An All Hallows Eve That Will Live in Infamy

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To explain to you what went wrong on Halloween night, 2003, I have to tell you about Satanicide.

If you’re an educated Satanicide fan, at some point you have had this conversation in your head: “Doesn’t –icide mean to kill? Killing Satan? They’re on God’s side? Or are they just that stupid?” You never learn the answer to that question because the band in question rocked your face off. Satanicide was a Spinal Tap style of band, i.e. comedy, but can actually rock out.

Front man, the voice, Devlin Mayhem, was played by Dale. Devlin represented hard, biker rock. His chaps even had flame-detailing on them because Dale’s girlfriend (now wife) is amazing at that kind of thing.

Aleister Cradley, played by Phil, is a glam rocker, complete with teased hair and spandex tights. Part of his joke is that he’s an f-word but doesn’t know it. In the Satanicide movie, Aleister moons over Devlin while their cover of “My Heart Will Go On” plays in the background. I thought it was funny. Other people might not. This will get me into trouble during the Halloween in question.

Satanicide goes through a lot of bassists, and their replacements are always relatives of the first one, Baron von Goaten. None of the von Goatens could speak English, and, mentally, they weren’t operating on the same world as the rest of us. Last I checked, they all wore masks to hide their Frankenstein hideousness from the world. I’m pretty sure the second Baron was my contemporary. He might have been the first. His name was Jake, and he was the sweetest guy. The von Goaten clan represents European metal, which is some weird, scary shit.

English punk was represented by Sloth Vader. One minute, he was tearing some shit up in London, and then he wakes up in a dumpster in New Jersey, so he joined a band. Griff, the English guy behind Sloth, was a big guy. He loped along like a bear. So when I tell you he routinely did stage dives on top of me, you won’t question my commitment to taking one for the band.

I first saw them because Beth invited me to a show. She did that within five minutes of meeting me, before she even asked me for my name, if I remember correctly. Since that initial concert, I don’t think I missed more than one show during my last two years in New York. Beth’s boyfriend was Dale, so we had the inside scoop. I even recommended a fragment of a song that Devlin sang at one of their concerts (“P is for pussy, that’s good enough for me!”)  

In 2003, Beth thought that it would be funny if, on Halloween, Steve and I dressed as Devlin and Aleister, respectively, and go to a Satanicide show. I thought it was a brilliant idea, but my execution was loathesome and half-assed. I wore a curly wig when Phil’s was straight. I couldn’t find exciting tights, so I wore these pants that looked like a cheetah-print pajama bottom. I wore makeup like a drag queen, thanks to Beth. Steve’s costume was on point. We were a terrible mismatch.

Right before we left Steve’s apartment to go to the bar, we had to decide if we were going to eat something for dinner or do vodka shots. We didn’t have time for both. We chose vodka shots. Later at the bar, before the concert, we did shots again, more than once. We watched the show with beers in our hands. After the show, I had a Jack and Coke.

It was in that state that I encountered Moby. That Moby. He went to high school with Beth and Steve. I called him a homophobic slur. The reason I did was because juvenile gay jokes were part of the Satanicide experience. However, this did not endear me to him. Next, I encountered Ed Helms, who was a very, very loosely defined neighbor of Dale. Ed Helms is a cool guy. On the street you will recognize him as Ed Helms, but he looks completely different than the dork that is his brand.

I sat down at the bar and ordered another drink. After I finished it, I swear there was an earthquake, and I fell off the stool. Immediately, I was escorted out of the bar. I ran into Beth and Steve outside, having a cigarette, and we all agreed to call it a night. Beth went off on her own adventure while Steve took me home and put me on his couch.

That’s where I proceeded to puke all night, like young Regan on The Exorcist. That was not the worst part. The worst part is that I tried to cover it up.

Steve missed this because he went out alone after he’d dropped me off. Later, he described himself as kind of a zombie, but one with a single-minded focus on eating a slice of Ray’s Pizza. When he arrived at the storefront, he lurched up to the counter and somehow ordered a slice, which they brought to him lickety split. As he was walking away, tasting victory in the mozzarella and sweet tomato sauce, he noticed the long line he had just cut in front of.

Beth went to sleep on the sidewalk somewhere.

I don’t know what happened to Moby.

Steve and I never spoke of how I befouled his couch.

While Beth agrees that the night was pretty horrible, she can’t stop talking about it. She treats it like it’s a warning tale for the youths.

I had a hangover for days. I didn’t quit drinking until 2007, but when I was coming up with reasons to stop, Halloween 2003 was Exhibit A.

On the Subject of Potato

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I’ve had Potato for one full day now, and this is how it’s going.

First, he punctured my finger when he fought me for my meatball sub. He successfully got some meatball. Second, he took a wet, fragrant dump on my bathroom rug right in front of the litter box. Third, he tossed his cookies twice this morning, once on the hardwood floor because he’s a considerate gentleman, and once on my bed while I was sitting on it because he’s a cat. Fourth, I really like having him around.

Potato is awfully cute. He doesn’t meow, he just squeaks really quietly. He knows what the cat food tins are because he loses his mind when I pull one out. I think he’s bored. At the moment, though, he doesn’t seem to want to play. Since last night, he’s been hiding under the bed, and he didn’t come near breakfast.

And here’s where it gets tough. Potato is less than a year old, so the fact that he’s acting like Newcastle did when he started into his late teens has me concerned. The bliss of yesterday has become anxiety, and I’m performing life checks on this kitten. I can’t lose another cat. I’ll never recover.

Potato was from the streets, and Nicole found him licking a Reese’s wrapper. Who knows what kind of garbage he was eating? He surely couldn’t have been sleeping well either. Plus, he got a decent chunk of my meatball. His stomach is probably upset. He’s probably exhausted.

This morning, he came out, said hello to me, fought me for my cinnamon roll, ate a lot of his own food, then went back under the bed. A couple of hours later, he came back out and draped himself over my knee for a while.

So there’s nothing to be worried about. Only I am. Newcastle spent most of the six weeks we spent together in this apartment hiding under the bed. I knew time was running about long before the vet gave me his last diagnosis. I was living in a constant state of stress, wondering when it was time to call the doctor. I’ve only known Potato for forty-two hours, and I’m not ready for him to go.

On one hand, Potato has brought life to my apartment again. Petting an animal feels so good. Taking care of someone is life-affirming.

On the other hand, I don’t want to replace Newcastle with a newer model. And I don’t mean because Potato looks exactly like Newk when he was that age. He was my best friend. I’m not ready to move on. I don’t want a rebound cat.

On the third hand, constant stress is returning as Potato is sleeping off his hard life. I don’t want another cat under my protection to die. I can’t handle it. I know that he’s fine, but I’m worrying.

We’re taking him to the vet this evening, so we can see if there’s anything to worry about. I’m expecting a clean bill of health. I’m hoping to have a decision by then.

I know a lot of my friends are rooting for me to keep Potato. It looked like a slam dunk. This little guy charmed me, and I am really enjoying hanging out with him. It seems to be a great fit. But I’m scared. I did not enjoy deciding several times a day for six weeks whether or not to arrange Newcastle’s death with the vet. PTSD can develop when you endure a slow trauma, and I think I have it. Potato may not be the best thing for me right now.

On the other hand, Potato may be the best thing for me.

Decisions, decisions.

Meet Potato

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Meet Potato. Potato is his placeholder name. It’s short for Hot Potato. We’re not even sure if he is a he, but I’m going to keep calling him a him until the vet tells me otherwise.

Last night, Nicole and her boyfriend happened upon a young cat licking a Reese’s wrapper, and they thought it looked skinny and really hungry. They fed him, but they didn’t want to mix him with Henry because what if he had worms? Or leukemia? Or HIV? So they brought him to me until we can find him foster care and perhaps a home. He’s already made himself at home.

He’s a real sweetheart, but he’s skin and bones. He’s eating, but after the initial feast last night, be doesn’t have a lot of interest in food. He slept peacefully on my bed all night.

He’s good company, and it’s been a while since I’ve been able to pet a cat.

He also likes to read what I’m writing about him.

I don’t know if I can live with a cat who’s not Newcastle. He looks like Newcastle did at his age (I’m going to say from nine-twelve months), but I’m trying not to let that affect me. I’ve enjoyed hosting Potato, though, and as long as he’s well-behaved, he’s welcome to stay.

And You Will Obey Me

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When I was writing Doctor Who stories, I started planning ahead. For example, in the second episode, they pick up Steam, the survivor of a ship crash on a hostile planet. He joins the team, and he’s clearly hanging with the Doctor because she’s a lot of fun, and he has a crush on her.

ANDREA: You know she used to be a dude.

STEAM: Even better.

But Andrea and Steam start flirting, and one night they get drunk in the TARDIS pub and fall into bed with each other.

Somewhere, a number of stories into the narrative, Steam gets shot and collapses in the TARDIS control room. His last words are “Didn’t want … you to … to find out … this … this …” and then he explodes into yellow light. When the light fades, there is a blonde teenage girl in Steam’s clothes. She looks at her hands and says, “Looks like I have to go back to calling myself Missy.”

I haven’t figured out the Mistress’s plan, maybe one day I will. For now, here’s her character poster. She’s going to be like Cher from Clueless, only evil.

The Book of Jobs

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Here is the last of my work portfolio to share.

First is a job I did for the husband of a friend who wanted to bring photo booths back, in time for the holidays. It was back when I worked a lot in Photoshop.

Next is a day care/tutoring business (I think) called Sprouts that my friend Vicky was starting. I did a lot of different versions of this in several different colors, but this was the one I decided to go with.

The rest weren’t for money, just fun, like the gift I made for Vicky for teaching a cardiac kickboxing class that I loved and feared at the exact same time.

And finally, I made a birthday card for my friend Maryam about ten years ago, when she was terrified of cats. The ones stalking her belonged to our mutual friends, Samir and Sammy.

These are all at least ten years old because I kind of stopped drawing at around this time. I want to start doing birthday cards again, but I have no idea what to draw.

Cats and Dolls

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Meet Fauxcastle:

I got some cash for Christmas, and I ordered a custom stuffed animal of Newcastle. I knew he didn’t have long (but to be fair, I was kind of hoping to get a little longer), and I wanted to have something to remember him by. I sent them eight pictures, and two months later, it arrived. I put it in my closet as soon as I unboxed it because I still had the real one. After Newcastle died, I left it there because whenever I had to get something from the shelf it occupied, I could see its tail, which was one of Newcastle’s defining features, and I’d be hit with grief.

It’s a shockingly good likeness, though they didn’t get his fur color right. (You can’t tell from the pictures, but Newcastle’s fur wasn’t black, but rather the color of black coffee.) It’s a little bigger than the real thing, but somehow the people at Cuddle Clones nailed that signature Newcastle expression (“Huh?”), which you can see as it puzzles over the queen mother. It’s got a pouch for his ashes, but I think I’m going to leave those on the shrine. This isn’t Newcastle.

Today is a month without my best friend, and I’m still in pain. I broke down in tears at my desk Thursday (don’t worry, that’s the first time I’ve ever done that), and I see and hear him through the apartment. I still have to remind myself when I come home that he’s not there, and I get nervous about holding the door open so he doesn’t get out.

But when I was trying to find my 2022 tax return, I saw that fake tail and decided to give it a try and see if I could handle it. And I can. It’s right next to my desk, on top of a podium, which is on top of a chest of drawers, and there’s no way I can’t see it. I was worried that I would confuse it with Newcastle out of the corner of my eye, like I did with a pillow this morning, but nope.

Some of you might think this is morbid or creepy or obsessive, but I’m finding it comforting. I will not be petting it or feeding it or anything unhinged—it’s just there, filling up an empty space.

If it does move, though, I will kill it with fire.

Chuck Norris, but with Kittens instead of Guns

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I was chatting with my friend Lisa, and she said, “I want to see Chuck Norris, but with kittens instead of guns.” This was a trap, and I fell for it. Immediately, I started looking up Chuck Norris pictures, and when she Photoshopped what she had in mind (it was a terrible Photoshop), I said, “Thank you for bringing this to me instead of going to an AI.” She said, “I hate AI so much.” This was the ethical (and fun) way of entering a prompt and getting an image out of it. So here he is, Chuck Norris, but with kittens instead of guns, as well as proof I did it (thumbnail, pencils, backgrounds, paints).

I’m Sorry, Who?

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It was going to begin with an exciting pre-credits sequence, and then the title, and then a candy-striper named Andrea in 1999 New York City, looking at a patient’s chart. He’s covered in third-degree burns with a body temperature of 61 degrees Fahrenheit, but he’s not dead. Included on the chart is a note that the patient has a strange heart murmur that creates the illusion of a double-pulse. There’s just one problem: the patient in the bed is a petite, Arabic-looking woman with no burns on her whatsoever. However, when Andrea touches her, her skin is deathly cold, and she has a double-heartbeat. The only conclusion she can reach is that they are the same person. The patient wakes up, looks at her hands, and, speaking in an Irish accent, quizzes Andrea on her own appearance, particularly worried about the size of her nose. She recognizes Andrea from “that coffee house in Lincoln, Nebraska, with the on-the-nose name.” “You mean The Coffee House?” But the only remotely British person she ever met there was a dude with a buzz-cut and an awesome leather jacket. Suddenly, a monster would attack, and the woman would introduce herself as the Doctor. Later, they would head for row of porta-potties, and the Doctor leads her to a really classy, wooden one labeled “Police Box.” When Andrea enters, she sees it’s bigger in the inside than it is on the outside, and her reaction is, “Whoa. Cool outhouse.”

Thus begins “The Tyranny of Occam’s Razor,” the first of my Doctor Who fanfics. I had an overarching plot in mind, which would bring them to America more often than usual, and the monsters would be based on American folklore, including a wendigo, a herd of melonheads, and the men in black. There would be no sonic screwdriver. (As a lifelong Doctor Who fan, I kind of loathe the sonic screwdriver.) I have lot of great gags (“What did your sonic screwdriver do?” “Loosen screws, pick locks, scan things, disrupts a Cyberman’s breathing apparatus, like a regular screwdriver, I reckon.” Also, Andrea, as an American, calls them “Darleks.”) I have done tons of art of the characters, and I even made a logo. I’m going to continue to draw and paint them, but I’m not going to write it anymore.

Since I’ve been making comics or sketching full-time, I haven’t had much inspiration to write. I quit in the middle of a lesbian romance, the seventh book in my YA series, a from-the-ground-up revision of my assassin-that-doesn’t-use-guns-or-martial-arts novel, and the Nth Doctor Adventures short stories. I’ve decided I’m going to box up Who. I loved the concept, I loved my Doctor, I loved her companion, I loved the loose plots, I loved the fan service (one of the pre-credit scenes features a couple being rescued by the Eleventh Doctor, and I think I really nailed his voice), I loved coming up with descriptions of the TARDIS noise (someone driving a power drill through a bucket of fruitcake, an accordion in a dishwasher, a flock of geese flying through a cloud of helium, etc.) but the stories are not good. I made it through three-and-a-half of them, and I just ran out of steam.

I think I’m going through phases. Eight years ago, I was a voracious reader. Five years ago, I was a writer. A year ago, I was transitioning, and now I’m almost exclusively artist. I can still write, but only about a page or two at a time. (I’ve illustrated up to page 5 of MortalMan, and I only have 9 written.) I might go back to being a writer again, who knows? But while I still pull out Exile Book 7: The Unkindness of Raven, The Principles of Magnetism, or The Sass in Assassin and tinker at them, I think I’m going to leave the Nth Doctor Adventures in storage for now. Doctor Who, after Newcastle, is the love of my life, and I’m going to give them all the attention they deserve.

In the meantime, as I mentioned above, I’m going to keep illustrating the Doctor and Andrea. The Doctor is in a a necktie again, and Andrea has access to infinite outfits in the TARDIS, so she decides that, if she’s exploring the universe, she should at least wear a suit.

I’m the Exact Amount of Sexy for This Song

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So I can’t use the lyrics to “I’m too Sexy” in my book. I tried. The publisher told me it could potentially cost thousands of dollars (for fifteen words; yay capitalism!). The first version is almost perfect because it captures that moment when you realize, “I’m going to have to listen to this again.” The second version is lame, so I’m not going to do it. The third version is what I’m going with.

Original Version
Because, just as she was trying to make sense of a geometry problem, the jukebox went off. A deep voice, almost comically so, said, “I’m too sexy for my love; too sexy for my love; love’s going to leave me.” Her head slammed down onto her book. Had they seriously not updated the jukebox for ten years, but when this song came out, they thought, this was the one? This was the music they wanted everyone to associate with their family restaurant?

The What-I’m-Not-Going-to-Do Version
Because, just as she was trying to make sense of a geometry problem, the jukebox went off. A deep voice, almost comically so, said the opening lyrics to “I’m too Sexy” by Right Said Fred. Her head slammed down onto her book. Had they seriously not updated the jukebox for ten years, but when this song came out, they thought, this was the one? This was the music they wanted everyone to associate with their family restaurant?

Final Version
Because, just as she was trying to make sense of a geometry problem, the jukebox went off. An aria, with a voice as deep as the bowels of hell, heralded a first-person ballad she had come to know of a man whose sexiness exceeds the tolerance of his love, his car, his cat, your party, several cosmopolitan cities, and his shirt, the latter of which actually causes him pain. Her head slammed down on her book. Had they seriously not updated the jukebox for ten years, but when this song came out, they thought, this was the one? This was the music they wanted everyone to associate with their family restaurant? “I’m Too Sexy?” Really?

Conclusion
This whole ordeal reminds me of the original Cybermen from Doctor Who. The women who designed their costume had something like fifty dollars, so she bought a vacuum cleaner and some floodlights and constructed one of the most iconic bad guys in science fiction TV. Nowadays, if you want something onscreen, you throw millions of dollars at some keyboard jockeys, and they make it happen. Before CGI, you had to work within existing space with limits, and they did some amazing things. Think about how much better A New Hope looks like next to Rise of Skywalker. Being limited ultimately gave me a chance to describe how dumb that song is without using any of the lyrics, and the result is better than I’d originally written it.

(Special thanks to Donna Martinez who helped me brainstorm this approach. Someone, I won’t say who, has earned a space on my acknowledgements page.)

Shrine of the Times

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When the vet left my apartment, taking Newcastle with her, she left behind three things: his collar, his paw print, and a lock of his fur. Nicole was with me through the whole ordeal, and when she left, I looked at the three items on my kitchen counter and kept myself from sobbing uncontrollably by putting them on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet I only used to store his canned food. They have been there since. I knew I’d get to them eventually.

About a week later, I cleared out his food and water bowls and hid them in the cabinet on top of the refrigerator. Nicole didn’t take the canned food because I might decide to get another one someday, so I went into the cabinet to get it, and I saw a small piece of his collar poking out of the top shelf, and I realized I wasn’t ready.

A week later, the box I’d bought to display his hair was delivered, but I still wasn’t ready.

Last Saturday, I picked up his remains from the vet, and I’ve been experimenting in places to put him. Here’s a corner that is currently full of capsized Doctor Who action figures (that he knocked over), but that’s in a corner, tucked away from everything. Things tend to fall off of my desk, so that’s out. My dresser is covered in weird tchotchkes I haven’t sorted out. There’s a small metal shelf by the door, which would make a great location, but I use it to store art supplies when I work on my comic. I finally found the right spot.

Yesterday, I decided I would take his stuff out today. And I did. It was hard—it was really hard, but the spot I picked is perfect. It’s almost as high as the dresser, so it overlooks the whole apartment (which should tell you how big my apartment is). It’s a small chest of drawers that displays my owl collection (Newcastle always reminded me of an owl), and it’s close to my bed. No, I’m not going to cuddle with the box of ashes, but I will see it every time I turn off my lamp.

Here it is, my shrine to my best buddy.

Here’s Newcastle himself, in his coffin.

His paw print, which is nice to have, but it doesn’t make me emotional.

Here’s his fur. He was so matted in the end, but I couldn’t bear to shave him because I didn’t want him to die bald. The vet took this out of his tail, which was still fluffy.

Finally, his collar. This is the part I have a hard time looking at. It was mostly covered by his luxurious mane, but that lumberjack plaid was his signature look, and he’s had the tag forever.

He was such a big part of my life that I want him in a prominent place in my home. Typing this in bed, all I have to do is turn my head a little, and I can see some souvenirs from my friend. It hurts, and I’m okay with that.

We traveled to other countries together. He was with me through an entire marriage. He held on long enough for me to get used to living alone for the first time in my life. He was my friend.

I miss him so much.