MY OWN DAMN CALENDAR

          Like usual New Year's came and went and I suddenly realized I hadn't picked up a new calendar.  By that time it was all Jonas Brothers, barns, and bikini girls in the 50% off bargain calendar racks.  I decided to make my own calendar.  It's a little belated, but here's January:

"New Year's worm is fierce and focused"

ROYAL HISTORIAN OF OZ #5

          I have to write a "catalog description" for each issue of any comic book I'm working on.  We used to be limited to 50 words, but now we can go over that, which makes it a little easier.  It's still a tricky thing to do, condensing something complex, nuanced, and rich in detail (or so I like to think) into a bite-sized paragraph to instantly grab someone's attention in the midst of a giant catalog full of garish, dynamic comic book plots.
          Anyway, it's time to turn in my catalog description of the 5th and final issue of "The Royal Historian of Oz."  Here's what I came up with:

The Royal Historian of Oz #5
Written by Tommy Kovac
Illustrated by Andy Hirsch

It's time to mobilize! Scraps the Patchwork Girl has been possessed by the soggy ghost of the Wicked Witch of the West, and wrested control of the powerful magic on display in Jasper Fizzle's Oz Historical Library and Museum. Ozma and her immortal friends join forces with Frank Fizzle and travel to the mortal world (with the help of a giant space/time continuum-crunching friend) to right the tangled wrongs of two worlds. Is there any way for Jasper to redeem the Fizzle family name in the eyes of the citizens of Oz or the literary snobs of the Official Oz Society? The pen may be mightier than the sword, but how mighty is a rickety old manual typewriter?

THAT WHICH SHALL NOT BE NAMED

          I never listen to radio because I hate everything on every station.  Hate DJs, hate callers, hate 99% of music that gets played for mass consumption.  The radio in my truck is tuned to KROQ just because... well, that's what I grew up with in the '80s, back when 50% of what they played was passably listenable.  Now if I catch even a snippet of their programming, it's usually Linkin Park (HATE) or some totally tired and thoroughly played-out Red Hot Chili Peppers, or Sublime (also HATE).
          Anyway, to continue with my tirade, the other morning I was driving to work and thought maybe I'd briefly check in with the world at large, so I paused my iPod and allowed the radio to take over.  You know, just in case we were under attack, or Godzilla was headed my way, or there was something I truly needed to be aware of.
          At first they were talking about the Foo Fighters (rolling of eyes, yawn...), then without any noticeable transition (I swear!) they were speaking live with one of the retard guys from Jersey Shore.
          At first it was like being bitten by a snake.  I froze, paralyzed, my eyes wide with horror.
          The poison began to spread throughout my system, filling me with nausea, loathing, incredulity.  Why does such a thing exist?  How could any loving god create such a thing and allow it to take over the way it has, so that seemingly EVERYONE on the planet is familiar with this hideous... THING.  I understand the concept of guilty pop culture pleasure, and partake of plenty of that myself, but surely there must be a limit.  Some things must not be allowed to continue...
          Why wasn't I turning it off?  Why was I still listening?  And why didn't Kevin and Bean give us some kind of warning, so those of us who are more sensitive could have dodged the deadly pop culture poison in time?
          Then abruptly, like a dark cloud moving aside to reveal the sun, I realized I really WASN'T interested in what the retard from Jersey Shore had to say.  Not even the slightest bit.  It didn't seem entertaining even in the most guilty, bottom-of-the-barrel kind of way.  The constriction in my chest loosened, and I poked the button to switch from radio to iPod.
          Whew!            

HAPPY NEW YEAR!