Tag Archives: pop culture

Underworld Figures

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I’ve been writing a bonkers novel called Subterraneaus Obscura about the mysterious world underneath Washington, D.C. (which has nothing to do with politics). It’s about three adventurers wearing suits who journey their way through ratweillers, the Mongolian death worm, organic server farms, Gnome Town, etc. They are:

Ember—thrill-seeker. They discovered the underground and keeps recruiting people to explore it with them. They’re optimistic and friendly, and they can’t hold their berry beet smoothies.

Juliette—career criminal. After committing the crime of the century, she is swept up in Ember’s wake when she is almost hit by a Metro train. She’s pretty relaxed, considering.

Mazel—charmed ad absurdum. Cursed with supernaturally good luck, Mazel is on the run from her father, the wealthiest man in the world. Her good fortune gets glitchy underground, so she follows Ember to see if it will run out.

Adventures in Anthropomorphism

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I just finished writing a bananas novel called Subterraneous Obscura, which has dozens of supporting characters, from baristas to the richest man in the world. I’ve tried to give memorable personalities to all of them, and the best way to do that is to give them names. I pluck my names out of my life, and along the way, I named seven characters after the pets who are or have been living with my friends, Steve and Meredith, my former roommate, Nicole, and myself.

Here’s Steve and Meredith’s:

Cooper (Ginger Golden Retriever): A doctor who always wanted to do theater. He thinks he’s auditioning for Little Shop of Horrors, but instead, he’s cast in a sex tape.

Harmony (Golden Retriever): The preppy herald of an underworld goddess. (RIP)

Inkling (Sleek Black Cat): The minions of an underworld goddess.

Stardust (Small Tortoiseshell): An underworld goddess. (RIP)

Next is Nicole’s baby, Henry (Black Egyptian Mau): An FBI agent used to getting his way. He’s a Momma’s boy, and his Momma is a crazed, shotgun wielding old woman.

Following is my beloved Newcastle (Maine Coon): A butler who took a vow of silence. (RIP)

Finally, my current roommate, Oscar (Fluffy Black Cat): A sleazy teenage data broker.

And Now, the Weather

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Twenty years ago, Kate and I attended an opening-night screening of a movie called Serenity, based on a short-lived show nobody saw. Imagine our surprise when we saw the line.

People were in costume, and there were a lot of hideous orange pom-pom hats out there. One fan created her own steampunk look, not based on a specific character. She stood on her seat (which had probably lived through a lot at this point) and led a sing-along to the show’s theme song.

I’ve been to a lot of conventions since then, and I haven’t seen the kind of energy from that movie theater. Cut to years later.

Welcome to Night Vale was a huge hit while I was in Doha. I discovered it through some fan-art on Tumblr at the same time everybody else did. It made lists of cool and underappreciated entertainments in a lot of news sources.

It was enough to make me check it out. Starting from the beginning, the first thing you hear is a long announcement not to go into the new dog park. You are told not to approach the dog park and to ignore any hooded figures inside.

Welcome to Night Vale is a local radio show, hosted by the honey-voiced Cecil Palmer, played by Cecil Baldwin. He says something profound and/or spooky, and then “Welcome to Night Vale!” He reads the news, the community calendar, the ads, the horoscopes, traffic, and so on. Everything he reads has a twist of the paranoid and supernatural, as well as just plain ordinary.

Helicopters circle overhead because the government is watching everything you do. The producers of the Night Vale community radio station are insectoid creatures. I lost count of how many gods they had to make sacrifices to.

It is one of the cheeriest and uplifting shows I’ve ever enjoyed, soothing with its formula. I followed religiously for years, but sometime after I moved to DC, I stopped listening. Some of it was because I didn’t have the time, but some of it was because the formula was working against it. The quality of the writing wasn’t going down, but the juxtaposition of mundane life with cosmic horror didn’t feel as fresh as it used to.

They added new characters to keep things alive, such as Tamika Flynn, who once spent an entire night in the library, being stalked by those foul, insidious librarians, and Deb, the sentient cloud. They’re great, and the actors are great. They even got nerd favorite, Wil Wheaton to voice one. Along with storylines that stretched over much of the seasons, it was getting too complicated.

I saw the ad and debated going for a while. I thought I’d give myself something to look forward to on September 11, so I bought my tickets, took the short hop to the U Street station and pulled out my phone for directions to the Lincoln Theater. My phone told me it was not going to do that. I looked up to get my bearings and beheld the Lincoln Theater, right across the street.

You can’t nail down a demographic here. You saw the goth crowd, piercings and pink/blue/green hair. There were a lot of nerdy girls, two in lab coats, wearing goggles. There were men in business casual, women in their nicer dresses. There were older people, there were younger people. There were infants, and there were grade-school kids. This is fine because, for all the horrifying deaths, Welcome to Night Vale is a surprisingly wholesome show.

One of the reasons Welcome to Night Vale has such a dedicated fan base is that it is inclusive. Cecil will always call you by your preferred name and pronouns, his courtship of scientist Carlos, who has amazing hair, was the only long story arc I was invested in. The audience had a queer vibe to it because they felt welcome here. Welcome to Night Vale isn’t a gay show, but it’s a show where it’s okay to be gay.

To my left was a family with an infant. That could bode poorly. I didn’t have to listen to the kid’s wailing because, as soon as the kid got uppity, the dad took him out of the auditorium. I feel bad he had to miss the show, but thank you, sir.

To my right were the T-shirts, shorts, and sandals type. The feminine one talked non-stop about being engaged then not engaged, then pursuing boys, then what to call themselves now that since they can’t be called a wife. Maybe “spouse”? Then they talked about their wife. Then, when the show started, they and the masculine one took hands.

I endured the musical guest. She could play the guitar well, her voice was good, but I do not like Ani DiFranco music. Every time she finished a song, I had hope we’d see the main event soon, dashed when she started again. I haven’t been this demoralized by singing since I watched Les Miserables at the Kennedy Center.

The show went on, introduced by Jeffrey Kramer, the co-creator. Cecil Baldwin took the stage, and he’s just as good looking and charming as he sounds. Tamika Flynn worked the crowd. And it was fine. It was a bit stripped down from past live shows, and it stuck the formula. It felt like a an episode of the, which I could get for free (with ads).

What did I pay fifty bucks for? To see Cecil in person, for one. But mostly for the crowd. I didn’t know anyone who listened to Welcome to Night Vale, so I felt along in my love for it. I was surrounded by people who had been swept away by the imagination and the cleverness of everything. There were people there who felt seen by the show.

In the End Times, that’s worth more than fifty bucks.

Culture of Villainy

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Fourth of July weekend, Owlman and I went to the National Portrait Gallery/Smithsonian American Art Museum, which share a building. It’s in Chinatown, so we had to take the Metro.

This is our stop, Fort Totten. Independence Day revelers still weren’t out of bed.

We arrived fifteen minutes before the museum opened, so we had to hang outside.

Our first portrait was abolitionist John Brown. Owlman is evil, but he agrees with me that owning another human is bad, so he was happy to see him.

Owlman says, “Keep practicing, you’ll get it someday.”

Like Thomas Edison, Owlman fancies himself an inventor… of death traps and lethal gadgets.

Owlman remembered to bring his camera today.

I told Owlman that this was my favorite painting in the museum, by John Singer Sargent, who is my favorite painter. He memorialized it for me.

Owlman has a thing for redheads.

Owlman knows full well he’s not supposed to touch the sculptures, but he’s evil, so he wants to do it anyway.

Owlman, what did I just tell you?

Owlman wants to know if the TV art installation can get the latest episode of Real Housewives, which he watches because he’s evil.

He terrorizes the streets of alternate Gotham, but this statue from Clover Adams’s grave is really scary.

Tuckered out from our big day, we headed home.

Take Your Supervillain to Work Day

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This year, for TYSTWD, I invited Owlman. Owlman comes from an alternate reality and is essentially the anti-Batman. He was thrilled to see what I do when I am not home.

I like to come to work early and do some sketching before I begin my shift. It’s nice to have the place to myself.

As you can see, Washington DC is still sleeping.

We took a tour of my desk, where I had to relocate my owls once Oscar started being feisty. (The glass cat on the hammock is the gift my boss gave me when Newcastle died.)

Same goes for some of my toys. (The red guy is the mascot for the American Society of Hematology.)

And my miniature painting, which has Owlman contemplating the meaning of beauty.

I hang up my art up at my desk because I like looking at it, and it’s a great conversation-starter.

Owlman works from home, so he brought in his laptop.

He had to go to the storage room to take an important call.

Now it’s break time. I don’t like Starbuck’s, but he insisted on going, and he’s evil so I don’t want to get on his bad side.

The View from Below

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When I started drawing again over two years ago, my writing suffered. It seemed like I only a finite amount of creativity. Still, I persisted. Less than one year ago, I completely rewrote the second two thirds of a novel I’d finished in 2021, and I adapted a (bad) screenplay I wrote in 2023.

What I’ve noticed in my writing renaissance is that my books are less introspective and grounded than they used to be, and more surreal and cartoony, with brake-neck action.

Now I’m working on a completely new idea, Subterraneus Obscura, thanks to some inspiration from my dear friend, Emilie. She continues to help me out, coming up with names for nightclubs to prodding me when I need help developing a character.

The book jumps from POV to POV of the three characters below.

Ember is the trailblazer, exploring the world underneath Washington DC with panache.

Lucky, their sidekick, is the fortunate one, with inhumanly good luck and a taste for pot.

The fugitive is Juliette, running from the law through Metro tunnels when she is swept up in the adventures of the other two.

Harry Potter and the Miserable C-word

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I’m asexual. Many people, including close friends, don’t believe this. They see the fact that I like to draw sexy women as proof I’m not. They see that I’d had sex before with different partners as proof I’m not. Characters in my novels are often quite horny, which is proof I’m not. Some simply don’t believe asexuality exists. Maybe it’s a hormone issue. Maybe somebody hurt me. Maybe I just haven’t met the right person. Maybe I just have a headache.

I wrote and erased a point-by-point rebuttal to these because this is not about me, but it’s still very personal.

April 6 is Asexuality Awareness Day. This is a fairly new role for April 6, and I didn’t even know about it until this happened. JK Rowling knew, and she put out a snarky tweet. I considered posting an image of that tweet, but I didn’t want to google it. It basically says that it’s a day so people who don’t “fancy a shag” get to feel oppressed.

Fuck you, Joanne, we are oppressed. Google “acephobia” to see. There are conversions and
“corrective” rapes, as well as just straight-up violence. Did you know that the word “groomer,” so crucial to the stigmatization of Trans people, became popular describing aces? Apparently, we’re trying to indoctrinate children, when we just want to be left alone. Like Trans people.

The reason you don’t hear about acephobia is because we are, I believe, the smallest subset of the LGBT+ umbrella (if we’re included at all—that’s a gray area), and there are no legal protections for us. Currently, there are no pogroms directed against asexuals, but that could change soon.

Why should the government care who you have sex with? If you ask that question, you clearly did not live in the eighties and nineties, before gay people are such a part of society that even bigot Joanne Rowling (barely) supports them. No, the government is obsessed with who you have sex with.

When I first saw the tweet ten days ago, I thought she was just being a bitch. She is, after all, a bitch, and bitches do bitchy things. But the responses were increasingly unhinged, agreeing with her, denying we existed, telling us how we can be cured, or just threatening rape. Any time an ace stepped in to challenge this, Joanne herself mocked and dismissed them.

Trans people are under attack, and it will escalate even more as soon as the people who voted for Trump (i.e. most of the country) run out of immigrants to terrorize. Transphobia is not new, but it could be argued that JK Rowling made it mainstream. They can talk about how scared they are of men in dresses using the ladies room, but they’re not in any danger. And they know it. Trans people are a weak minority, and nobody’s going to stand up for them while they’re being harassed by the people who are supposed to protect them.

And now she’s coming for the asexuals. Like all fascists, she’s picking on a target that can’t fight back, and she’s raising the profile of us, mocking us then making us out to be a threat somehow. This will escalate.

I can blend into the allosexual world if I want to, but I don’t want to. I am fairly outspoken about being ace, and I intend to stay that way, even facing down the barrel of a gun.

Here’s the thing: Harry Potter is fine. I am not going to talk about how badly written it is (the word I’d use is competent, and leave it at that) or say I knew how problematic it was the whole time. There’s some good stuff in there, but much of it could be found, and presented better, in any Terry Pratchett novel. I’ve read all seven books and seen all the movies. I even think of myself as a Hufflepuff (without all the hard work stuff).

Lately, I’ve been forced to consider “The Death of the Author,” in which an author can be separated from their work. This is important when the artist behaves badly, as in the case of literary giant Neil Gaiman, and my favorite comic book writer, Warren Ellis, as well as comedians Bill Cosby and Dave Chapelle. So much of what I know about storytelling comes from these men, but I can’t separate the hate speech and rape.

Harry Potter fans with an inkling of a conscience use “The Death of the Author” as an excuse for putting on their Gryffindor scarfs and playing Quiddich, despite that the creator of this nonsensical sport is hateful and petty. She is the richest author, ever, and she wants Trans people in prisons, if not dead, for the sin of existing. And now the eye has turned to me.

Maybe they won’t come after asexuals. Maybe they won’t inspect my penis to make sure it’s being used properly. Maybe they won’t try to convert me. But American citizens are being sent to foreign countries to be imprisoned in hellish conditions. Trans people are being attacked by endless legislation. Gay teens are still being tortured legally.

Don’t tell me I’m overreacting. Don’t say it can’t happen. It is happening. You may not know any Trans people, but they’re still people, and you should care. It always starts small, with a little mocking and dismissal, and the next thing you know, you’re public enemy number one. And it looks like I’m next. You might be next.

In conclusion, if you’re a Harry Potter fan, I urge you to reconsider. I get that it’s part of your childhood, but Sandman was a crucial part of my life, and I’ve boxed it up and put it in the corner of my closet, along with my autographed copy of Norse Myths.

You are not your entertainment. You are a human being, and we need to look out for each other. If I can kick Neil Gaiman and Warren Ellis and all of my favorite books and comics to the curb out of solidarity to women, you can kick Harry Potter and the Insufferable Monster to the curb too, out of solidarity to Trans people, and hopefully not asexuals.

Pi in your Face

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I’m a little more lighthearted today, because it is Pi Day. Pi, as you might remember from geometry, is a less-than-rational number, calculated by assuming the cosine of circumgourds to the numfloppens and divining them with the abacusometers, before estimating a riff based on the interginalist figure to the nearest taurudite.

The first three digits that result are 3.14. After that, it’s sheer madness. Apparently, there are human beings out there who can recite it to hundreds of digits because they have something broken in their brains.

14 March, or 3/14 to normal people, is considered Pi Day, when we, as a world, stare in awe at this number, stretching off into infinity. And then we get bored and eat some pie.

That is not why I am celebrating 14 March. I’m celebrating 14 March because of Stephen’s birthday.

The first time I visited Kate in Indiana, I met Steve. The most notable thing about Steve was that he had panache. He was a dork. He knew he was a dork. And he strutted around like Tobey MacGuire in Spider-Man 3. I was dying to be his friend.

By the time I had moved to Bloomington, he had moved onto Cornell with his future wife, Meredith. After law school, they relocated to Alexandria, Virginia, shortly before we moved there. Steve and Meredith helped me feel welcome in a place that was otherwise confusing and lonely.

The first thing you must know about Steve is that he’s always right. If something doesn’t jive, he makes it known. He has a brain the size of a planet, so he probably is right, but if you contradict him, he will give you the benefit of the doubt. He won’t rule anything out if you have evidence. If you don’t know something that is in his wheelhouse, he will tell you. If he doesn’t know, he’ll look it up.

Steve nitpicks like a professional. He pointed out all the flaws in an episode of Justice League as we watched it to the point that the only thing left of the DVD was a smoldering puddle of plastic. When we put in GI Joe: Resolute, and he couldn’t find a single thing wrong with it, I knew I found a new classic.

Somehow, and I’m not sure how, he beta-read one of my Urban Fantasy short stories and returned with a scathing indictment. Some of his criticisms were spot on, and some of them completely missed the point of the story (which means I probably didn’t communicate it as effectively as I could have). Too late, because it got published as is. Suck it, Poindexter.

Steve is also one of the most inviting, attentive, and loyal people I know. I had pushed away all of my friends when I was married, and all the couple friends I’d made disappeared when the marriage was over. Steve, however, assured me he and Meredith weren’t going anywhere, and they took me out to dinner the night I got the news.

Steve laughs at all my jokes. All of them. And on the rare occasion that he doesn’t find it funny, it’s because he doesn’t get it. When I explain it, he laughs. As a nitpicker, his expertise would be greatly appreciated on my latest novel because I think I might have something here. If I don’t, or if something’s not working, he will not hesitate to let me know.

Steve is vibrant, curious, generous, goofy, a little smug, and can beat you to death with a stick. If anyone can and will tell me the technical differences between barrister and lawyer in more than just the Atlantic Ocean, it’s him. I’m honored to be his friend.

Dramatis Personae

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Ladies and Gentlemen, the cast of Metromaniacs!

Played by the accomplished Caroline Adams, Lisette the proactive, scheming maid.

Played by Hanlon Smith-Dorsey, Mondor is a loyal servant with no scruples.

Played by Hart Wood, Franacalou is a lover and creator of drama.

Played by Jane Schecterson, Lucille is, like, yeah, whatever.

Played by K Sridhar, Baliveau is the very definition of angry uncle.

Played by Oscar Léon, Damis is a romantic, twitchy poet.

Played by Steve Isaac, Dorante is lovesick and star cross’d.

She Doth Protest

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My walk from Union Station to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, only a few blocks from the Capitol, takes me past the headquarters for the Heritage Foundation. These are the people who repackaged George W. Bush from nepo-baby frat-boy to a statesman. They dream up legislation to dump us into the Dark Ages. They are worse than Trump and Elon because Trump and Elon would have no power without them. I tend to flip the building off as I walk past.

Wednesday, the last day of Tech Week, I saw something on the approach that confused me. was a parka, hunched over, on a stool. As I passed by, I noted that the parka was female, and she was carrying a skillfully painted sign that said, “I will not be complicit.”

I walked by and made it to the end of the block before I decided I was going back. But first, I wanted to do something nice in this 25-degree weather. (In metric, that translates to “absolute zero.”) I returned to the Heritage Foundation with a cup of black coffee, which, it turned out, she drinks as is. We chatted for about a minute, and I thanked her. She would be there, she said, seven days a week, eleven to six.

I stopped by Thursday at about noon, but she wasn’t there. I was disappointed, but my life wasn’t over. It’s enough that I met her. She has inspired me. I think I’ve fallen a little bit in love with this tiny, resilient person, sitting in the Arctic cold, forcing these conservative douchebags to walk around her.

I didn’t expect to see the protestor there on Saturday, when the foundation was closed, but there she was. It was a few degrees above absolute zero, but it was still cold, so I grabbed a black coffee and strolled over to her.

She didn’t recognize me because I was wearing a different jacket, but she appreciated the coffee. We talked, a little longer this time, and I learned that she is hardcore. She understands that she comes from a place of privilege, which allows her to quit her job and sit there full-time. Until the people in this building are gone, she isn’t going to participate in this fascist-capitalistic system. I’ll be honest, I find that naïve, but I admire her conviction.

There have been monstrous protests all over the touristy parts of DC since the election, doubly so since the president and his master started goose-stepping around the Oval Office, throwing oppressive executive orders around like confetti. She told me she could go to any one of them, but her calling placed her here.

I asked her if it would be okay if I hung out with her for a couple of hours here and there. She looked at me like I recited a cookie recipe at her in Esperanto. She sputtered for a moment and told me of course. She could use the company. She told me that, the other day, five people stood with her.

I had to go catch up with my ex-roomie, and without my watch, I wasn’t sure what time it was. I introduced myself, and she replied with “I’m Ember.” I told her it’s a beautiful name, and that seemed to make her uncomfortable. I feel bad about that, but to be fair, it is a beautiful name.

Sunday, after a late Saturday, I decided I wanted to protest. At eleven a.m., I caught the Metro to Union Station and walked to the Great Satan’s lair, but she wasn’t there. I really do want to protest, so I plan on stopping by this week. Even if she’s never there again, she affected my life profoundly. She makes me want to resist.