’m going to be crawling out of my skin trying to get the fuck away from this place. I can’t use up all my hate now, that has to come later so when I leave I do it with a smile.

It’s fucking crazy. How’s a dude whose never met you decide you’re a dick?

That usually takes a few days.

The internet allows people to pretend they know you. If you had it, you’d realise that.

I don’t need the net.

You know, my grand parents have the net. How is it that people in their nineties see a use for the net, but you don’t?

This is an example of why I don’t fucking need it. Look at the fucking treatment I just got.

I mean, Strahan could’ve just ignored you. He could have looked right past you and said hi to me as we sat there. I would’ve laughed at that, but no, he didn’t. He’s got some fucking thing against you, and cause I’m your mate, I must be some kind of scum like you.

Scum?

That pisses me off. Granted, I could’ve said hi, but the fuck was just staring at us, and clearly he’s recognised you, and he’s just staring and it’s fucking awkward, and I see you and you’re ready to say hi, but just as you’re about to do it, he figures it out, does this little grunt thing, and turns the fuck away.

The fuck away.

I’ve seen some rude fucks in my time. The other day some dude tried to hold the store up with a needle full of blood, and that’s crazy shit, but it ain’t personal and I don’t hold that against no one, but this-

You’re still haven’t take a shit, have you?

Not for three days now and I’m fucking regular.

I think it’s messing with your perceptions, man.

Fuck you!

See.

I tried sitting on that toilet this morning, and there was just nothing. It’s like everything inside has turned solid. Dried cement or some shit. I just need to find a way to loosen it up in there.

Probably should avoid the bagel, then.

But that doesn’t change the fact that you should be angry.

Me?

Yeah.

Truthfully, it just isn’t worth it.

…

What?

Lies make baby Jesus cry.

I wouldn’t want to hurt baby Jesus.

But you are.

See, when we got off that train last night, you were ready to rip on that dude. You even said it. You said, ‘We got three days, no rush,’ and I thought cool. How hard is it going to be to rip on some fat fuck in a sci fi con? Suddenly I think coming here has an upside.

But this?

This whole, it’s all cool, just people, let it go, some non confrontational wank that you got going? No, that’s some dude wussing out, playing the fucking party line, trying to keep everything smooth so he doesn’t rock no boat.

Look, man, I got three days of this. I got to show restraint.

Wuss.

Like you don’t do it. It’s part of being a fucking adult.

No, it’s being a fucking wuss is what it is. You’re willing to wear the fact that the dude is a shit to you, and not fucking rip him, because he has more cred than you, and knows more people. But that’s just getting the fuck walked over, that’s what that is.

What you want me to do, man, start a fucking brawl over some guy guy I don’t know snobbing me? After I kick him in the balls a few times, how do you think that’s going to look.

Like you’re a man!

Haha.

If you don’t do it I will.

I bet you won’t.

Probably not. He’s a big fucking dude and might actually hurt me. I prefer to emotionally cripple people.

You’re a regular hero.

Thank you.

But honestly, man, if you let this slide, it’s only cause you’re afraid some shit you probably don’t even have is going to be taken from you.

You’re like a constipated Buddha this morning, aren’t you?

Totally.

Also, I could build a fucking house with this bagel and a billion like it. It’s just not digestable.

On this, I’m not disagreeing. There’s a grocery store a few blocks back. Wanna get some fruit?

Yeah.

…

…

…

Is it too early to buy laxatives, you reckon?

It’s the Threadless $12 buck t-shirt sale. If I wasn’t broke, I’d buy a few.

Though, y’know, I don’t actually need new t-shirts.

Change, change.

Firstly, things have been a little quiet on the blog of late, I know, and that’s mostly because I’ve just been going through a quiet phase. Run a blog for seven years and it gets a little like that.

Actually, that’s a bit of a shock, that. Seven fucking years. Christ. Seven years on livejournal, too, though that’s one of the changes that is coming. Thanks to the lovely Stephanie Campisi and Jono Chang, I have a new place to go and blog, over here. I’m still fixing up the links and such, so give me a bit of time on that, but as of now, I’ll be blogging from there, and cross posting here, for all you lazy bastards who can’t be bothered altering your friends lists. In truth, it’ll likely mean very little to you, except that it begins my slow withdrawal from livejournal, and the strange and often idiotic things they do. I’ll be free to post as many images of my nipples on the new blog as I was now.

In other news, everything concerning Across the Seven Continents of the Underworld is complete, and the agent is off to sell it. There weren’t many changes to be made, a few chops, a few names changes, and the title of the book is, much to my regret, different. I really liked that original title, but Kris reckons it’s not novel enough, and a lot of people think it’s too long, including editors, so it’s been retitled to Beneath the Red Sun, which is the alternative title that I had while writing the thing. I can’t complain too much: truth is, the new title suits the book a little bit better than the first, and it has a bit of a weird western feel to it.

Books, hey?

Anyhow, now that’s done, it’s time to get my shit together and start working on other things. I’ve got to pay attention to the way the end of the year is shaping up, monetary wise, and it’s time to start writing some different things, and readjust my schedule. No playing World of Warcraft until two in the morning, y’know?

Welcome to the new site, the new blog, the new thing.

There’ll be more in a bit.