I said in my happily shocked acceptance speech that everyone who worked on the book basically one about 1/80th of an Eisner — but it was more like 1/95th! Holy smokes.

Below are the fine folks I was too tongue tied and time constrained to thank / congratulate by name back on July 23rd…

Alison Acton, Joshua Agerstrand, Laura Allred, Anjin Anhut, Kris Anka, Amanda Becker, Peter Bergting, Patricio Betteo, Danilo Beyruth, Sam Bosma, Dan Brereton, Olaf Brill, Dennis Brown, Antonio Campo, Dominique Carrier, Celor, Jim Charalampidis, Bobby Clark, Ryan Cody, Dave Collinson, Dave Curd, Tim Daniel, Mike Dawson, Ben DeRosa, Michael Dialynas, JEIK Dion, Juan Doe, Becky Dreistadt, Nathan Edmondson, Ulises Farinas, Ray Fawkes, Gary Fields, Frank Gibson, Vassilis Gogtzilas, Zac Gorman, George Gousis, Paul Grist, Scott Hallett, Jason Hanley, David Hopkins, Jason Ibarra, Joëlle Jones, Joe Keatinge, Janet Kim, Nic Klein, Peter Krause, Edward Kwong, Erik Larsen, Robbie Lawrence, Johann “Ullcer” Leroux, Maximo V. Lorenzo, Thomas Mauer, Dylan McCrae of SatteliteSoda.com, Derek McCulloch, Sam McKenzie, Tara McPherson, Alberto Mielgo, Robb Mommaerts, Paul Montgomery, Chris Moreno, Matt Moylan, Ralph Niese, Anthony Nixon, Josh Parpan, Jeff Powell, Isam Prado, Justin Randall, Stephen Reedy, Jamie S. Rich, Rachelle Rosenberg, David Rubin, Matteo Scalera, Douglas E. Sherwood, Guillaume Singelin, Eric Skillman, ericstephenson, Alisa Stern, Amy Stern, Chris Stevens, Frank Stockton, Andre Szymanowicz, Gregory Titus, Ron Turner, Christian Ward, Daniel Warner, Connor Willumsen, Brian Winkeler, Michael Woods, Derek Yu, K.I. Zachopoulos, Tonci Zonji, Jim Zubkavich, and the fine folks at Image Comics.

I’m so proud to have had the opportunity to work with all of you on the book!

It went off again at 7:00 AM, as I’d also set it.

As I was typing the first sentence of this post, it went off again at 7:45 AM, as I think I set it after not wanting to get up at 7:00 AM.

I’m obviously up now, but the sound of that alarm as I was typing annoyed the hell out of me. Part of the alarm hate is not wanting to wake up until I naturally wake up, sure. Part of it is also that, well, I’m getting ready for a day that doesn’t particularly excite me. (Though swell things are usually sprinkled throughout.)

Sometimes I wonder if the main reason for the hate is the SOUND. I hate the SOUND of my alarm. And I’m on the third sound in two days.

I use my cell phone (Samsung RANT — I always assume it was very popular for the tween set back in 2000, though, as an old man in 2010, it’s kind of ridiculous), and there are ten “melody” choices and ten ringtones. Put down your calculators — that’s TWENTY choices. Melodies include such ditties as “Deep Chill Out,” “Garage in the Backyard,” and “Golden Dream.”

And I loathe them all. At least at 6:45 – 7:45 in the morning. Maybe it’s not the fault of these cheesy factory set ringtones and melodies.

I bet I could download a song or some funny whatsit or whathaveyou, but I don’t want to spend money on this. Bah. The truth probably is that I could download the most awesome of awesome (“Blaze of Glory” by Bon Jovi in case you didn’t know), and I’d end up hating it as much as any of these ringtones and melodies just because it’d become what rustles me from my slumber every day to go to the cubicle mines.

Speaking of which, I should start getting ready before the next alarm strikes…

Indeed, some magical people to whom the laws of logic and fairness seemingly do not apply fail upward. I’ve been hearing (thinking?) that a lot lately, usually in reference to humans in nicer cars than mine. Cars that they drive to better jobs than mine. Jobs that they successfully fail at in clothes that are both nicerer and betterer than mine.

So, apparently my failing, I mean, just on the occasions I fail (which is not all the time), but, okay, so failure itself  is not the problem — it’s that I just fail in the wrong direction.

This doesn’t make me feel better, though, because I have no sense of direction. I can fail upward to success or downward to… um… my life. But up down, north south — I don’t know which is which. It’s like when people tell me to drive west. Unless I’m right by the ocean — I mean, if the ocean is visible to me — I don’t know which way is west. That part of my brain is not functional.

I need a Failure Garmin GPS. It’ll tell me when I’m failing in the wrong direction. Maybe I’d enter in the address “123 Success Lane.” And if I start failing downward, it’ll recalculate and get me back on track. Unless there’s poor satellite reception. Then I’m just screwed. Then I just have to drive around aimlessly, trying to quell the panic building inside as I just go about willy nilly, no idea if I’m failing in the correct direction. I need that little computer plugged into my car lighter to tell me which way to go.

Because I can’t do it myself. Seriously. I just… I get lost a lot.

Speaking of… where the hell am I?

And meanwhile, our grandma, who was lovingly codenamed by her grandkids “Bobba,” had a creepy (to us anyway) pillow in her basement that was, if I remember correctly, round and kind of shaped like a lion’s face. This wasn’t it, but this is the closest picture of a similar lion-face kinda pillow I could find…

Okay, yeah, so… no. The lion pillow in the picture above is not scary. The real one, in my memory, was a little patchier, with a more angular and ferocious, less sleepy-time design. Still, it was a pillow shaped like a lion’s face. It was on a couch in our Bobba and Granddaddy’s basement.

Patrick and I used to, or, at least, at one point, would use the pillow as a mask and chase each other around, the pillow-masked one being the “Maneater.” Funny, running-around times based upon a pop song and a lion pillow and a couple of weirdo kids.

“Maneater.” Pop song about a lady who can rip a fella’s world apart with her womanly wiles and lady parts? Or a monster with a lion face that literally consumes men, chewing up their flesh? Different, meanings, different contexts… all terrifying.

Indeed, the song still kind of gives me the heebie jeebies. Now, however, in the interest of complete honesty, as I am wont to do in this blog-thing, I find I am afraid of the song for the legitimate lyric-based reasons, as the “Maneater” described, while not a flesh-eating monster as I once believed, is still a frightening being to me… really, a combo of both enters my head when I hear this song… which is more often than you might assume, as I think Hall & Oates are awesome.

Why do I think this? Because it is the truth. Hall & Oates are indeed awesome.

Balls are being kicked into nets in the World Cup; balls were just being bounced and thrown into baskets in the NBA playoffs; and somewhere, even though I’ve seen and heard very little about it, pucks were being hit with sticks in the Stanley Cup.

So much competition. So much sporting. I hear various people yelling and getting excited in the apartments. So many words are written and shouted and chanted about such sports. Passion. Excitement.Passitement.

Earlier today at work, people packed the food court at lunch time, not to eat the lasagna and grilled veggies being served, no, but to watch the World Cup on BOTH of the television sets in there. (The lasagna and veggies were darn tasty, too, though.)

And just moments ago, my roommate was losing his mind in his room, yelling at the screen as the Los Angeles, CA Lakers narrowly defeated the Bostonian Celtics of Boston in the NBA Playoffs. He was more into it than I was into the season finale of CHUCK, which is saying something, as it included a cover of Jon Bon Jovi’s “Blaze of Glory” among other things I love and enjoy.

It’s madness, this sportingly love. And I wish I could be a part of it. Seems like fun, but, as with video games, I just don’t get into sports like I wish I did. People love ‘em, live ‘em, and lovey-love ‘em, and I just… I dunno. I really feel like I’m missing out. Maybe I need to become more competitive. Or excitably in that joyful, fist pumping way. I dunno. I really do wish I could get all fired up like these sporting fans do about the sports and the whatnot.

SPORT!!!!!

This lead to me turning on CNN every morning instead of DOCTOR WHO DVDs before leaving for work as well as listening to NPR instead of rock ‘n roll while driving to said work. While I’ve always been obstensibly liberal and figure we should take care of the environment and each other and various other kind of “bleeding heart” beliefs like that, I thought I should learn a bit more about what it all might mean kinda sorta.

After a few weeks of news watching, my vague political views make even more sense to me than before… I mean, okay, I still rarely understand what’s going on, but the left is still where I lean.

Left, right, or middle, though… holy crap is the world a mess.

For fifty-eight days I’ve been hearing about an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. At first it was a tragic explosion that took the lives of eleven men. That’s horrible, yet it somehow continues to get worse as the magnitude of what’s resulting from that explosion becomes clearer. BP’s drilling snafu is spilling oil out into the ocean, but not that much. No worries. That’s what I first heard. Now, almost two months later, it’s the greatest environmental disaster in the USA’s history. As I type this, President Obama is meeting with BP big wigs for the first time over who is going to pay for all this attempted clean up. It’s a mess.

And there’s more?

Six earthquakes in Indonesia last night? Yeah, just saw about that as I was typing, and– Oh, one in Alaska, too. And there was flooding in Oklahoma yesterday. And a big ol’ Jesus statue was struck by lightening in Ohio! JESUS! And it’s not just all environmental or spiritual — turns the economy is in the toilet, too! Yeah, mm hm. I mean, I mean, I mean.. so much is happening, and… oh crap… did you know we’re in, like, TWO wars???

And I STILL don’t understand the freaking stock market!

Part of me wants to go back to DOCTOR WHO and rock ‘n roll in the morning. Just shut my brain off from all of this. Won’t make it go away, though.

So, I’m getting informed. Now what? What can I do as kinda middle class, absurdly in debt, fairly lazy dreamer who really just wants to write funny books and watch the TV when I’m not sleeping?

I guess that’s the next step…

1. In the over two months since I wrote my last post, I just started living like a rockstar. For no logical reason, as I am not, in fact, a star of rock. Irregardless, the regular sociatal norms ceased to pertain to me, which lead to booze (okay, cough syrup), drugs, leather pants, and some unbelievable karate adventures.

2. I decided to give back to my community. Unfortunately, instead of behaving like a regular human, perhaps volunteering at a soup kitchen or cleaning the side of a highway or building some houses, I figured my best contribution would be to become a costumed vigalante. This has to do probably with my love of comics and lack of brain logic. I’ve just now been released from the ICU. Sadly, those punks still got that old lady’s purse. And my “Super D.J.” costume is a damn mess.

3. A steady stream of Kraft Mac & Chee. Just shoveling that stuff in my maw for two damn months. Overdose on orange cheese powder. The amount of margerine in my bloodstream is unheard of, and I’m lucky to be alive. If can you call this mac & cheese delirium living.

4. All of the above.

5. None of the above.

Yeah, I’m keeping it all mysterious like. One things for sure, though: I need to redesign this site some. It’s so ugly. Another thing’s for sure, though, also: redesigning my little-known website would be such a waste of time when there are so many more productive things I should be doing. (Comic book pitches, Ninja Poetry Book writing, weapons training, gold lamé pants shopping.)

But I just wanted to check in, since I’m still paying for this URL and all that. Maybe next time I’ll write about SOMEthing.

Love,

D.J.

And, obviously, we wouldn’t have had a book to put together without the following amazingly talented creators who let us print their awesome comics in the book! Thanks so much and congrats to… (deep breath)…

Alison Acton, Joshua Agerstrand, Laura Allred, Anjin Anhut, Kris Anka, Amanda Becker, Peter Bergting, Patricio Betteo, Danilo Beyruth, Sam Bosma, Dan Brereton, Olaf Brill, Dennis Brown, Antonio Campo, Dominique Carrier, Celor, Jim Charalampidis, Bobby Clark, Ryan Cody, Dave Collinson, Dave Curd, Tim Daniel, Mike Dawson, Ben DeRosa, Michael Dialynas, JEIK Dion, Juan Doe, Becky Dreistadt, Nathan Edmondson, Ulises Farinas, Ray Fawkes, Gary Fields, Frank Gibson, Vassilis Gogtzilas, Zac Gorman, George Gousis, Paul Grist, Scott Hallett, Jason Hanley, David Hopkins, Jason Ibarra, Joëlle Jones, Janet Kim, Nic Klein, Peter Krause, Edward Kwong, Erik Larsen, Robbie Lawrence, Johann “Ullcer” Leroux, Maximo V. Lorenzo, Thomas Mauer, Dylan McCrae of SatteliteSoda.com, Derek McCulloch, Sam McKenzie, Tara McPherson, Alberto Mielgo, Robb Mommaerts, Paul Montgomery, Chris Moreno, Matt Moylan, Ralph Niese, Anthony Nixon, Josh Parpan, Jeff Powell, Isam Prado, Justin Randall, Stephen Reedy, Jamie S. Rich, Rachelle Rosenberg, David Rubin, Matteo Scalera, Douglas E. Sherwood, Guillaume Singelin, Eric Skillman, ericstephenson, Alisa Stern, Amy Stern, Chris Stevens, Frank Stockton, Andre Szymanowicz, Gregory Titus, Ron Turner, Christian Ward, Daniel Warner, Connor Willumsen, Brian Winkeler, Michael Woods, Derek Yu, K.I. Zachopoulos, Tonci Zonji, Jim Zubkavich — way to go, team!

In those states to the middle and the east, the weather people on the TV actually have useful jobs. Whereas here it’s usually a ridiculously tight shirt wearing lady with super fake breasts talking to some old man in a suit behind a desk about how it’ll be mild and sunny everyday, in places where the weather changes, one has to really pay attention to what their less surgically endowed weather sayers have to say.

So, yeah, it’s ridiculous to complain about this, but that ball of fire in the sky, that orb that keeps things bright and warm here in LA, is getting a bit pushy. Today, wandering the sidewalks in my black General Zod tee shirt (yeah, I’m stylish), my body started reacting to the heat emenating from the sky. I don’t know what the temperature is in numbers, but my body is telling me it’s a little hot. Already. It’s March.

Maybe it’s just an especially warm weekend. I hope. While Summer is swell and all, I’m not a huge fan of shorts or the other fashions necessitated by the increase in heat. Flip flops? No thanks. Tank tops? I prefer to hide my lack of guns. But my preferred long pants and shoes style choices are clearly about to become problematic again.

Because I hate sweating.

Now, I didn’t break a sweat out there today… but I could feel it coming on. If I’d stayed out longer? My body’s faulty cooling system (because, really, there’s got to be a better biological way for humans to stay cool other than sweating salty, odor producing water from our pours) would’ve surely kicked in.

So, Sun, why not relax? We’re good here, in LA. Bright, clear days and mild temperatures are just fine. Why not go help those folks in the Midwest and East Coast and leave things here as they’ve been for the past few months, eh? K, thanks.

And often really hard.

Hm… I hate to write sometimes. When I’m racking my brain to come up with a plot or just something interesting to say. Writing is all well and good, but you have to write something worth reading, right? But lots of people have different ideas as to what is worth reading. Heck, I don’t even know why I read what I read sometimes. I guess if it’s something that someone is willing to stare at until all the words run out, then it was worth writing, right?

Do I have something to say? Well, yeah… I mean, maybe not always some amazing truth or some passionate cause or occurrence that I feel really needs to be expressed, that might really resonate with a reader or whatever. But just thinking something is funny or wacky or might make someone laugh, maybe brighten their day — that is worth it, too, right?

Of course, after writing one has to get the story in front of the eyes that will be doing the reading. The internet, blogs like this one and whatnot, has made that much easier. Still not effortless, though. I used to think that being published in print was the end goal. If I write something that some company is willing to put on paper and bind together and make into a book — boom. Success! I’m done!

Not true. Sure, some writers reach a certain point when the publisher or an agency or magical fairies will take care of the getting the work out to the readers for them, but that’s rare. And even then, lots of authors blog and Tweet and set up interviews and appearances and tour on their own to let people know their work is out.

I guess it’s never as simple as just writing until I hit “the end” and then that’s it.

Honestly, this has become the hard part. How do I get the word out effectively without becoming a pest? And might all this time talking, blogging, Tweeting, Friendstering (I kid) about my writing be best spent actually writing new stories?

It’s all so confusing. Hm… and perhaps not worth writing about, really. Oops.

Writing… freaking writing. Crap. I just can’t help it.