I’d been on a hunt for new shirts for a long damn while, but it seems like most of humanity changed shape slightly over the years, making it impossible for me to find shirts that fit. (I assume it was everyone else who changed and not me, because there wasn’t a rash of shirtlessness on the streets as far as I could tell.) Nothing in the XL range fit me, and I refused to move up to XXL, even though my body has been swelling this past decade.

This body-swelling is why I’d been moving up in clothing sizes for a few years now, but a while back I declared no more! I would refuse to go up in any more sizes! I’d either have to get my manboobs under control or just wear old, worn out shirts; I’d either have to get my gut in check or wear too-tight jeans that hurt me physically as well as emotionally!

Last week it got critical when I bent my arms and tore holes in the elbows of one of my three “almost-fitting” shirts Hulk-style. Another shirt had had a similar fate not long ago. It was a near-panic moment, and a trip to the store was necessary. I’m not comfortable going topless at a beach, let alone at work.

So… shopping. It’s a nightmare for me. Everything is too expensive, even on the sales racks. The styles seem to have left me behind in the late 90s. And, as stated previously, nothing ever fits — at least in the size I’m willing to buy. I felt like Phillip Seymor Hoffman’s character trying on fine Italian shirts with Marky Mark and Dr. Steve Brule. (That depressing tug over the gut breaks my heart every time.) My long-suffering ladyfriend went with me to help me out, but her spirits were quickly crushed by my crushed spirits, as is often the case.

Though the shirt situation was dire, I declared shopping a waste of time and was about to leave when she insisted upon one more store…

And, would you believe it? Success! Right to the sales racks, and there were shirts she liked and I kinda liked, so I was willing to try them on. They were “vintage fit,” which in my day meant, “for skinny people,” but something has happened as the years ticked by! Apparently, vintage had gone from slender waifs to barrel-chested husky dudes! This is why no other shirts fit me! Vintage is the new normal, so now normal is vintage!

It was a happy time. My moobs and gut fit in the shirt well, and it was were cheap, so I got another in a different color, too. What a relief. No need to go skins to my coworkers’ shirts. XL vintage! Who’d a thunk it? Kinda felt okay.

Then, this morning, I cut the tag off of one of my new shirts and saw… XXL. Son of a bitch. How had I missed that? Here I was all excited that I fit into XL and amused that my fat size was now Vintage, and… the dreaded two X’s.

Did my ladyfriend see this and sneak it by me in desparation and fear I’d continue down this shirt-destroying path? Or will she be as surprised as me when I whine to her about it after work today? Yeah, the shirts fit, but I’d sworn to not go this route. This way lies me just eating more and more until all I can fit into are the pleated jeans and Cosby sweaters at the big ‘n tall stores! (Why, big ‘n tall? Why? We big fellas like cool clothes, too.)

So, all my theories about Vintage being the new normal and all that shit… probably not. I just accidentally went up in size. Like I’d promised myself I wouldn’t. It’s better than wearing post-Hulk-out shirts at work, but still… XXL. Dammit.

I guess that makes this morning’s breakfast burrito okay, though… gotta fill out that extra “X” now… XXXL, I’ll see you in a couple years!

My love of anthologies relates to my love of comics, too. In the way, way back of 2007, Mark Andrew Smith and Joe Keatinge were putting together a giant comic book anthology called POPGUN and asked me to join them as an assistant editor (full co-editor for volumes 3 and 4) and contributing writer.  It was an ideal way for me to start my career in comics, which had been a goal of mine since I was a kid.

One of my favorite features of the POPGUN books is that there is no theme. Themes can help tie an anthology together, letting the reader know, at least superficially, what kind of stories to expect — no theme, though, made each turn of the page a surprise. To me, it was the greatest feature of POPGUN, even if it’s a sticking point for some readers. Personally, I love the surprises, and we kept that love of the unknown and celebration of variety going for all four of the volumes to date. Working on the books also introduced me to a number of creators I might not have discovered otherwise.

Though I retired from the editing team of POPGUN with volume 4, I still love anthologies as a reader. When Dark Horse brought back DARK HORSE PRESENTS, the prospect of a monthly anthology, smaller and cheaper than the behemouth POPGUN books (which are, it must be pointed out, an incredible value per page), I got excited about getting my regular anthology fix. One common complaint about anthologies is that, odds are, a reader isn’t going to love every story in the book. That’s true, but in the good ones, you’re likely to find you’re getting more bang for your buck than the usual single issue comics in general, and likely at least the same value if you just count the pages you enjoyed.

While I love the unpredictability of anthologies sans-theme, like the aforementioned POPGUN and DARK HORSE PRESENTS, as well as the insane TITMOUSE MOOK, anthologies with themes also offer a great variety. Every western in OUTLAW TERRITORY is different, and even though most assume the stories in FLIGHT are all about flying, that isn’t the case — still, even the perception of a theme might help some folks give a book a shot.

The short story is such a great format in all mediums, and anthologies are a terrific way to get your short story fix. Next time you’re at a book store or in a comic chop, give an anthology a shot.

Here are some comic book anthologies I dig:

• POPGUN 1 – 4 (of course, I mean, c’mon)
• DARK HORSE PRESENTS (on issue 6 as of this writing)
• OUTLAW TERRITORY 1 – 2
• FLIGHT 1 – 7
• TITMOUSE MOOK 1
• WEDNESDAY COMICS
• STRANGE TALES 1 – 2

If you have any recommendations not on this admittedly too-short list, please let me know, because I’m always looking for new stuff to read.

The Comikaze Expo descends upon us this coming weekend, November 5 & 6! Why am I posting about it on my blog? Well, I shall be sitting at table #92 with copies of all four volumes of the Eisner and Harvey Award-winning POPGUN comic book anthologies from Image Comics, my ninja poetry book DO YOU BELIEVE IN NINJAS? (featuring Chris Moreno illustrations), and a special-printing comic book issue of the AGENTS OF THE W.T.F. stories I co-wrote with Adam P. Knave for POPGUN’s 3 & 4, featuring art by Matteo Scalera. Basically, I’ll have some cool stuff. And I’ll sign anything you buy for you and take pictures with you if you want for some reason and help you with simple math problems if need be.

The rest of the show is going to be cool, too! Get your ticket on here!

It’s not always baked goods or pastries randomly in these kitchens, either. Sometimes there are whole meals, various fruits — all sorts of food. And I’m tempted. I’m always tempted, but… where did this food come from? Who put it there and, just as importantly, why?

There are some coworkers that, well, I’m not sure I want to eat what they are making. (If you are a coworker and reading this, c’mon! Don’t be silly — I don’t mean you. You probably know who I talking about… Yep. That’s the one. … I know, right?)

Not eating is no problem of mine. I tend to eat most of what is offered to me, and, even if slightly worried in my paranoid brain, I often do partake in the random foods left in kitchens. I then also often run down the hall like the work crier, letting everyone know of the free delights, far more excited than my mostly better-paid coworkers about free scraps of food, but my excitement is such that no silly sense of pride is going to waver me from at least attempting to spread what little joy I occasionally feel.

Be that as it may, there is always a pause. It’s not just mysterious work foods. I feel this way sometimes at pot lucks. Even as a kid at church, with all these great roasts and hams and seventeen varieties of macaroni salad… I’d look around and wonder who made what. It was usually fine, but there were some folks that, to be honest, scared me. That shouldn’t be past tense. Some folks scare me, either because of the potential for inasanity we all have (me included — me ESPECIALLY), but also just general hygiene concerns and whatnot.

I don’t mean to sound like a dick here, but I’m obviously not trying to not sound like a dick, too. My thoughts aren’t particularly deep, but there are a lot of them in my big head, and they kind of roam freely. I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but I usually question it. I wonder why that horse mouth (or, in these cases, tasty food treats) are staring me in the face. Why weren’t they eaten by their creators? (The treats, not the mouth of a horse — that’s a terrible phrase.) Sure, most people are nice, but… is there an ulterior motive? What is the potential for poison? Or, worse, random hairs in food prepared by unwashed hands? I mean, I don’t know! There’s just no way for me to know, especially when I have no idea who left the food in the kitchen or brought it to the potluck or put it on the sidewalk or — um… uh…

Screw it. That piece of pie looks mighty yummy, and it’s cheaper than going out for lunch.

It’s good to relax, and I always tell the many workaholics I know that, but when I follow my own advice, it’s weirdly stressful. I feel guilty for just hanging out. It’s silly and probably adds to the gray hairs on my head.

What could I have done instead of taking a weirdly stressful nap today? I could’ve written some stuff. Maybe cleaned the apartment. Heck, taking a jog could have been on the list.

Part of me feels like I’ve squandered my time, but that’s absurd… right? We all need lazy days once in a while, so long as it doesn’t get out of hand. Tomorrow work will resume. Instead of reading comics, or at least in addition to that, I’ll work on some. Perhaps instead of taking a nap, I’ll clean the apartment some. My car is 90% dirt, so a wash wouldn’t hurt. I’ll do that stuff instead of sitting on the couch, feeling guilty about sitting on the couch.

And instead of eating pizza for lunch… maybe I’ll get a burrito.

Hi, heroes!

For your information, I will be sharing table 1710K with my esteemed and bearded co-writer/bff Adam P. Knave at this year’s Baltimore Comic-Con! If you happen to be in Baltimore August 20 or August 21, please stop by our table for book signing and chatting and whatnot!

We’ll have copies of the POPGUN books! Adam will be selling his terrific novel STAYS CRUNCHY IN MILK and his hilarious book of essays I SLEPT WITH YOUR IMAGINARY FRIEND! And I’ll have some of those silly DO YOU BELIEVE IN NINJAS? poetry books!

Oh, and we’ll have a special, discounted, 100 copy run of our one-shot comic AGENTS OF THE W.T.F.! It features stories that appeared in POPGUN 3 and 4, plus some bonus coolness.

Really, to be perfectly honest, it’s going to be the best time.

Love,
D.J.

Yes, this is an early, poorly timed announcement due to the fact that the San Diego Comic Con will fulfill all your comic needs for a while, BUT Adam P. Knave and I collected our AGENTS OF THE W.T.F. stories from POPGUN 3 & 4 into one handy comic that we’ll be selling at the Baltimore Comic Con in August! When the proof copy from Ka-Blam arrived, with that glorious Matteo Scalera art, those crisp Palao Ferrante inks, Antonio Campo‘s lovely colors, Thomas Mauer‘s letters of power, and that Cara McGee book design snazziness — I just had to show it off!

Anyway, I got to work, and who should I see in the parking garage but my good buddy Christopher Lambert! (“Christopher Lambert” is not my friend’s real name, but I won’t presume it’s okay to just put his name on my widely read* blog without his permission… and I just don’t want to ask for his permission.)

He was sitting there with the car running, and my first thought was, “Oh crap… Christopher Lambert wants to go gently into the night, even though it’s the morning!”

I walked up to him and explained that the parking garage was way too large and ventilated for what he appeared to be doing to work. He explained that that was not what he was doing at all, but that he was instead getting an odometer reading for his car insurance since he moved and — oh shit, I need to change my address with MY insurance. Wait, where was I… ?

So, anyway, I tell him to hurry his ass up and get out of the car. How long does it take to write down a few numbers? And why did the car have to be on to do it? Christopher Lambert doesn’t make any sense half the time.

He gets out of the car to follow me to our awesome  day jobs, closing his door as — oh crap. “Did I really just do that?” Christopher Lambert asks, billy goat eyes wide, face full of terror.

I look at his car, headlights pointlessly on (really, why did he have those on to check his odometer?), engine humming. “Do you have a spare key?”

Christopher Lambert said he did… at his apartment… and his apartment keys were with his now trapped car key. I made some other dismissed suggestions as Dan Cortese (named, for the purposes of this story here, after the famed MTV SPORTS host in order to protect the real individual’s name à la Christopher Lambert) parked near us. I innocently asked Dan Cortese if he had “breaking into car skills,” which Christopher Lambert deemed racist. Whatever he was commenting on didn’t occur to me, as, to me, there is but one race: the human race. (And dolphins. So maybe two races.)

Anyway, Dan Cortese didn’t know about breaking into cars, and Christopher Lambert was freaking out. I felt guilty, as my talking to him had probably caused Christopher Lambert to stupidly close his locked door with his keys still in the ignition of his running car. It was all my fault, and soon Christopher Lambert would realize it and guilt me into having a terrible day. Just a terrible, awful day.

But then Christopher Lambert’s face changed from a look of despair to one of triumph! “I have a spare car key in my jacket in my cube upstairs!” This was a great moment and one deserving of a hi five even as Christopher Lambert needlessly elaborated that he was going to wear his hoodie but instead wore the jacket in which he always keeps a spare car key.

After he’d used his spare key to turn off his car, he came to the realization I knew he would: this whole fiasco was essentially my fault. Thinking fast, I lied that this had all been part of my plan. I came upon a man who looked broken and inept at suicide. Though this was not the case, I continued on as if it was, for to see the light, one must sometime travel to the depths of the dark… I knew he’d end up locking his key in his car! I knew it’d cause moments of panic and fear! BUT I ALSO KNEW that he had a spare key, which he’d realize hopefully before tears started welling up in his puppy dog eyes!

This day would now be the greatest day he’d ever known. A day that started with triumph out of adversity. And I’d insisted I’d knowingly given it to him.

Okay, now I have to call my car insurance company, a company I’ll call, oh, All State (not really, but I want to protect my insurance company’s name instead of asking it for permission to mention it here), to change my address.

*Untrue. Quite the opposite in fact. – Truth Police

Looking at me, one does not normally think, “Whoa. I am talking to a karate master. This big, doughy, pale yet red-nosed fellow is a master of karate. I should tread lightly.” The most common thought is more like, “This guy clearly enjoys fried foods and cheese. He should take better care of his insides.”

When that type of thinking, true as it may be, fills my brain, I decide I’d like to pretend I’m learning karate. It’s a subtle difference, but it’s a smaller kind of lie or, if I don’t blatantly say it aloud, gentle self-delusion.

Fooling myself into thinking I’m the kind of guy who is taking it upon himself to learn the ancient and understandably feared art of karate helps me walk a little taller. At 6’3″ walking taller might seem a bit excessive, but it helps my posture. And I look like a goon when I slouch, which is unfortunately often.

Yes, like millions (thousands?) of people on this earth, I could actually learn karate. The only thing stopping me from doing so is my own laziness. But that laziness makes me who I am. And who I am is a big lazy guy who thinks it’d be cool to know karate even if I’m too lazy to actually study karate and… try.

The ending doesn’t read as positive as I’d hoped.

It just so happened that I’d shaved for my Halloween costume. Yeah, Clark Kent AGAIN, but here’s a sample of that clean shaven face…

Now, ignore the look on my face… actually, just ignore my face entirely aside from the fact that that’s how I look after shaving with a razor and shaving cream and the whole bit.

My facial hair is one of the few manly things about me, so I was quite excited by the No Shave November possibilities. For serious, sand paper texture and 5 o’clock shadows appear moments after shaving… My hope was to have a big ol’ bushy monstrosity for all the world to fear after a month of not shaving or even trimming.

Instead…

It’s like the dang thing grew to a certain point and then stopped! This is barely different than a week’s worth of normal facial hair grooming neglect!

The moral of the story, kids, is that even my facial hair can let me down. That Sam Elliott ‘stache I was hoping to achieve for next year’s “Movember” now seems about as likely as my dream of becoming a karate expert via nothing but wishing…

Good-bye, dreams.