Unreliable information since 1972
Opi8 has had a facelift. Go and read After Days of Passion. You life depends on it.
Well, no it doesn’t, but if you’re producing on-line comics and you’re still using conventional narrative, then you should pack up and go home now. You are old and your day is done. Men like Ben and Antony will be along to put you in the shade and show you up for the has-beens you are if you persist.
Every time I read an interview with Grant Morrison, I become increasingly convinced that he’s not actually mad, but instead, very, very clever indeed.
A Day in the Life of Strange Company. This made me alugh out loud. Strange Company was founded by my mates Hugh and Gordon, a couple of years back. At one point, I almost took a job with them, and would still like to work with them on something, one day when we’ve all got the time. Either way, I thought it was a good article – I remember the “before” part of the equation, and it’s nice to see the “after”, as the company grows into something bigger and better. And I really must get around to that trip to Edinburgh to catch up with old friends. Urgently.
OK, I feel less sad now. It’s ten o’clock at night, the joy has left me, and now I just want to go home and collapse. But I no longer feel like I’m letting the side down by not getting everything I need to done for 9A. Although I’m sure one of my partners in crime will remind about something I said I’d have done weeks ago as soon as I next check my mail.
God, I’m such a sad wee geek. I’m sitting here in the office at quarter past eight at night, drinking some really poisonous work coffee, and eating toast, working on Ninth Art, and I’m actually enjoying it. I’m sure I shouldn’t be happy that it’s a lovely summers evening and I’m sitting here at a computer. I mean, yeah, I’m achieving things, but honestly. And would you look at the state of my desk?
I came back from my holiday intending to send e-mails to say hi to all the lovely people I met while I was away. It’s been almost a week, and I haven’t even sent one. Guilt, guilt. I’ll try and get around to sending them tonight. Honest.
Something I noticed on holiday: the difference between trains and planes. Yes, very funny. Haha. No – the difference in my thought processes when travelling on them.
See, I like being in transit. I’m not so fond of travelling (which is why I hadn’t been outside the UK in over half a decade until two weeks ago), but I like being in transit. Being between one place is for want of a better phrase, a magical experience for me. On the train, my brain runs nineteen to the dozen, and I find myself writing down ideas as fast as they occur to me. I’ve been known to spend 5 hours and more frantically scribbling down concepts, ideas, fragments and general thoughts. On a plane, on the other hand, my brain shuts down. I have to force myself to keep busy – reading, firming up old notes (try as I might, I can’t do anything new on a plane, only scratch at the edges of old ideas, and not always very successfully) but for the most part, I’m faintly zoned out.
God knows why this should be the case.
Clearly, the gods hate me. I re-join a mailing list that work has kept me away from for the last couple of months, because work seemed to have slacked off a bit. Then my workload goes and doubles, and I’m left running away from the list in order to stay on top of the job. About twenty minutes after I re-subscribed. That’s a special kind of embarrassing.
“He’s a stupid bastard sometimes. I mean, he gets confused about what’s really important. Sometimes I think he knows me, other times I think we might as well be on different planets.
Look at him now, sitting there moping over some imagined failing on his part, like a great useless lump. Why can’t he see that whatever it is, it doesn’t fucking matter? I don’t want him to be perfect. Just happy. I mean, it’s kind of sweet and all, and it shows he cares, but for fuck’s sake!
Well bollocks to this. I want some fun. We’re going to the pub, if I have to drag him there.”
God, I’m shattered. A week in New Orleans, and one day of this con, and I’m more or less dead. This isn’t good. Three days of con to go, not enough money, not enough sleep, and plenty of bile ahead of me – god knows I could write a column right now and it would be solid hate. Now I’m off to watch a bunch of strangers eat food I don’t like. Wish me luck.