I Scream, You Scream, The Icecream Screams...

Greetings, denizens of Blogland!!

Here's one of the pieces that I've been working on and one of my first finished Photoshop paintings.



Enjoy!

Ch... Ch... Ch... CHANGES!!

Yes, I am aware that most of you now have that song stuck in your heads. You've found me out. My dastardly plan is revealed. Congratulations, Bond. You've earned your license to read further.

Some of you who've been faithful followers of my random and infrequent musings here in blogland will notice that I've changed the name of the blog. This was done to unify all of my pet projects under one moniker.

The Clockwork Asylum.

In addition to posting here, you can also view my blog at TheClockworkAsylum.com and you can follow me on twitter here.

For all of you facebook users out there you can follow The Clockwork Asylum's upcoming projects here.

There are exciting changes on the way as I work to establish the Asylum as a force to reckon with in the artistic community!

Now, in the art business, exposure is the name of the game so be sure to fan me, share me, follow me, and otherwise help me to expose myself. :D

Stay crazy, kids!

- D

The New Yorker within...

I seriously don't know what it is about me that attracts the homeless and drug addicted flotsam of our society but every time I walk into a city of any size I am immediately accosted by someone who smells like urine and is "just trying to make bus fare."

I don't get it. I'm a big dude who has tattoos and piercings and a near permanent scowl that was issued to me by the Marine Corps. I don't walk around so much as "march" to my destination like I own it and the pavement between. Hell, I wouldn't approach me and I'm more than aware that I'm just a big teddy bear who plays a tough guy on TV.

The most recent offense was this past weekend. My friend Jon and I were in the city for the Dragon*Con staff meeting and had decided to go to dinner with some good friends of mine whom I hadn't seen in a long time. As we were leaving Hsu's Chinese Restaurant I was immediately approached by a guy wearing what looked like terry cloth "do-rag" on his head, a sleeveless Tommy Hilfiger shirt (I saw the brand patch on the bottom left front of the shirt) that had been roughed up a bit, and designer jeans and shoes that were in a fine state of polish for someone who hadn't "eaten in days." (Yes. I really am that observant. Ask anyone.)

Really, dude? I mean, REALLY?!

A) I know that I don't look stupid and B) you don't look homeless. How did you think that was going to end? Did you think that I was going to naively offer to pay for whatever imaginary affliction you dreamed up in the ten seconds it took you to walk over? Did you think that I wouldn't notice the seventy dollar pants you were wearing? Does this act work and if so can you introduce me to those saps? Because I have a Lunar Subdivision and can get them in for a small investment.

After I politely sent him packing my friends and I finished our goodbyes and Jon and I walked to the train station to catch our ride home. Along the way we were approached by a gentleman in a two piece double-breasted suit and fedora (Yes his shoes were polished, also. I didn't want to repeat myself.) He proceeded to lay out some sob story about his very bad day which included a hospital, a car, his daughter, his wife, something about being a preacher, and needing four dollars.

Jon watched in horror as I allowed the guy to continue speaking and several times I was tempted to laugh at him or to just stop him and walk away. But the guy's story was like something straight from a Wachowski Brothers film (overly complex and full of itself) so honestly, I just wanted to see how deep this guy's rabbit hole would go.

Again, I politely informed the individual that, if financial assistance was his need, that I was unable to be his benefactor and Jon and I walked quickly away shaking our heads in disbelief.

So what is it about me that attracts these unhygienic individuals like moths to a flame? Seriously. I need to know so I can make it stop. Because if I have to say, "Sorry, dude. I don't have any change," one more bloody time, I will start shooting hobos as a release.

Start Spreading the News...

So. Here I am, in New York city.

Dear God I love this place. I got up long before the sun this morning in order to shower and dress and make sure that all was packed and prepared for my first trip to NYC. My journey to airport via the MARTA system was uneventful. Unless you count having to listen to a woman who had the most manly three-pack-a-day voice I've ever heard as eventful, that is.

Once at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, things went smoothly for the most part. Apparently, my hair gel is considered a deadly weapon. It was confiscated along with my toothpaste and my shaving gel. Really, Atlanta? I mean, really?

The only other complication that I will note is that Spirit Airlines fails to print the concourse and gate number on your boarding pass so finding your flight can be an adventure. As you can see... I was more than up for the challenge.

The rest of the trip was great. I was lucky enough to be seated next to a nice gentleman who was able to hold an intelligent conversation with me and with who I had a bit in common. Its always a pleasure when you get to sit next to someone who isn't obnoxious or suffers fits of involuntary bodily functions. I count lugies and spontaneous gassy-ness among these.

Once I landed, I de-boarded the plane, collected my bag, and called a taxi to take me to my hotel; The Marriott Marquis on Time Square. Yes, you have my permission to drool and rant with jealousy. You may do so now.

I met my friend, Michael, at the hotel and after getting settled into the room I went out for a bit of exploring.

I went down into times square just to soak up the reality that I was standing in the middle of Manhattan. There was such an energy coming from the place and the people that inhabit it. I was inspired. I watched the people come and go. Even the pigeons seemed to know that they had just as much right to be there as I did.

The lights and sounds were near overwhelming but I soaked them up like a sponge to water. I was in heaven. Truly, I was.

After Michael finished his bit of business we went to dinner and then walked around Hell's Kitchen until we ended at Smith's Bar and Grill where we enjoyed a couple of pints. As we sat there, people-watching, I noted the diversity of the people here in the city and I fell more in love with the place. It was magic and I'm afraid that my words cannot do it the justice that it deserves. All, I can say for certainty, is that NYC feels like a place where I can belong and be happy.

I want to apologize ahead of time for the shortness and randomness of this post. Perhaps we had a few pints more than I thought.

-D

Mirror, Mirror...

When I was younger you could most often find me attached to my grandfather's hip. Understandable when you consider the fact that I worshiped the man. I loved and loved being with Papa (Pronounced Paw paw) so much, that most weekends would find me camping out at my grandparents house bugging him to go fishing and my grandmother to make pot roast.

Early one Saturday morning, Papa and I were walking out of Vaughn's grocery having just procured all the needed supplies for the day's fishing trip. For him that was a Styrofoam carton of night-crawlers, a six-pack of Budweiser, and a pouch of Redman chewing tobacco; for me that was an armful of potted meat food product, Slim-Jims, a pouch of Big League Chew, and a pack of Garbage Pail Kid collector cards.

Trust me. You can't catch fish without Garbage Pail Kid cards. It just isn't done.

As we were leaving the store, my grandfather and I passed a man who exchanged a quick series of grunts with us that only now, as an adult, do I realize was an attempt to cover hostility with civility. Still, even as a hyper-active eight year old who was both chowing down on a ham biscuit and trying to balance the menagerie of processed foods I was carrying, I was observant enough to notice the less than warm exchange.

Later, on the bank of the pond, our lines in the water and our floats rising and falling gently with the swell of the surface, I asked Papa why he and the other man didn't like one another. His answer didn't come right away. He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled deeply and said, "There's something about that guy that I don't like about myself."

I stared down at my potted meat and tomato sandwich and nodded to myself knowing that my grandfather had just imparted a profound bit of wisdom, even if its meaning yet escaped my understanding.

It would be many years later, as a young adult, that I would truly discover what my grandfather meant; that often when we meet someone who rubs us the wrong way, it's because we see in them a character trait that we despise. And often, that trait is one that we recognize in ourselves like a pair of alley cats, arched backed and hissing over the same territory. It's the purest kind of mirror and let's face it... no one likes to see their ugliness reflected back at them.

I found myself face to face with that same hideous reflection last week when I saw my tendency to be an insufferable know-it-all reflected in the attitude of a good friend.

Last September at Dragon*Con, a Science Fiction/Fantasy convention that is held annually here in Atlanta, I had the misfortune to fracture two of my vertebrae and collapse the discs between them (I swear this is relevant to my point). For financial reasons medical care has been scarce and recovery slow. Many doctors have had many opinions; the most recent (and most agreed upon) being that I need to lose nearly a hundred pounds; that being overweight was a strain on my body and that reducing it would help not only my back but with many other problems.

Well... duh.

Having always struggled with my weight, I decided that it was finally time to make the choice to be healthy.

Never one to do anything half-assed, I took the advice and ran with it. I began doing research on the proper way to eat, the correct foods, exercises that I could do in my condition; everything I would need to make this weight loss happen and permanent. I went so far as to calculate my daily caloric requirement and type it up in a nice format on my laptop. I was making a sincere effort; not to diet but to change my entire lifestyle. I was proud of that effort and the enthusiasm with which I was pursuing the goal.

When I presented the research to my friend, LK, to share what I thought was a successful first step on a very long journey, I was promptly told that my information was wrong. After a quick search on the web I was barraged with an onslaught of different and contradicting information.

It wasn't that LK's information was incorrect or that I minded the contradiction. Quite the opposite, in fact. I'm passionate about learning and wish to learn all I can about every subject that interests me. It was the callousness and tactlessness with which she disregarded and flung aside my effort that offended. It abraded and stung. I was left feeling discouraged; all the enthusiasm drained from me. I called LK on her behavior, which understandably upset her, and she left leaving a sense of hurtful discourse hanging in the air.

Some time later, as I meditated in the soft light of a candle and the white noise of my A/C, I began to realize that what upset me most was not that LK had contradicted me or told me that I was wrong. What upset me most was that she had, unintentionally reminded me of one of my biggest character flaws.

No one would argue that I am intelligent (Humble, too. I forgot humble). Ask any of my friends and they will confirm my statement if my writing has not. However, I will be the first to admit that I can be quite inconsiderate when it comes to the intelligence and opinions of others. When you're wrong (or if I think you are)... I'll tell you and I'm not always nice about it. In fact, I can be altogether abrasive; tearing down another and leaving pain in my wake. It's a shortcoming that I struggle to leash on a daily basis and it was an unpleasant experience to see the flaw paralleled in my friend; to feel that tickle in the back of my psyche that says, "Hey. That's you."

At some point during my meditation I realized that I was grateful for the reminder that LK had given me. It corrected my perception of myself and I was able to reach a higher place spiritually as a result of the lesson that was learned; a reward well worth the momentary sojourn outside of my comfort zone.

So the next time that guy at work or that girl at the check out counter pushes your buttons and throws you left of your center, I encourage you to stop for a second and take a introspective look at yourself. Make an effort to discover if there is something mirrored in that person that you feel that you can improve in yourself. Make the effort to grow and ascend to something more than you are.

And, after that, if you find that you simply don't like the person... punch them in the temple. The look on their face will make you giggle.


-D

Hanging Ten...

So, my roommate, Frosty, and I have decided that our house is much too small for two adult men with our spacial needs. Co-habitation has become cumbersome. And considering that I have not perfected the pocket dimension I've been working on during my free time ( I keep telling him that the dog will turn up eventually ) I have decided to move, locally at first and then out of state, to a geographical location that is both closer to my daughter and more pleasant than having the inside of my skull scraped clean with rusty trowels by a group of uncoordinated lawn gnomes.

Wish me luck.

Needless to say, my life is in a right state of upheaval at the moment and I haven't had the time or the opportunity to show the Labyrinth the TLC it so deserves. So, imagine my surprise when I log on today to find that I now have ten dedicated minions! That, my loves, is nine more than I dreamed for and ten more than I expected. JOY!

So, in lieu of a proper blog post, I have decided to celebrate breaking the double digit mark by making a short ( but awesome ) list of things, in no particular order, that honor the number ten.

Surf Movies...

If you watched Point Break or North Shore or some other surf movie and didn't walk around for the next week talking about hanging ten on gnarly waves and calling everyone you met "brah" then you did it wrong.

The Roman Numeral X...

This dude is everywhere. He's on clocks, belt buckles, logos, and anything else you can lay eyes and hands on. He's the hardest working number in show biz and doesn't look to be stopping any time soon.

Sesame Street...

The Count. Nuff said. Ah. Ah. Ah.

Lists...

How many times do you see the top ten list? My guess is that you can not only think of a few that everyone would know, like the top ten songs of the week, but that you also have a few of your own. Like your top ten most embarrassing moments, your top ten places to get falling down pissed and throw up, and your top ten best pranks to play on your neighbor who lives in her car.

Pearl Jam's TEN...

Wouldn't you have loved to have been in the creative meeting with Pearl Jam when they thought up this beauty? Hey guys. We need to name our album. What should we name it? How about a number? Cool. I'm down with that. Fifty seven? No... it needs to be simple. How about ten? Rock on! Regardless, this album rocks my world.

Bowling Pins...

Knock 'em down. They get right back up. That's my kinda pin.

The Commandments...

Ah. The fabled commands of the Lord almighty. Carved in stone on these sacred tablets are the ten things that should be COMMON BLOODY SENSE. Still, I have to wonder what happened to the eleventh commandment that says to, "Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!"

The Case of Guinness your friend buys you for your birthday...

For the record, a case of Guinness holds twelve bottles. The one that I received on my birthday had ten and was held closed on one end with duct tape. Methinks something is fishy under the ocean.

Hot Dogs...

Yes. Delicious delicious hot dogs. Hot dogs come in tens. Why then do buns come in eights? Who screwed up?!

Neon...

Standing tall and proud on the periodic table, Neon is not afraid to tell the world... well, the strip clubs, honky tonks, and carnivals of the world that it is here to stay.

*Thanks to Annabelle for her creative and intellectual contribution!!

The Ice( Iron )man cometh...

It never ceases to amaze me at what you can find when you're walking around aimlessly at a festival that has everything from Top Hats to a guy hawking his mother's antique jewelry.





 
That's right kids. That IS an Ironman ice-cream bar. And I got it from an ice-cream truck. With the jingly jingly music and everything. My inner comic book nerd and eight year old self just giggled and bounced in their seats with joy... again.

I got the chance to spend the day with an awesome new friend yesterday who, surprisingly, is just as geeky as I am. While we sat chatting she announced that she had an irresistible urge for carnival food ( who doesn't?! ) so we strolled down to the Inman Park Festival to grab some funnel cake. What was intended as a quick trip for deep fried battery goodness turned into a day long adventure in which the two of us darted about like chipmunks dosed with copious amounts of sugar, looking at every shiny object that caught our attention.

After indulging our ADHD for a few hours we decided that it was time to retire and find real food. On the way to our chosen eatery I heard the tell tale sound that there was a man in a van handing out sweets to kids... legally. We came upon the ice-cream truck and after shouting excitedly so that the other people on the street averted their eyes and walked quickly in the other direction, my eye was drawn to a picture of the Ironman ice-cream bar. I was transfixed. It was a thing of beauty; bright red and yellow ice-cream that I knew, KNEW!, would be awesome!

Perhaps my partner in crime saw the look of childlike wonder on my face; perhaps it was the doofy ear to ear smile. Whatever it was, the next I knew she was presenting me with my very own iced Ironman head on a stick. A treat which I happily shared after capturing the above picture.

The lesson here kids? Nostalgia and nerdiness tastes like a two dollar novelty ice-cream. Indulge.

-D

The start of alcoholism...

is when you attack the wine bottle with a knife because you can't find your corkscrew.









So... funny story. My friend LCA came over the other night to watch Dexter with my roommate and I because she's tragically behind on the series and we just happen to have all of the current seasons and episodes on the PS3. I always enjoy it when LCA comes over. She's a fellow wine drinker and her visits give me an opportunity to indulge the refinement I've cultured since leaving my little farm town in rural bum-fuck.

This particular evening, however, refinement gave over to redneck ingenuity as the corkscrew vanished in a well played game of hide n' seek ( Its still hiding despite my near desperate cries of Ollie Ollie Oxen-free ). Never one to be deterred, I grabbed something that I thought would do the job, which just happened to be a paring knife. A very. Sharp. Paring knife.

Channeling the very spirit of our entertainment that evening, I stabbed the wine bottle in the cork ( sounds dirty when you say it like that ) and drove the blade in; burying it to the handle. Twisting viciously, I worked the wound until the Cabernet spilled it's deep red goodness into our glasses. It was dirty work well worth the reward.

Suffice it to say, LCA's prime time education in the life of a serial killer has been fun.


-D

* The evil gleam in the puppies' eyes say that they approve...

Deus Ex Machina... and he's laughing at you.

Today is the kind of day that exists only in fairy tales. Dark, twisted fairy tales where the hero is the butt of a great cosmic joke of which everyone is privy... except him. The telling of this fairy tale is certain to bring you a fair amount of joy assuming, of course, that you are sadistic enough to get a kick out of another's misfortune. And let's be honest... you know you are.

I woke this morning to the unexpected cacophony of birds singing and my roommate slamming doors. I'm assuming that he and the house had gotten into an argument ( like you do ) and he was trying to show his dominance. At least I didn't walk out of my room to find him on all fours, leg raised,  marking the couch... again. To his credit, there was an unhealthy amount of tequila involved the first time. *

If the manner of my return to the waking world weren't clue enough  that today was indeed going to be "one of those days" the sudden realization that I had forgotten my ID badge for work hammered it home. The realization was accompanied by a string of Gaelic obscenities; an exclamation so forceful that the young lady in the car next to me jumped visibly and scootched as far from me as her seat-belt would allow. And of course, Mr. Murphy saw to it that I was far too close to the office to turn around and correct the issue without being late. So, resigning myself to the fact that I would spend the day confined to the building else stand outside with my nose pressed to the glass in the hopes that someone would notice and let me in, I drove to work.

One thing that can be said about me with a fair amount of certainty is that I'm crazy. But that really has no bearing on my story so we'll just set that nugget of goodness aside for the moment and concentrate on something that does. For instance, the fact that I hate being late. I'm the kind of guy that arrives to an appointment fifteen minutes early. Always. And because I had gotten up so early ( there's no sleeping when your alarm is a slamming door ) I had a little time to kill. I chose to kill this time by running a few errands. Specifically, stopping at the ATM to pull the cash needed to run said errands.

I pulled up to the Publix near my office thinking that I would kill two birds with one stone. I would be able to use their Presto! ATM, which is mercifully free of fees ( I KNOW!! I couldn't believe it either! ), and swing into the store to grab some orange juice ( I love me some juice ). Everything was going perfectly; just as planned. The machine did its job, taking my card and reading the information from the magic strip on the back. I entered my pin to let it know that I was who I claimed to be and when it was satisfied with my identity it took my order.

And this is where things went horribly horribly wrong, kids.

I stood there, patiently waiting for cash that never came. Like an orphan waiting for the Santa from all the stories who never comes down the chimney. The ATM beeped at me mournfully as if apologizing and displayed a austere message stating that it was unable to dispense cash. I glanced from side to side certain that I was being Punk'd and that Ashton Kutcher was going to spring from the rubbish bin to catch me with that doofy look of surprise on my face. Once I recovered enough to realize that I was not being Punk'd, I mouthed a quick "Feis!" and tried to think of what went wrong. As my mind reeled from the shock of a plan gone off rail, I moved to check the balance in my account... just to be on the safe side. What I found raised my hackles and seriously disturbed my calm. Even though the machine was unable to give me my money it decided that it was okay to remove it from my account anyway.

That's what I get for trusting a financial organization whose logo reminds me more of pasta sauce than a bank.

I walked into the Publix to speak to a manager who fulfilled my low expectations by promptly informing me that the only thing that could be done was to send an email to Presto! and that I would be contacted. No, there is no number I can give you, sir. Yes, I understand the inconvenience, sir. No, I can only send the email on your behalf. The ATM doesn't belong to us, sir. In the interim, two hundred and sixty of my hard earned dollars float somewhere in the limbo of cyberspace; cold and alone.

Isn't it amazing how we create technological convenience upon technological convenience to make our lives easier and yet, somehow, they still manage to make our lives a living hell?! I can almost imagine that the machines have already taken over and rather than choosing to destroy mankind, they've instead decided to keep us around because we're much more valuable as entertainment than batteries. I am resigned to this fate wholeheartedly and when my XBOX tells me to put on tights and dance like the court fool in Camelot, I will go willingly. Until then, I'm going to get a very large truck and tear that fucking ATM out of the wall and get my money back. Wish me luck, blogland.

-D

* My roommate has never, to my knowledge, urinated on our couch in a drunken stupor.

Do. Or do not. There is no try...

As a creatively minded individual, I yearn to interact with the world around me and the people who inhabit it; to share with them a piece of myself in the hopes that the story I tell, the picture I paint, the song I sing, or the character I pretend to be will bring joy to their lives... if only for a moment. At the very least I'd like to force them outside of the mundane and leave them standing, slack-jawed, with that "what the fuck?!" look on their face; to give them a brief yet entertaining respite from the banal topics normally shared over dinner or drinks. 

The problem with this desire is that, more often than not, sharing is a difficult thing to do.

It is fear that makes my previous statement true. The fear of rejection, the fear of failure, and the fear that we will never live up to the vision of greatness and perfection that we cling to in our own minds. Sharing ourselves with others, especially the fruits of our creativity, means reaching into a place that is more than personal. It means drawing from the very font of who we are and taking that place inside us where we are most ourselves and displaying it for the world to see. 

That sacred ground, for most of us, is constantly besieged by self-imposed demons with names like insecurity, poor self-image, and worthlessness that harry us and whisper to us, even in the face of our vast potential. They speak to us with poisoned tongues and in voices remarkably like our own; convincing us that what we do will never mean anything to anyone and that we shouldn't even bother. I believe this is a struggle with which we can all empathize on one level or another.

This struggle between passion and inhibition, or more accurately, the losing of this struggle is what has defined my creative endeavors for far longer than I care to recall or admit. Projects such as this blog, which has been more than a year in seeing fruition, were squashed by the weight of my insecurity and fear. 

I had, for the longest time, intended to return to the habit of writing consistently when the idea of starting a blog came to me. A blog and the development of regular content would include consistent, if not daily, writing as well as pushing me to be more than a casual observer of my own life. I would need to be an active participant; cataloging my experiences and observations. It was the perfect exercise to redevelop and hone my skill after so many years away from the craft.

Despite all of the positive reasons to start a blog, I did not. Every time I sat down with the intention of starting I talked myself out of doing so. There were important factors that needed to be considered, after all. There was the question of content. There was the question of style and demographic. Also, there were logos, backgrounds, layouts, and designs to think about. These things were all valid concerns and issues that needed serious consideration I told myself, rationalizing. Address these issues and then... then I'd be ready. And so I kept my words inside my head and left my page blank; the cursor blinking expectantly.

It became a psychological match of tug-o-war; one with which I was all too familiar. On one side of the mental rope stood that lone part of me whose greatest desire is to be that which I have always dreamed I could. On the other side stood the legion of demons and monsters spawned from everything I had ever experienced that told me it could never be. Like so many times before, the two sides snapped and clawed at each other snarling fiercely with unbridled hate. The solitary part of me feral and lean from years of starvation; deprived of substance. The beasts masked in the disapproving faces of my life's naysayers; most of them wearing my own. 

And so it went for the turning of an age, in what passes for time across the landscape of the heart and of the mind.

Recently, I've been lucky enough not to fight alone. I've made and reconnected with close friends; the kind that know you to your core. Soul-kin, if you will, and their supportive and encouraging voices began to join mine in my fight. My passion and desire no longer stood alone. And though my demons greatly outnumbered my friends and I, their lies and falsehoods could not outweigh the veracity of our fight. In the end I had to admit that all of the "concerns" and "considerations" that kept me from putting myself out there were nothing more than excuses to justify my fears of failure and rejection. 

So here I am. Standing at the edge of the unknown with that little piece of my psyche that believes I can be great riding shotgun on my shoulder; looking out over the swamp of insecurity and doubt that has swallowed the vehicle of that greatness. I know that it's time to reach into myself and find the strength to pull that ship out of the muck in which it is mired; the strength that I know is there and that my friends see. If I don't... I'll never reach the stars.


Thanks for reading, blogland. It has been a very great pleasure to finally meet you.


-D