Happy Fucking Earth Day, Man

This comic is a needless parody of last Friday's xkcd.

A Christmas Tale with Mr. Jack Happy

December 25th, 2008: 0413

Things were cold, then. Cold for Jack, and cold for the earth, the wind was bitter like an old man with no family and no friends. It turned his face a shade of festive blue, his lips cracking a wide smile.

Jack knew there was no room in this world for yet another poem about snow. It covered the surroundings and turned all things virgin white, pristine and so on, so forth. How many ways can one say that Winter is a time of death, hibernation, and purificiation, he pondered?

O Lord, thou art a four-faced phantom!
This face: white and flaky like canned biscuits!

Still, he felt compelled to mull over the icy landscape, the unshovelled sidewalls frozen with millions of shoe- and boot-prints. Dirty mountains of grimy snow were plowed onto the curb and left to melt on the sides of the streets. It was certainly a magnificent and beautiful Time of the Year!

O Mother, thoust nature is four-sided!
This side: chill like the store-bought Christmas ham!

Drops of ice-water fell on his head and sent shivers down his spine, as he stood outside the train station. Icicles had formed on all of the doorways and tops of windows, arcing their tendrils downward above him, menacing him. The puffy snow-filled clouds hovered overhead like bombers ready to strike. Jack needed ear-muffs.

O Father, yourst face has four hands!
This hand: turns the slowliest of all!

Short days and long nights drove Jack insane. The sun came too short, didn’t deliver on its promise of rejuvenation, and hid away from the cold dark. Doctors would just say he suffered from seasonal depression, but Jack knew better. Jack knew God hated the Cold, too—why else freeze the Earth, but to spare it the suffering?

Jack huddled for warmth, waiting for the train, and felt alone in a shared isolation, shared between him and the City. The City: she had fallen flat on her face, slipped on a patch of black ice, and didn’t want to get up only to inch forward, barely lifting her feet, in fear of falling, again. Things were cold, cold for Jack, and cold for her, too.

O Christ, mas o menos buenavista!
What ho? Ho, ho, ho, frozen peas!
(They’re even better when you’re dead!)

Why Do They Call Me Mr. Happy? "Read Between the Lines" (Filler Comic)

What's sad is that I could've probably finished "No Means Whatever" Scene 4 in the time it took me to draw these. And, yes, they're cut off. I… am not concerned. Sorry.

A Not Very Special Presentation by Mr. Jack Happy (Do Not Be Alarmed)

 

[ Why late, Scene 4? ]

1. Jack went away over the weekend on a lovely vacation.
2. Adult Swim dares to premiere both new episodes of Venture Brothers and Metalocalpyse online on Mondays.
3. See Jack work. Work, Jack, work. Hard. Harder. HARDER! O-o-oh, baby, that's the spot…

[COMING TOMORROW]
(Double Entendre'd)

Live from Not For You Studios, The Happy Comic Comedy Act with Mr. Jack Happy: "No Means Whatever"

[Act One: Scene Three]

 First: [Act One: Scene One] Previous: [Act One: Intermission] Next: […]

June 18th, 2008:

Jack knew he would never know who he was. Identity was clay—an unfired lump of mud on his work-table. It was a grade school ashtray, a middle school miniature penis, a high school Futurist knock-off, a college equestrian figurine waving a saber… A young adult’s hobby locked in the closet, shoved behind the shoes, taped in a box, mislabeled, forgotten.

There’s productivity to be had! Work to be done! Money to be made! What need is there of an identity in our capitalist society driven by consumerism, in our popular culture driven by fads? Hark, you can be What You Do! It’s simple, it’s easy, it’s profitable…

…It’s predictably boring. So Jack cleaned out the skeletons from his closet and found his old identity. It was markedly different than what he remembered, though: he remembered noble delusions of intellectual pursuit and Renaissance knowledgeability. He remembered words like “knowledgeability.”

What was Jack to do? His identity was dusty and unrecognizable, some maligned form of a lost truth in darkened memories. Jack was once an Artist, but now what did he have—nothing more than a lot of words he learned in school for describing what he didn’t have. He wold be a Writer.

But, ‘tis the Modern Age, young pioneer! So, being a Writer quickly becomes being a Blogger, and Jack did have himself a Blog for awhile. Until it, too, bored him, and lost its purpose, and gave him no sense of identity; so, instead, he fell in love with a beautiful maiden.

Jack did not live Happily Ever After. Quite the opposite, in fact, for awhile… It was lucky for Jack that he had good friends.

And it was there that Jack knew he had found his purpose. He saw Art in friendship, and he saw an entire generation with that empty reflection in their eyes, that lost identity. Who are any of us, anyway?

Therefore, Jack knew he would never know who he truly was, but he knew he could draw, and write, and talk, and laugh, and cry, and live, and die.

But never love again.

Mr. Jack Happy Presents A Not For You Studios Presentation of the Happy Comic Comedy Act: “No Means Whatever”

 

[Act One: Scene Two]

Previous: [Act One: Scene One] Next: [Act One: Intermission]

“Hotel Fuck,” a cheap little poem by Mr. J. Happy

And the haze lifts, her bare hip
Shifts, watch it go: so far, far;
Away with him. Send for snacks,
Open the mini-bar—tiny happy gifts,
Hey! Watch out! Attack!

Sex is a weapon, a loaded gun,
All too much, too much fun;
Games in secret—don’t let on,
That you know, you know?

When the dawn breaks, her wet
Hair shakes, all over you, it’s all—
All set! Are you awake? Can you
Get up. Let’s fall—fall apart;

Three blind judges, one Eye between.

Sex is a weapon, a sharpened blade,
So little escape, so little to gain;
Let’s just hope—mark the grave,
Make the grade, here lies our Son:

Alone, he left us. So much pain.

What’s that? A meaning? Oh,
No, it’s just the maid, please turn—
Turn it down, honey. Quick! To the
Shower, we can cram in another…
Love is made, watch out! It burns.

Sex is an extension of our selves,

How do you rate?

Bill paid: one-oh-one-six-eight.

Fairy Tale Endings: Hail to the King, part 1

All right then, boys and girls, it looks like it's that time again. Your boy Johnny Despair, Esq.'s back with another story for you. Ya'll remember last week, when Mr. Happy and I rounded you lot up and crammed a big ol' mess a fairytale what-have-ya-s down yer throats, and I mentioned we had one extra-strength fantasy queued up fer ya. Well, put down yer Gameboys and yer smartphones and settle in. Cuz it's here, baby, and it is not taking your crap. I'd do what it says. It's crazy.

Hail To The King

—written by: Johnny Despair, Esq., with illustrations by Mr. Jack Happy

hey say that, the day our Queen died, it was the saddest of days our land had seen for a generation; however, I myself was, I'm ashamed to say, quite pleased. I was a carpenter, and royal caskets were quick and profitable work, if you could get it. Besides, what did I care? Carpenters rarely rubbed elbows with royalty. We were supposed to love the monarchy, for taking care of us, but I was never the type to look up to a man who was simply standing on my back. Still, I knew my place, and I could endear myself to my “betters” when need be. So I built a fine casket, and I delivered it on time. They asked if I would not also bear the casket to the grave. My curiosity got the better of me, and I consented.

My role in the ceremony was much smaller than I had expected; I suppose that was why it was deemed suitable for a “mere commoner.” Several of the King's servants assisted me, and then they hurried me back the servants' quarters. The others gossiped among themselves while I reflected on my brief glimpse into the funeral. Our King sat at the front of the gathering, near his two sons and the Bishop. They all looked solemn, but the King...it was curious. It was the first time I had ever actually seen him, so his ways were unfamiliar to me, but his did not seem to be the face of a grieving man. He seemed, I suppose, at peace somehow. Where most bowed their heads in respect, he sat up boldly and fixed his attention on the casket. Though as we sat the casket by the grave, I thought that the King's eyes had actually been resting on me. I wondered why it was that the king seemed so...

The servants persuaded me to linger in their quarters. The King might have need for me, should there be some issue with the casket, or even better, perhaps in his grief, he would feel compelled to reward me for the work I'd done setting his poor wife to rest. I remembered his face, the hard-set lines standing out remarkably next to fresh faces of his sons. It was not age alone that left such marks. I doubted very much that I should want anything to do with our King, but I was also sure that if I left now, after being asked to wait, I would be all the worse for it when the King did summon me next.

Hours passed and the funeral went on. I wondered if perhaps it would be made into a whole week of mourning. The sun was nearly setting when the funeral ended and the feast began. As the servants had said, the King did summon for me. I was brought before him as he sat in his customary position of honor before the gathered revelers. Once more I felt that hardened old face fall watching me. It seemed as though there was something distasteful on his tongue. Finally he spoke.

“Though this is a day of somber remembrance, it is also a day, much like any other. Worthy men and dutiful service are valued especially on these difficult days. Sir carpenter, approach me.” I did as I was told. “Kneel.” I obeyed my lord. I felt his sword upon my shoulders. “Now rise, a knight in your King's personal service.” Applause filled the massive chamber. I was confused. Only noblemen could be knights, and not before years of service. Then I realized that I would also be expected, as a knight, to maintain my own tools of warfare. This was meant to be quick and profitable. But of course the King had to show gratitude. The favors of the nobility.

I was allowed to sit at the feast, and afterwards, lead to some chambers that I might stay for the evening. Fine chambers they were, with a large, comfortable bed, and expertly-wrought silver candlesticks, and a beautifully carved wardrobe. I wondered why they needed a casket from a man such as me when they could get the man behind such lovely work. I let out a sigh, wondering what damned luck the morrow would bring. I'd never even made such a large bed before, let alone rested in one, but now I suppose I would have to accustom myself to silk sheets and purple robes. Despite the many luxuries, it was a fitful sleep.

In the morning, I found that I was summoned before his highness once more. “I hope you rested well, sir knight. For you shall be escorting me on a hunting expedition. I need...time, alone with my grief. After breakfast, we shall leave.”

“Would you highness not prefer to be escorted by his veteran retainers on his trip?”

“It is not your place to question my orders nor motives.” His expression hadn't changed, but he grew slightly flush. “And no, I would not prefer more veteran retainers. For the record, I am not that old that I need my most valuable knights just to take in a leisurely hunt! My sons need the aid of trusted men-at-arms far more than I do. Now away with you. Make ready to leave.”

He did not speak to me again until we had stopped for our mid-day meal. I spread out a thick blanket and set to unpacking one of our baskets of provisions. The King unceremoniously began snatching up whatever food caught his fancy as soon as I'd set it down. “Hungry,” he growled around a mouth full of chicken. I was unsurprised to find that he was apparently unaccustomed to not immediately getting whatever he desired. How like a child this father of the kingdom could be. I could not contain my amusement, and let out a brief laugh as I finished setting out the meal. “Whaff funny?” he demanded. I shook my head, saying nothing. “What's funny?” he asked again, struggling to enunciate clearly around his checks bulging with food.

“Nothing,” I assured him. He looked me in the eye. I silently cursed myself for my indiscretion. Just make it through all this, I thought, and then he'll forget about you and let you get back to your life. Anger him every time you speak, and who knows how long...

“Laugh,” he told me.

“I beg your pardon sir?”

“Laugh. Again. Like you did a moment ago.” His face was turned towards the picnic. I wasn't sure what it was he wanted, but I managed a laugh. He turned back towards me, devouring a slice of pie that was smeared into his graying beard. I laughed harder.

“What a dashing figure you cut, Lord!” I was sure that it would anger him, but I simply could not hold back.

He stiffened. “Of course! It this natural poise of one selected by God to rule! The inborn grace of royalty!” He was being completely serious! He had no idea...I laughed even harder, now. Finally, it dawned on him that my joy was at his expense. His harsh face further darkened. “You over estimate your boyish charm, sir.”

In a moment his sword was drawn and held to my throat. “You also underestimate the capacities of your King!” He slashed at my chest, slicing with such speed and ferocity I could hardly register if I was being taught a lesson or simply murdered on the spot. I was frozen, not even daring to breathe lest that slight motion somehow tear open a dozen expertly-placed wounds and ruin me. After a few terrifying moments, he let his sword return to his side. The King stepped towards me and tore away the tattered strips of fabric that just moments ago had been a fine shirt. He stared at my chest, then began examining it with his hands. I still could not move.

After a few moments, he stepped back and once more looked me in the eyes. “It appears that I have not wounded you.” He moved his face closer to mine. “This time. In the future, you would do well to remember your place. Now pack up this mess.” I had not yet had a chance to eat. I did as I was told.

The sun was just beginning to set as we came upon a small house. It was nothing much, no stately manor, but it seemed handsome and sturdy enough. A surprisingly practical choice for a hunting lodge, actually.

“Who built you this lodging, Highness?” I asked, curious as to the modest abode's origins.

“I could not say. It is irrelevant.”

“Do you commission many homes in this fashion, Lord?” I continued, unsatisfied.

“Commission? Do I look so common as to commission homes of this caliber?” he answered, in one of his colder tones. “Now cease your ignorant questions and stable the horses while I go make myself at home.” I did not understand what exactly was going on, but I took the horses to the stable. I found there was already one horse in the small barn. Was there a servant already here? I returned to the house and passed a middle-aged couple carrying burlap sacks. I asked the King who they were.

“Oh, the people who built this place.”

“Where are they going?”

“I never thought to ask,” he said, clearly bored. “When shall dinner be prepared?”

Had he not already convinced me that he was capable of slaying a man for the slightest offense, I would have found his current conduct completely unbelievable. “I...as soon as I change my shirt,” I said, suddenly feeling quite exposed.

“Oh? So you think your own comfort comes before that of your King?” I couldn't stand to look at him.

“No, your lordship. I shall see to the victuals.”

He stretched himself out in what appeared to be the nicest chair of the household. “Good.” It was the first time I had seen him smile.

Dinner was tense. After our picnic, I was afraid to say or do anything that might set him off. We ate in silence until the King , tearing into a turkey leg, finally deigned to speak. “Do you know,” he mumbled, “why we have come here?”

“To hunt, lord?” I answered with what I hoped was simply “timidity” and not “fear.”

“Yes, but do you know what we seek?” I wondered if I was supposed to know. I decided it would be better not to answer. “No, I suppose you wouldn't, would you?” He took a deep swallow of wine. “They say that the beastman of the woods stalks through these parts.” Of course, everyone had heard rumors of the beastman, but people never spoke of him as something to be hunted. He was like an animal, ferocious and wild, but with the cunning and posture of a man. Who would want to match themselves against such fearsome prey?

“And my liege hopes to slay him?” I ventured.

“Hmm. Perhaps. Perhaps not. I am curious to see if the rumors are true. You know that they also say that he is foreign royalty, afflicted with a ghastly curse. I wonder...” His gaze seemed distant; I did not care to guess what he might be contemplating.

I finished my meal with haste, lest his mood suddenly change and once more dash my chance for sustenance. My desperation was not lost on the King. “Or perhaps,” he said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “I have already found my beastman, and foolishly invited him to dinner.” I could not tell if he was amused or disgusted. “Yes, it looks like a man, but it is clear from the bared, primitive chest, from the wild, unintelligent eyes, and the complete lack of grace or restraint that this cannot be considered a man. No, it is but a beast, a low creature fit only to serve,” he said, rising. “Its crude imitation of a man is quite insulting to me, in fact. Beast!” he boomed. “Cease this ignoble facade!”

I was dumbstruck. What did he want? He took a step forward, hand on his sword. “Drop your pretensions of civility, beast! Strip yourself of those stolen, ruined garments!” I sat frozen. He couldn't be serious. “Do as I command, beast! The only use for a disobedient beast is meat!” I knew that he was not one for idle threats. I stood, and somehow my numb, trembling hands managed to work my clothing off. I could tell that my humiliation was only beginning.

Okay, kiddies, we're gonna call it here for this evening. This thing's still goin' strong, no doubt, but I know you kids can't sit still that long without needing a snack or going potty or twittering or someshit, so you know what? Tune next week for the exciting conclusion!

Till then, kiddies, stay away from strange monarchs, and the even stranger

Johnny Despair, Esq.

Not For You Studios Presents Mr. Jack Happy Presenting The Happy Comic Comedy Act: “No Means Whatever”

[Act One: Scene One]

Next: [Act One: Scene Two]

Jack's Recipes for Happiness: The “Dr. Feel-Not-So-Good”

• 2 shots Skye Vodka
• 2 shots Kilbeggan's Irish Whiskey
• 1 shot Bacardi Gold rum
• 5 drops of orange bitters
• 3-3 cups of Diet Dr. Pepper

PUT IN DRINKING CONTAINER WITH THE MIGHT OF YOUR WILL AND CONSUME, MORTAL!

“An Ode to Hicks”

—a poem by Mr. Jack Happy, with illustration from a sketch diary (circa summer o' 2003)

O Hicks, thou art the foulest of
all so-called subcultures; for thou
art defined by thine ignorance and
absence of substance, for shame.

Thy patron saint Foxworthy may
claim “A glorious lack of sophistication”—
Alas! 'Tis no redeeming stupidity,
will thoust argue from atop thy dung-hill?

Hark! Who doth approach?
—“Wha'tchu sayin', faggot?”
The stench of Budweiser and American cheeses!
Most foul beast, what sayeth thou?

—“Ah dun' like yer tone, boy,
Ah'll break you in hahf, c'mon”—FLEE!—
“Ya'll come back 'ere, y'hear?”

[Editor's Note: I must confess, the comic was pretty much the money-shot, everything else was just filler. A three minute doodle? An old sketch from a six- or seven-year-old sketchbook? A poem out my ass? Seriously, self?]

Fairytale Endings: No Princess

Alright, boys and grrls, gather 'round. It's your boy Johnny Despair, Esq., back from his big ol' business trip, and don't you worry, he remembered to bring gifts. He ain't forgotten 'bout his little ragamuffins.

Now, settle down, cuz this treat is special, see. You gotta hear a little this and that to appreciate it, alright? Now, me and Mr. Happy've been workin' our little hands to the bone! This all started with a simple little story, and then good ol' Mr. Happy said, "Why don't I make some pictures?" And I said, that's fine. And he said, "Gosh, why don't you make more stories, so I can make more pictures for all the boys and girls out there?" And I said, "Why sure, they've been good lately, why not?"

And all of the sudden, we had five stories on our hands, two written by Mr. happy himself! Now, it wouldn't be fair to make him write AND draw everything, so I lent a hand and started drawing too.

"But Mr. Johnny—"

That's Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq., kid.

"But Mr. Johnny Despair, Esq., you don't draw!"

Awww, ain't that cute, thinkin' he knows things. No, boys and girls, I don't draw much. But I can make a little magic happen from time to time, should the moon be in just the right position.

Oh, there's just one more thing: I mentioned we had five stories, right? Well, one story ate all of his veggies and did all his chores the first time he was asked, so you know what, kiddies? He grew up real big and strong and fine-lookin', too. And he was so mush bigger than the other kids, it made them feel all wimpy just standin' next to him. So we're going to let him out to play next week.

Now, settle down, children. Who here likes fairy tales?

Sour Apple

—written by Johnny Despair, Esq, with illustrations by: Mr. Jack Happy

oddamn, fucking peons,” she said.

I turned to her. I was seated next to her at the bar, but she wasn't talking to me. She seemed to be cursing her empty glass. She didn't even look up as she called for another drink, some signature mixture that she called “Love Gone Sour.” I ordered one too, having never heard of the concoction, and willing to try anything once. The drink smelled of apples and ethanol, and fought all the way down. She laughed as I grimaced and coughed.

She was a beautiful, absurd image, sitting there. In this dingy little “tavern,” with that intricate shawl hiding her face, making her look like a truly refined, modest woman. But she'd drank any hint of modesty away by now. She was beginning to sway like a cartoon snake before a charmer. Her auburn eyes darted about the room and her head followed lazily after like a person who was walking an over-eager dog.

“What 'cha looking for?” I asked.

She turned to me. She looked me in the eye and held my gaze. Neither of us looked away. Then she nodded to herself, satisfied, and turned back to her drink. She had a poor profile; it made her nose look sharp and predatory.

“What's anyone looking for?” she finally answered.

“True love?” I ventured. She laughed again.

“That's…that's what I figured, you know?” Her head tilted back; the dim lights made her olive complexion glow, and I couldn't take my eyes off of her. “Shows what I know, though.”

“How so?” She snaped her head back forward.

“I tried to help her. I knew this girl. Pretty thing. A little thick, but very pretty. Not too lucky with love. She came to me one night, crying her eyes out. 'Why can't I just find the man for me?' So I said: well, I can help you find him. Make it so he comes to you, you know? I mean…I was doing her a favor, for chrissakes. She asked me to!” For just a moment, there was something sad in her eyes. She shrugged it off.

“So what…what exactly happened?” I was holding my chin in one hand, my drink in the other, trying to convey my interest and hide my drunkenness at the same time.

“They—those peons—they called me a witch. Called me hateful, said I was jealous. Like it was some spiteful thing, you know?” Her head swung from her drink back to me. “Tell me, if you got to sleep, peacefully, and dream pleasant little dreams, with no worries or uncertainties or cares, in complete bliss, totally unharmed, until the day you met your true love: would you call that cruel? Evil? Wicked?” She took a swig of her drink. “I'd call it a damn blessing.”

“Well…what about if you never met your true love?”

She looked into my eyes again. “Then you'd just sleep. Dream. Forever. About your true love. Never knowing the disappointment that life held. Never knowing loneliness, rejection, misery.” She let out a fierce little cackle. “If I had really hated her, I wouldn't have done anything!”

And then, to her drink again: “Why can't anyone see that?”

I waved down the bartender, ordered us another round. I raised my drink to her. “To romantics.”

She raised her drink to mine. “To happily ever afters.”

What Fools

—written by: Johnny Despair Esq., with illustrations by Mr. Jack Happy

'd been visiting the center for the past few weeks. A community service thing. It was creepy and it smelled awful but it beat picking trash on the highway. And the people really were nice, for the most part. Just sad and lonely and strange, leftovers from a forgotten age. I wondered if I wasn't doing more harm than good, invading their territory, flaunting my youth, my ability to just get up and leave if I wanted to. I was, of course, just making excuses for not wanting to do it. Still…

They really were nice folks, though. Always interested in what I was doing with myself. “Do you have a girlfriend?” they asked me, and “What do you do for a living?” Did I have any pets, did my family live nearby. I didn't tell them about the court-order, but everything else was fair game. One lady never asked me questions, never said anything at all, that I could tell. Miss Merryweather, they called her, and I never heard her correct them. I would read them the paper or lead a talent show or bring in my cat to visit, and they'd all gather round, eager for the stimulation, but Miss Merryweather would have nothing to do with it. She just drifted around the room, pausing to touch someone's shoulder, or to stare out a window.

The staff told me it was psycho-somatic. Nothing really wrong with her, they said. Dropped off by her daughter. Pretty young thing. “Right, Miss Merryweather? Isn't your daughter pretty?” Miss Merryweather nodded carefully. “I bet you can't wait to see her again, huh, Miss Merryweather?” She never visited.

I made it a point from then on to spend at least a little time with Miss Merryweather whenever I came by. The other folks didn't seem to understand. “She's fine, she just wants attention,” they said. “Don't you go and try to be a doctor.” She made me think of my own mother, slowly eaten away by madness. I felt less guilty when I sat with Miss Merryweather. I talked to her about whatever came to mind, and when that ran out, I told her stories. Ones my mother used to tell me. Sometimes I caught her smiling at something, when I sat with her. This was uncommon.

Once, I ran out of stories, so I brought in one of those huge tomes of fables that rests on every child's bookshelf. It seemed to me like she was trying to read it over my shoulder, so I left it for her. “Tell me which one's your favorite; I'll read it for you next time.” I smiled at her as her gaze held some empty middle space.

My next visit, I did my normal thing, a few hours entertaining the gang with a trivia contest. Afterwards I found Miss Merryweather, asked her how she liked the book. I didn't expect her to suddenly speak, to whisper out a sad, rasping “Thank you,” but I was thinking she might acknowledge me. But no such luck. I asked her if I could read her some more stories; nothing. I tried to find the book, inquired with her caregivers, but no one had seen it. They searched her room to no avail. They shrugged. Crazy old people, who knows?

I kept visiting with Miss Merryweather whenever I went by the center. Sometimes I even snuck her little gifts, candy and tea and the like. I had no clue if she could actually make herself any tea, but it seemed right, somehow. Once, I was sure I could smell the pumpkin-spice blend on her. But I never seemed to make any progress with her. She was as sad and distant as ever.

Eventually, I served my time, but by then, I'd made the center such a hobby, I kept going anyway. It made me glad I never told them about the court-order; they'd have thought I'd done something awful, to keep coming for that long. One day, Miss Merryweather was nowhere to be seen. This didn't seem that unusual, as she wandered so much; still, I hadn't skipped out on her yet. I asked around about her. “She's gone,” they told me. “Oh, not like that. Well, sort of? She's…just gone.” She had disappeared a few nights ago. The police were looking for her. They tried to contact her family, but her daughter had changed her number at some point, and no one knew how to reach her.

I stood dumbfounded. How could they just lose her? Why didn't anyone care? Before I could say anything, the staffer's eyes lit up. “Oh! Right!” She hustled off, returning moments later with a box. “We found this the other night while looking for some clue to where she went. It was just sitting there, under her bed. I swear we'd already…”

The box was stuffed with half-empty tea tins and candy bags. I smiled. It occurred the me that I never gave her enough stuff to fill this whole box, though. Not unless…

I rooted through the wrappers. There it was: the book I'd given her. I thanked the orderly and went home. For some reason, I felt like I couldn't open it right away. I made a cup of coffee and moved out onto the balcony. Thumbing through the book, I wondered what I expected to find. Some terrible secret? Documented abuse? Evidence of dementia? An illustration caught my eye. It was a scene of some unfortunate young girl meeting her fairy godmother. The godmother's wings had been crossed out with a black crayon.

I read through the accompanying story, hoping for some further mark. I found it on the last page, beneath the “They all lived happily ever after” bit. She'd scrawled an imitation of the fairy godmother's face, and next to that, added, “What about her?”

Okay, children, that's enough for right now. Ya'll get up and stretch your legs, grab a snack, do tinkles. Mr. Happy'll be in in five minutes to give you kids your next story.

Hope you like our second half, kiddies. Till then, I'm just the lovable, huggable,

Johnny Despair, Esq.

Fairytale Endings: Good Night to Angels and Devils Alike

Children, fairy tales were once a very grim thing. Indeed, they were meant to frighten, to terrify. To drive through your thick little skulls the lessons of life that you need learn to survive.

Do not wander in the woods, for wolves shall devour you. Thou shalt not trust the stranger, for it may be a villain in disguise. Do you wish to bring ruin upon your family? I hope not!

As a service to your good-for-nothing failures for parents, the illustrious Jonathan Despair and myself offer unto you, you writhing sacks of foolish innocence, these stories.

Sit still, backs straight, shoulders square, and listen carefully, for it is story-time…

I do so hope God is in your heart, for you will need Him.

Two AM Revelations

—written by: Mr. Jack Happy, with illustrations by Johnny Despair, Esq.

 sank into my usual seat at my usual bar, ordered my usual drink and struck up the usual conversation with the bartender. He smiled like he always did, and I talked about the weather, about how things were just fine. Work is work; Same Old Shit, Different Day.

The red-haired waitress with the hips I loved to watch so much came over and greeted me. Said what is required of a waitress to say, gestured and offered and laughed at my awful jokes, my stupid puns. She was the best friend I ever did know, I think—friend because I never could get her number out of her, no matter how drunk and pitiful I got.

I liked this place, despite it being a total dive. Smokey, dusty, probably hadn’t seen a health regulation since before Reagan could first recall. The waitress, Lucy or Laura (I forget), she mentioned something about an act on tonight. There was a tiny raised stage in one corner, for what I thought was decoration since they hadn’t put any performer on it in the years I’d been frequenting. The owner started rumours of karaoke to attract the Asian demographic, so some half-Japanaese yokels came around long enough to get impatient and leave.

The bartender—he was Hispanic, something like Coata Rican, and real friendly—talked some about how this Bluesman came rolling in one night and played for him and the two other guys in at the time, and the owner heard it and absolutely begged him to come back and perform. His name was Tommy and something you’d expect of Blues musicians—Tommy-something-about-his-stature, Tommy-his-demeanor, maybe some kind of foodstuff-Tommy. Can’t remember anything, now, since I sobered up the next morning.

I awoke in my bed without knowing how I got there. Laura or Leslie wasn’t there. Dissapointment. My clothes were gone. Not the ones I was wearing. All of them. Like, my entire closet had been emptied. And my furniture was gone. The entire fucking apartment was absolutely bare, except for a matchbook from the bar, Wolsey’s.

The night before, the Bluesman came in, Tommy-something or Tommy-another. He was short, came up to my shoulders sitting down, but he stood tall. His clothes were all frayed and tattered like I’d expect from some hobo-musicman riding the rails from gig to gig. It was all quite novel, in this day and age. His hair was white, and he had a scraggly moustache and big ol’ muttonchops. Real caricature, with his pointy hat with its shiny blue band, his Blue suede jacket and matching kerchief in the front pocket.

When he came in, the owner—Lil’ Wolsey, we called him—opened the door to his office and waved to him. They exchanged pleasantries, and I noticed the man had a shrill voice, like a child’s. How he was going to sing the Blues with that tenor was beyond me, at that point, and I remember vaguely asking Carlos the bartender something about that. I recall laughing, but it’s faint. I’m not much amused about it no more.

Tommy-troubador or whatever waddled his tiny-way over to my table—I guess because I was the only guy there, on this hustlin’ Monday night. He pulled up a stool, took out an unfiltered cigarette and said something in that kid-tone of his. I responded:

“Fine. You?”

“Need a nap real fierce,” he said, and tapped his ash off into the ceramic plate on the table. The musicman was old, I noticed, at this point: the lines set on his face weren’t easily visible from a distance, somehow obsfucated by the baby-fat of his cheeks: a stark contradiction so contrary your mind refused the presence of both.

His eyes were the colour of sky around last call, and they seemed dead behind the reflection on his cornea. The man moved like the living dead, like George Romero was directing his choreography and his diet was strictly no-carb grey matter. Something about seeing this guy made me think in poetry, I recollected.

Wolsey stepped up and begged the little old guy to perform. He had produced a coronet from nowhere, when I wasn’t looking. I was busy trying to covertly ogle Leslie or Loulabell. She had this magnanimous ass somehow contained in shorts shorter than I could’ve asked God to make ‘em in my most fervent prayers.

I really wanted to go to bed, all of a sudden.

Tommy-trumpeter was atop the stage, perched on a stool that seemed only slightly shorter than he was tall. He placed wrinkled, chapped lips on the instrument and out came noise like from Miles Davis’ love affair with Duke Ellington in the heated alleyways of New Orldeane one midsummer night’s eve.

He played, and seemed to sleep, all at the same time. His eyes shut and never reopened, in my memory. The music was his dream, and we were but figments in his subconscious. I would have had the rest of my drink, but the rest of my drink had me, first.

The owner danced, in the awkward way that white folk do when they can’t help themselves. Some byproduct of too many generations removed from soulful living, I suppose. The waitress joined him, and that’s when I couldn’t help but do so, too, followed by the bartender and I don’t even know when those kids came in off the street.

When the bar was at capacity, the police came. To dance. Tommy played his coronet—shrill, halting notes almost off-key, but perfect in their melodious malady, the pain was the birthing of some unforeseen energy, unbeknownst to us.

And he sang:

“When the cattle crawls,
Through the cornstalks;
The livestock we ain’t,
Not the farmers a’night.

“When the meadow grows,
The fleece, oh, the fleece;
Fleece the forty winks,
Rob that ol’ Sandman blind.

“Walk the tall grass, darlin’,
Find the lamb, again, son a’none;
He ain’t my shephard, I say,
Can’t herd my dreams.

“And await the Seventh Seal,
When Gabriel doth blow, sweetheart;
First came Cowboy Ron, yee-haw,
The second was a grey September in One.

“Lil’ ol’ Kim’s stomach rumbles after three,
Po’ boy fightin’ a po’ atomic wa-wa-war;
Four flus, why you still askin’, son,
Won’t be long, oh no, it won’t be long.

“Meanwhile, deep in the Heart a’Darkness,
Six-hundred souls suffer number five;
They sing—

‘O, fall on us, hide us, face us,
From the wrath of Mary’s little Lamb,
For the great Day hath come,
An’ who, who, who can stand?’

“An’ at six, the tropics have shaken,
Boy, are you still not yet awaken;
Where is he, who tends the flock,
Will you wake ‘im, son?

“O Lord, not me, not me, Lord,
Surely he will not like it;
And cry, and cry, and cry…”

The echoes of his coronet and thin, child-like voice bounce in my head, intensifying the hangover. My empty apartment is but a mere reflection of my empty self. My limbs feel heavy, moving them is like navigating a thick, mucky liquid. I move about the bedroom, find the bathroom, find no relief there and empty myself further than I already feel.

I find myself talking to myself, as I clutch the lid of my toilet, “Will I wake him?”

The Unwhole Story

—written by: Mr. Jack Happy, with illustrations by Johnny Despair, Esq.

hen they showed up at my doorstep, they had nothing. They had eaten hardly anything in a week, and looked the part. A sad sight, for certain; of course, we took them in.

Here at Safehaven Behavioral, we have all sorts of in-patients: broken, destitute people with nowhere to go and clearly no one to care for them. Mostly, the senile and the poor ended up at our facilities, but we were the charitable sort. Opened in eighteen-eighty-one, the plaque on the foundation cement said, by Doctor Jay Grimstone, my great-great-great uncle.

They put their names as Geal and Donn, a fashion of nomenclature for children with which I was wholly unfamiliar. One had lengthy brown hair with an oddly fresh sheen; the other had jet-black hair like the finest silks of the Orient. Too poor to eat, but not for professional-grade shampoo? I questioned their status as sisters, to which they only blinked and looked hungrier in response.

I wasn’t sure if they could speak until the second day, when Donn—the darker-haired sister—asked timidly to speak with me. Her eyes, of hue matching her head, danced with such fright and desperation that I had no choice but to comply.

—“Yes, dear?”
—“You can never let us out.”
—“Oh… Why is that, Donn?”
—“He will never marry us.”
—“Well, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

Poor thing, her psyche was shattered from some kind of traumatic experience, rendering it a pile of paranoid delusion; commonplace at Safehaven, unfortunately, but never not depressing to witness. One in-patient swore that cyborgs stole her organs, and I wish I was joking or making this up.

Sometimes, at night, I consider my grasp on reality and say a little prayer of thanks.

On the third day, while in the common room, Geal and Donn sat and stared at the floor, hours just gazing downward. Their complexions had improved slightly, after a good three square and a couple showers. New patients find the reintroduction to regular hygiene to be invigorating typically, and the routine gives their minds temporary respite.

One patient brushes his teeth every seventy minutes on the dot, without exception or fail. He hasn’t had a cavity, yet.

During day four, Donn put Geal’s long hair up in a complicated bun and weaved in some long white ribbons with which a nurse had provided them, then adorned it with a huge dirty plume produced from where I am unsure. I supposed they must’ve had it on their person at check-in and shrugged mentally.

One of the other patients, a gentle rotund, elderly man named August who suffered from Alzheimer’s and halitosis, complimented Geal in passing, which caused the frail woman to start and shriek. Donn spent the next hour hugging Geal’s quivering form close to herself; August was pretty put-out, himself.

When it came to chores assignment, there was an interesting altercation with the two sisters. They absolutely refused any chore whatsoever. We had found in the past that giving the patients responsibility helped make them feel more normal, more at home; however, they were having none of this tomfoolery.

—“Scrub the floor! Wash the dishes! Scrub the floor! Wash the dishes!”

Geal quietly chanted to herself for the next half-hour, with an inexplicable menacing yet empty look on her face. Like she was only intimidating out of habit, intimidating an imaginary servant like how she was taught to do.

On the fifth day, Donn had her own spat with August. The poor old man had spent all morning trying to find his slippers, and then found them in Donn’s cubby. He had confronted her about it, shaking the ratty old faded-red bedroom shoes at her. She came back with the most vile things I had heard since I was briefly in the Navy and attended a George Carlin performance while on leave.

It was after this that I noticed that Geal only ever wore one shoe on her left foot, while the right was always bare, black with dirt and debris. Throughout that day, she would occasionally angrily glare at her bare foot, and kick it against the wall, eventually so hard that it bruised and swelled purple.

We started her on sedatives after that, it took the remainder of her life away.

On the sixth day, with Geal medicated, Donn became nastier and nastier to the other in-patients. She attempted to order every single one of them around, and became quite unruly when nobody complied—the reactions were a mixture of confused, indignant, and oblivious. We had to restrain her to her room for awhile, to calm her down, while Geal just rubbed her foot and stared at the floor.

August’s large family visited that day, all six of his siblings.

—“So, Doc, how’s old Gus doing?”
—“Mert! Don’t act like he’s not right here.”
—“Yeah, sure, Blossom, he’s right here.”
—“Hasn’t been in ages, you know it.”
—“Did you bring the cheese, Jaq?”
—“Perla was bringing the cheese.”
—“No, I brought the string.”
—“Damn…”

They bantered for some time, me in the middle. August, for his part, scornfully glared at Geal. I think he liked her, but his foggy old mind couldn’t handle the emotions anymore. He gave her his dessert at supper, which she ate heartily without a word, giving him a shy smile in return.

Donn came out of her room on the morning of the seventh day. She had cried out loudly sometime around daybreak, afterward one of the nurses had come to me.

—“Doctor Jacob, I… Well, I don’t know where, but she, uh, found some toenail clippers.”
—“And, Nurse Tremaine?”
—“She took off all of her toenails, there’s blood everywhere…”
—“Jesus! Really? All of them?”
—“She seemed to be trying to actually cut off her toes with them, I think…”

Her feet were bandaged up, and she limped over to the couch where Geal was curled into a ball. The two of them sat together and stared at the floor all morning, not eating, speaking or moving. August kept hobbling by and glaring at the pair, muttering to himself about his missing slippers.

After dinner all the patients were mostly gathered around the television—except for the young woman who thought the people inside the “Teevee Box” were going to use radio-waves to brainwash her into sending them all of her money, and the two sisters—I remember distinctly the sound of a startled yelp, followed by a gruff voice choking out a raspy scream.

The staff all raced down the hall to where the sound came from and found August standing in front of one of the patient quarter’s open entrance, holding his hand to his throat in the universal sign of distress. The first nurse who made it to him turned and saw what he did:

Geal was hanging from the ceiling fan in her room, a bedsheet-noose around her swollen, blackened neck. Donn was on the floor, sitting cross-legged, clutching one of her feet; from which she had removed the bandages and was gnawing off her big toe, blood spurting out of the open wound and into her mouth and down her cheeks, dripping from her jaw onto her nightgown.

I helped one of the orderlies wrestle Donn to the ground, who kept gurgling, kicking and screaming, bits of the flesh of her toe in her mouth dribbling out. “She isn’t supposed to be at the ball! No! He was supposed to pick us! No! How can she have been there?!”

After restraining her and injecting her with a strong sedative through a needle in her neck, I have a vivid memory of looking up, while knelt on the floor by Donn’s sagging body, positioned nearly directly underneath the swinging pendulum of the dead Geal. I felt something cold brush against my scalp, and saw first the tattered, old shoe Geal had never removed from her left foot beside me on the carpet.

I looked up slowly and there hung Geal’s unclad left foot: half of it had been severed—only a stump remained, her flesh having grown over the apparently old wound and scabbed up in black lumps. It horrified me for some reason I could never find words to describe, as Donn murmured and drifted into a chemically-induced dreamstate.

—“We were supposed to be at the ball, not that wretched filthy cunt…”

* * * * *

—“Doctor Jacob, what happened to my sister?”

The question belonged to a wisp of a woman, her blue hair done up in a ridiculously huge bee-hive style and her eyes sunken so far back into her skull that all I could see were shadows, beneath them a pair of pursed, thin blue lips.

One of my least favorite duties as overseeing healthcare-provider at Safehaven was this: the next-of-kin was always distraught, appropriately in an amount of grief and mourning, but they all carried this… relief… I found so disheartening, as though a great burden had been lifted from their shoulders by this death.

It was after days with those types of meetings that I drank at night.

She was different. Geal and Donn’s other sister, allegedly. She introduced herself as “Cindy Sharmon,” and presented her hand in the out-dated fashion of royalty. I shook it, thinking of nothing better to do with the extended offering.

—“Well, Miss Sharmon—“
—“Lady Sharmaine…”
—“Right. Well, her sister… your sister… Donn, she… She mutilated herself quite horrifically.”
—“Hm. Dreadful. Just awful. But, you said on the phone this was in regards to Geal, did you not?”
—“Oh. Yes. She… she has, well… taken her own life, I regret to inform you.” (I was never good at this part.)

I nervously fidgeted in my seat, and I swear to this day I saw something in the shadows where her eyes should be gleam.

—“Good.”

…And thus concludes the time for stories, boys and girls. What have you learnt? Much, I hope, to carry home to your cozy little houses, in your tranquil little neighbourhoods, outside your vile little cities full of Godlessness.

Those of you who talked amongst yourselves while I read are required to stay after for disciplinary prayer sessions, unfortunately.

—Godspeed,

Mr. Happy

Dilly-Dalliance

Well, chaps, it seems that no box can contain this radical force of nature! Yes, sir, the Despair is here and queer and you had better just get used to it; especially those of you of the dour and God-y types. Get it? Got it? Tip-top!

Hmph, well, between the two of us, Mister Fuddy-Duddy and yours truly are still running just a tad behind—sorry, boys and girls, but it's just gonna hafta wait one more day for the dramatic reveal!

But, believe you me, it will be a glorious one! Not like some… terrible tragic peepshow gloryhole in the alley… Gads, no! It will be more like that hot dollface at the expensive hotspot.

Until tomorrow, sweeties, I bid you adieu! Also, wave 'Cheerio' to Jack as he hangs from the cieling and hisses, on your way out, won't you?

Continuing Tales of Mr. Jack Happy

August 9th, 2009

From the smoking ruins of a smoldering building arose a hunched figure silhouetted  by the huge moon hanging low in the night sky. The figure rummaged around in the ash and debris—searching. Upon closer inspection, it would be revealed as a soot-covered man with wild, singed blue hair and barely any clothes clinging to his wispy, sweat-soaked body.

His eyes rose to the moon and stared for one long minute. In that minute, the moon reflected in his blue irises, and the dying fires of an awful disaster could be glimpsed. He finally blinked, and resumed his scavenging. In the distance, the sirens of approaching emergency vehicles began to trickle into the periphery of his hearing.

Cursing loudly, the blue-haired man quit looking around the wreckage and hopped over what seemed to be charred remnants of a leather couch. He ducked down behind it and laughter suddenly erupted into the quiet night. The man rose back to his feet, holding a blackened human skill in both of his hands. He grinned maniacally at the chipped and broken teeth of the victim's skull, and poked a finger into one empty socket curiously, exploring.

"Jack be nimble, Jack be nimble," the man recited in a high-pitched falsetto like that a child's voice. "Jack found himself a candle stick." He bellowed with mad guffaws at his own joke, and hurled the skull against the still-standing husk of one of the building's walls.

Twisting his head toward the quickly escalating sounds of sirens, the man frowned and wiped the grime from around his eyes with his fists.

"THEY CAN'T KNOW!"

* * *

Jack's Recipes for Happiness: The "Orange-Up-Your-Cherry":

• 1 shot Skye Vodka
• 1/2 shot Contreau orange liquer
  
• 2 shots Kilbggan's Irish Whiskey
• 6 drops orange bitters
• 1 cup Cherry 7UP

Pour vodka, liquer, and whiskey. Add bitters. Mix in 7UP. Stir, then drink. Or, drink then stir.

ENJOY AT YOUR OWN RISK!

[Editor's Note: Attached images not meant to be relevant to contents of body.]

NFYS Goes to SPX, or Bee Are Bee

Jack looked solemnly over the somber crowd and grimly wondered silently and darkly to his grave self how many sorrowfully knew of the abysmal terrible cruel and cold fate that hellishly would morosely befall them all—in a totally bad way. The bleak future yet to come: the Invasion, the War, the Bombs, the Famine, Death, Capitalized Nouns, Fire and Symbolic Crying Babies. They would know soon, he thought with his mighty brain full of mindpowers and brainmight.

There was a surprising amount of handlebar moustaches amongst the very youthful happy youth of the very young. Moustache wax must’ve been on sale, verily, or demons possessed them all. The three-quarter hat is the very height of indie fashion, as it turns out. We have all very much seen Newsies, as it also turns out. It was a brisk very Saturday on this very fateful very-berry-berry Crunchberries. Mmm. Shit, man, it, like, rained hard, dude.

The Place: Bethesda North Marriott Hotel Ampersand Conference Centre
The Time: Saturday, September 26th, 2009, 11:00 AM until QUESTION MAAAAA-AAAAARKKKK-K-KKKK??!?!?!?!?????!?!?!*
* (Answer: 7:00 PM)
The Thing: Small Press Expo
The How: Magic. And cocaine. And magic cocaine. Made of ground Unicorn. Magic MEXICAN Unicorns, hombre.

Not For You Studios was out in force at this gala extravaganza bathed in the spotlights and lime-coloured light. The crowds could not get enough of these seven up-and-comers, greeting them with the ultimate in Hipster praise: an absolute lack of any acknowledgement whatsoever. In the indie niche, nothing says “You’ve Made It!” more than when nobody gives a shit about you.

“Not for who?” one girl said, when asked about the creative crew of Art Visioneers. “Uh, I think I, like, read their mini-comic, once,” another raving fan exclaimed, barely able to contain his overwhelming apathy and indifference. Oh, yes, the independent art and literature scene was awash in Not For You Studios fever, straight-faced and cold-shouldered.

Inspired by the “Time-Constrained Comic” panel, Mr. Jack Happy produced his own ten-minute comic. SPOILER ALERT: This took sixty sexy minutes, which is like six times the ten-minute comic!

It was during the Critics’ Roundtable that Jack realized something very important. He had not worn a jacket. He had not brought a jacket. IT WAS RAINED. OH DEAR GOD, WHAT HATH SCIENCE WROUGHT?!

Mr. Happy was very happy, indeed, to meet the lovely and inspirational Spike, of Templar, Az fame. She told him a stirring tale, the story of The Ocean’s Saddest Whale—Jack dubbed him “Wailin’ Whale Jennings,” inside the void of noise between his ears (this was one of those ‘Fifteen Minutes Later’ Coulda-Been-Good jokes).

Apparently, according to the illustrious Spike, there is a whale with a unique song, observed by Folks-Who-Study-Whale-Song-All-Day-Long-and-Maybe-Cry-Into-Pillows-at-Night: it is unlike any other whales’ song, and it, in fact, terrifies the other whales and causes them to stay abreast of W.W. Jennings. The theory is that this whale is either a member of a soon-to-be extinct species or is deaf. That’s right, even whales can’t understand the deaf very well. Mr. Happy doesn’t feel so bad anymore, at least about that.

So inspired by this Homeric epic of whale-like (ha-ha-ah) proportion, Jack did the arduous task of Googling said Jennings the Lonesomest Whalefriend. Here it is: Death Cab for Whalie (I would steer clear, too, if given this comparison were true).

Spike also drew an adorable squid in Mr. Happy's newly-purchased copy of volume one of Templar, AZ, for which Jack will heart her forever. Good Christ, Jack Happy is stupid amounts of a fan-boy over Spike, let’s just say.

Not For You also attended the spotlight on Jeffrey Brown, during which Mr. Happy solidified his place in Hell with some sketching. It never hurts to go that extra mile to ensure Satan takes notes in the margins of his diary about how he’s going to jam terrible things inside your rectum when you burn in the eternal Pits. It was also discovered, as well, that Jack finds the moderator for this panel to be a dull, dull woman with dull, dull questions.

—Dullasaurus Rex: “So, as an artist, how do you like art?”
—Brown: “I, uh, you know, like it.”
—D-Rexface: “So, as a comic artist, how do you like comics?”
—Brown: “They’re coo’.”
—Planet Dullplanet: “So, as an arist of comics, how do you like art in comics?”
—Brown: “Hm, well, it’s—“
—Dullforce Omega: “TIME!”

Finally, The Center for Cartoon Studies held a comicking workshop, which was attended by Not For You. We learnt much of the sacred art, such as “Westerners read left-to-right,” and “panels are those square things on the page.” (No, in all seriousness, it was fun and not-at-all-dumb-like-that).

AND SO WENT OUR CONQUEST, YE PURVEYORS OF OURN SITE OF TUBULAR ACCESS!

[Bears exeunt, stage-left.]

All Roads Lead To Jack

STRAIN

—I believe, first and foremost, in the creative spirit of the human soul: to express one's self is to imprint the universe with a piece of humanity.

—“So many fucking manifestos start out with this kind of bullshit—but, it's not untrue: it is how I feel. 'Can't create so they just destroy / C'mon, let's go set someone's dog on fire,' in the immortal words of the Dead Kennedys (Biafra, Jello; 'This Could be Anywhere / This Could Be Everywhere,' from Frankenchrist). What, and where, are we without creavitiy?”

FEAR

—In the absence of creative expression, the human soul wanes and is depressed. The greatest crime is to live without feeling alive.

—“What the hell does that kind of shit even mean, to most? 'If we could see clearly / what we were beside / if there were no desperation / would we be alive?' asked the Residents ('Would We Be Alive?' from Intermission). How many times does 'I think, therefore I am,' have to be said?”

DESPERATION

—The second greatest crime is that modern American society does not promote culture, instead it promotes distraction and mindless entertainment, passive viewing and consumerism.

—“Oh, now we're some kind of disestablishmentarian outfit, I guess. We can all stand around and chant: 'can't ask for more, so why unfulfilled / we take apart everything we build,' in the fashion of Fugazi (MacKay, Ian; 'Break,' from End Hits). It'll be fun.”

ESCAPE

—In order to circumvent and overcome the failings of society, it is sometimes necessary to congregate as like-minded people to differentiate one's selves as distinct and apart.

—“Is this any different than the anthem of rebellious, intoxicated teenagers in overcrowded concert venues played at by punks and no-names? Didn't Mindless Self Indulgence say, 'You need a uniform / so you won't be ignored / you are affected / and so you're accepted' (Urine, Jimmy; title track from You'll Rebel To Anything (As Long As It's Not Challenging)? Jimmy Urine opened a song once, at a show I went to in Norfolk, Virginia, 'Come on! Dress like me, talk like me, act like me! We can all be different together!' Or something along those lines…”

PURITY

—In so many cases, life has striven to extinguish the creative flame inside bright, young people; however, as a people, these flames can be rekindled and new life breathed into them.

—“Okay, seriously, the flame metaphor is both obnoxious and done—but, the point remains: I have known so many people with such talent that just don't feel they're good enough for… what, I've never been sure. Good enough to share their talent? Good enough to pursue an art? Good enough to just do what they want? It all sounds like how Tom Waits described: 'When I'm lyin' in my bed at night / I don't wanna grow up / Nothin' ever seems to turn out right / I don't wanna grow up / How do you move in a world of fog / That's always changing things?'”

REFLECTION

—I believe the greatest service we can provide each other as a people is to promote individual expression and breed a culture of our own creation.

—“I guess that's the whole fucking point of this flowery prose, then—let's get together, and write, draw, sing, dance or whatever. Personally, I've faced numerous dilemmas based on self-doubt and lack of motivation, and I know others who have faced the exact same dilemmas. So, the obvious solution seems to be to create a vehicle by which these people, myself and others interested, can collaborate and encourage each others. Honestly, I don't know a single person who doesn't have something 'They've Always Meant To Do, But Haven't, Yet.' I think I know people with talents, and I think the world would be benefited from their artistic contributions. Period.”

“I want to break the things that seek
to control, I want to live my life with
no rules at all, I want to smash the
lips that smile down on me, I want
to rip and tear until I am free.

“Steady, keep it, steady
METRONOME

“I want to touch the places lost deep
inside, I want to see the ugly faces
that hide, I want to reach down to the
end of what's there, I went to strip
the surface 'till all is bare.

“Steady, keep it, steady
METRONOME

“I want to jump out of my skin and be
free, I want to kill the little thing that
is me, I want to laugh and giggle, I want
to scream, I want to wake up from this
life-crushing dream, I want to wash my
body bare in the stream, I want to
liberate this human machine, I want to spit
and grovel, I want to shit, I want to
make you wonder, what is it? What
is it?

“You know one thing that I think attracts people
to a steady beat, to a steady beat, is the certainty
of where it will be, of where it will be, in the next
moment, its inevitability with no variation, the
comfort and security of knowing what and who you
are, you hear that beat, you hear that beat, it's
beating on you, it's beating on me, you hear that beat,
you hear that beat, it's beating on you, it's
beating on you.”

—"Metronome," by NoMeansNo (Rob Wright, John Wright, Andy Kerr) from You Kill Me