Hi.

Anybody who knows me knows that I love my blogo.

But I'm starting on a new adventure and it would seem that the new adventure requires the services of ... well... a lawyer.

And my newest, bestest buddy Larry has said to me.

[and I'm paraphrasing]

"John... as your counsel, it is my responsibility to advise you that in your current legal situation - the posting of details which could be used against you in future civil action is not recommended."

Huh?

"No more blog."

Oh.

*sigh*

So there it is.

The briefest of shout outs to a few friends first.

Puff Please. Puff. Be my friend. I hope we'll be able to stay in touch e-mail wise. The conversations I've had with you about everything from my writing to life, liberty and the pursuit of the perfect wide receiver for the Packers - all of it - has been so dear to me. Please know that I will follow your blog and post when I can.

Sarah Ah. My dear friend Sarah. You have been so helpful to me in such a short time. I feel so lucky to have found you and I'll miss the chance to make you smile. Please be true to yourself. Never doubt your talent or your heart.

Sliced Sliced. What can I say? *kisses hand* In truth, I don't know what to say. I hope you and Tak have beautiful babies? I hope one day Kyo lets you lick sugar off his tummy? I hope... I hope you find that someone that never lets you forget how special you are.

Kennon I hope our paths will cross again. You've got such skillz and you're going to be HUGE. I will always be the most devoted fanboy.

My family I'm sorry I will not be able to keep you informed as to my daily going ons, but rest assured that I will shower you with infrequent and unsatisfactory e-mails for months to come.

To anyone else that I did not give a shout out to, please do not be offended. I've been told to push off and I fear I must.

The show never ends. Actor change. New sets are built. And life - the best show of all - continues merrily along.

*tap dances*

-- John Kipling, May 16th, 2007

I think what I remember the most was noise - the constant gunfire and destructive flatulence of improvised explosive devices. In a burning house, I'm told that a person experiences a feeling of drowning, due to overpowering smoke. There's simply no air - everything is smoke. THAT'S what I remember most about that day with Puff, crouching behind the '64 Skylark - it was the non-stop noise that a person could drown in, the kind of noise that replaced the very air.

I was holding the groceries to my chest like they were my babies - my precious canned corn, my too-innocent frozen peas. I knew the anger on Puff's face was not at me when he tried to shout over the noise, but I felt the overwhelming desire to scream back at him not to shout at me. Stupid really. I could barely hear him anyway.

COUNT TO FIVE THEN RUN FOR THE DOOR! DON'T STOP TO OPEN IT! HIT IT AND ROLL!

I remember shaking my head - the only way I could convey my meaning through all that noise. Bullets "twern-ing" and "per-kling" all over the place. The sound of concrete rain bouncing off pavement and cars alike. I knew I couldn't yell over the symphony of destruction. How could I? There was no air, remember?

Puff was in survival mode. There was no time for pleasantries and fare-thee-wells.

ON THE COUNT OF FIVE.

I shook my head and clutched the groceries tighter. My babies and I were just save behind the Skylark - thank you. Puff somehow, through all of it, could read my mind.

JOHN! THIS CAR IS STEEL, BUT THE HIGH VELOCITIES WILL CUT THROUGH IT! NOW - ON THE COUNT OF FIVE.

How do you hold your breath when there is no air to suck in - when there's nothing to gulp down? I screwed my face into a look of determination.

When we left the cover of the car, the world seemed to explode around us. How could there be more noise? How could I be more scared? Who picked up the door to the apartment and moved waaaaaaaaaay over there?

I shouted to my precious canned corn as I ran. "It will be okay. It will be okay."

Puff hit the door first and it exploded open, yet somehow still knocking him down. I tripped over him in an Olympic upset and fell into the safety of the lobby. The hush was so delicious it almost had a flavor. Cream or maybe milk. Cold and fresh.

I rolled off the groceries and tried to asses the damage. Everything looked okay. The bread was bent, but - hey - the lady would still be able to eat it. Every interstellar war has it's casualties, I suppose.

Puff was sitting up, smiling, brushing plaster and dirt from his shirt.

"We gotta get a better job."

All I could do was nod.

"I gotta a buddy down by the docks. Wanna try the fishing business?"

The rock crabs. 14 Feet Tall. Crushing claws. Their quick rapid scuttling attack.

I frowned.

"Yah," Puff said. "Okay. I know that look. We'll find a way not to get stuck fighting any giant crabs."

And with that, we stood and began walking up the apartment complex stairs to complete our delivery.


*************

Meme written for Puff at HIS SUPER COOL BLOGO.

Well. Here it is. The list of Top 10 things that a mere week ago, I didn't not think I would be doing.

Could have a drum roll please....

A drum roll....

[hello?]

Okay, screw the drum roll here's the list.

Top 10 thing that a mere week ago, I did not think I would be doing.

#10. Having an emotional crisis listening to Al Green's Let's Get Married on my iPod.

#9. Staring up at the guest room ceiling - the one that I have never got around to painting - and suddenly laughing while pointing. "HA! WHO'S LAUGHING NOW, F*CKER!"

#8. Being extremely happy(thankful) that I have a real job instead of writing full time.

#7. Thinking to myself I could get that motorcycle now and have that pointless, rock star death I've always wanted....

#6. Waking up in the middle of the night in a fevered panic understanding that I'm going to have to give up my two and a half car garage for another f*cking storage space.

#5. Wondering if all of the manscaping that I've been doing for months now for ...well... no one at all wasn't some sort of sign. [JEFF FOXWORTHY VOICE: If you shaving your balls and the only person who appreciates it is you - you might be getting a divorce.]

#4. Understanding that my best friend business partner is not just my business partner, but also... get this... my best friend.

#3. Hoping my daughter did in fact watch Karate Kangaroo.

#2. Late at night, with all the lights off, walking along and whispering to my books. Shhhhh, it's okay. Don't worry. This is going to be tough, but I won't forget about any of you. You will... *sniff*... always.... *sniff*... be my babies. *WAAAAHH!*

And the Number 1 thing that a mere week ago I did not think I would ever be doing.

#1. Getting a mother f*ckin' divorce.

Fear passed.

I'm okay.

*whew*

Looking for a used car now. *groan*

Hi.

I'm here.

Just waiting for my bus to hell. Don't mind me.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssss?"

"OH SWEET JESUS! Uh... hi... I was just wondering... is, uh, this the bus to hell?"

"Let me ssssssssee your ticket... ah... thissssssss isssss a ticket to a very sssssspecial hell. It picksssssssss up over there."

"Ah. I see. Thank you."

*hissing laughter*

Aw f*ck. This blows.

That sound you hear. Those would be Jenga blocks.

It's my fault really.

I asked her to pose.

"Geneva - come here. I want to take your picture in your pretty dress."

The dress is silk and the color of Ivory. I have no idea where she got it from. We probably bought it at a second hand clothing store. It's a dress up dress. As I grabbed the digital camera, she fell down on the kitchen floor and struck this pose.

I've learned to trust Geneva's instincts so I grunted-and-groaned down onto my belly and took the picture. A took a couple actually. Between each one, she broke into a huge smile, stood up, and said, "Let me see! Let me see! Let me see!" She'd study the picture in the little viewer on the back of the camera for a moment, then *FLOP* right back down on the floor, adjusting an arm here or a tilt of her head. The last two pictures, she made Butoh faces, silent screams, frozen in ice.

My daughter Geneva. She's so wonderfully dramatic and, I suppose, that's my fault.

"John, can I see you for a minute in my office?"

Ah the question that no employee ever wants to hear his boss ask. I pushed away from the desk, excuses fluttering through my mind like moths on methamphetamine. You've got a gambling problem, tell him you've got a gambling problem. No, accuse him of persecuting you for being a homosexual. Quick, find a man and kiss him like you mean it or you're doomed. There! Pinch Lou's ass. He'll forgive you. No wait - THAT'S IT! Tell the boss that it was Larry's fault. Yes! Everybody blames Larry. Maybe it was finally John's turn.

Before I knew it, I was sitting in the world's second most uncomfortable chair across from my boss' desk. He was scribbling numbers down in an over-sized ledger so I quietly waited - trying to figure out if I would describe his mustache as "just a sloppy mustache" or a "pornstache in progress". Finally, he finished and, looking up, tried to give me the bad news.

"John, you've been with the company for nine years, is that right?"

"You know, boss," I stammered. "The Gunderson accounts aren't finished yet because of the whole Gnome issue. Minnesota doesn't technically allow you to hunt them and Larry said..."

My boss held up his hand. Red Light, John, his hand said. Red Light. I stopped babbling and fought back the "fake" tears.

"John, the company has been doing well, so we've purchased some new company cars, and with your seniority, it seemed only fair that you have one."

I blinked.

I blinked again.

Then, I suppressed an outburst of girlish glee.

Me? Big and shiny?

"Oh," I said trying to act cool. "Sure. Great. Whatever" which was followed by a flash of panic. "It isn't a Prius, is it?"

My boss looked at the keys, reading the key-chain. "No, it's a 2007 Dodge Charger. Rear wheel drive though, I'm afraid."

He threw the keys and I greedily snatched them out of air. Helllllllllo Nurse.

"Just move all of your stuff into the new car and give your old car keys to Larry."

My boss slid the standard, SF-669, Receipt of Property across his desk to me. Smiling like an idiot, I pulled up my chair to start reading. In my business, I learned long ago that the devil was in the footnoted legal definitions.

An hour later, I was standing before the yin and yang of car trunks wondering if it was all really worth the time and effort. I'd never thought of myself as a packrat, but there I was - staring at nine years of, for lack of a better term, throw aways from a new age garage sale. With a sigh, I rolled up my sleeves and tried to focus on the task at hand. Where to start?

Quicker than you can say Sell It On E-Bay, the whole process became an occult archaeological dig. With each layer, I was traveling further and further back in my career with the company. I pulled out an industrial ziplock freezer bag of dried herbs and flowers. Yeah, like I was going to be mixing spells in the field. I gave the ziplock a sniff and tossed it into the trunk of the new car. The nightshade and cinnamon were probably no good anymore, so I merely hoped that I wouldn't need a "Prophecy Reversal" spell or need to bake any cookies.

Next, I pulled out a beautiful branch of ash that I had found along Highway 52. I remembered the hexing tools I had originally planned to carve out of the light brown wood. However, not unlike my second masters, I had just never gotten around to it. Shrugging, I decided that I couldn't just throw away a perfectly good piece of ash, so, again, into the new Charger's trunk it went.

Holding up a frosted plastic gallon jug to the light, I puzzled at its bluish contents. Was this holy water or windshield washer fluid? I gave it a slosh. It moved kind of like water. In an act of determined stupidity, I removed the top of the jug and pressed my tongue to the blue liquid on the cap. It was like tasting liquid fire. I frowned. Hmmm - well that didn't answer any questions. Finally, I decided that it would probably work for either purpose, so into the trunk it went as well.

Cursed scrabble tiles, a tackle box filled with assorted animal hair, 80 year old flares, an unabridged book-on-tape of Daniel Pinkwater's opus The Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death (read by the author), a catalog of discarded fortune cookie fortunes, a petrified skull of a mongoose or a very tiny lawyer - all emergency road side supplies that had been handed down from generation to generation, from CPA to grad student. And to my chagrin, I kept almost everything.

Yet, suddenly, there it was - carelessly stuck in a box overflowing with old 9mm ammunition that reeked of rosemary and lavender. I pulled out the photograph, staring at the moment frozen in time, faded colors to fit the memory. A stranger who I once knew so well stared back at me in a black low cut dress. Smiling, the young raven haired woman in the photograph held a flute of champagne and toasted the idiot pointing the cheap camera at her. But that man was long gone and this was his picture not mine. Remembering to breathe, I managed to pry my eyes from the photograph to stare at the trunk of the Charger and then to the small nearby pile of legal documents I planned to discard. Yes........ which one?

Good God, I thought, let's not let a new company car become some sort of crappy metaphor.

I slipped the photograph into my jacket pocket and needlessly slammed closed both trunks. Scooping up my discard pile of rough draft affidavits and failed appeals, I set off to find Larry and present him with his new keys. As I walked toward the elevator, I noticed that I wasn't crying and I couldn't help but feel like there was something very wrong with that.

Dialog taken from lunch today with Stan.

For a large portion of my life, I was haunted.

I lived in fear, frightened of a place that should have been my own - terrified of my sanctuary. Later, in moments of peace, memories of my torture would resurface and I found that any progress I had made was in vain. I would never be pure again.

It was a commercial.

For orange juice no less. I think it was put out by the State of Florida or something and, in the commercial, happy people drank freshly squoze orange juice while smiling, nodding, gesturing to the half full glass. And as their lives were improved by merely drinking juice of mashed pulp, a man sang:

"Orange you smart? For drinkin' orange juice. For the sweet and tangy taste. Yah - orange you smart."

Oh god, it was so catchy. And lord knows, fruit puns are irresistible. You couldn't help but sing along. "Orange you smart..."

At 3:00 in the morning, you couldn't help but sing along....

Any time you went to the grocery store, you couldn't help but hum the merry tune....

FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE - merely the mention of the word "orange" would flick that horrible switch....

It still rots inside my head, a cancer that doctors tell me can't be cut out. When my life is misery and torture, I need but open my ears to Satan's lullaby and my horrors suddenly seem lighter, even bearable.

I've thought about hunting them down, the demons who spawned such a torture, but aren't there a thousand such jingles - splinters that dig into our backs as we bear our own cross?

LISTEN - No one promised us a world without horrors.

No one assured us that it was sunshine and fucking over-sized lollipops.

We endure.

We live, we fight, and we show others by our example.

And those fuckers will throw their very best at us. Walk down the cereal isle at your local grocery store and you'll see and hear the horrors to which I speak. They have an army, who spend their hours upon eternal hours in Hell planning a way into your sanctuary - a way to plant their accursed seed.

But you resist! You fight! And you set an example for anyone else who clutches at their ears, doubled over in pain and exhaustion. You don't have to be koo koo for Coco Puffs. You do not have to drive a nice car to be sexy. IF YOU FEEL DUMB, DON'T FEEL LIKE YOU CAN COMPENSATE BY BUYING/DRINKING ORANGE JUICE!

You fight them by surviving, by not listening. You win by not quitting. And you destroy them by showing others that the bastards truly have no power

If John Kipling can survive the horrors then so can you.

Work, work, work...

It just doesn't seem fair. I finally got more than 4 hours of sleep last night and, if anything, I actually feel more tired. Okay, that's a lie - I was pretty frackin' tired yesterday. But 8 hours of sleep later, I don't know, I was expecting a little more spunk in my step, a little more shucka in my strut, a little more bang-bang in my boots. (NOTE TO SELF: Talk to therapist about developing shoe fetish.) My head is clearer though. My logic a little less impaired. But sadly, it just makes want I truly want all that clearer and what I want is to go back to bed.

Let's take a little time to talk CHURCH & STATE because, hey, it's my blogo and secretly I love talking about myself. (Yah - that's some secret, John.) I spent my first evening last night working on photo reference for Ted which was as much fun as skinning cats - sound, fury, cursing, and the a hearty "that's it?" when you're done. I also realized that I'm dragging my feet on Issue #2 because I am having so much fun planning future issues. This morning, I came up with the villain, theme and focus for Arc #7 or Issues 37-42. Huh? I have one, I repeat ONE, issue in the bag and I'm planning Issues 37-42? (But OH! Arc #7 is sooooooooooo kule....) And I spent an hour working on dialog for Arc #2 ("The Revolt of the Sex-Bots!") yesterday.

Well John, I'm glad that you're am having so much fun living in the future with flying cars and imaginary women who want to sex you for your brain, but let me introduce you to your real prom date - TA DAH! - her name is Reality. (*hey* Don't stare. That just makes her uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable.) Yup. It's time for some deadlines. *groan* Okay... let's see... I'm giving myself until May 9th to finish Issue #2. *ugh* That will give me time in California on the 10th through the 14th to work on Issue #3. (*cough* And the web site. *cough* Both web sites. *cough*)

There's a small comic book convention tomorrow at the State Fair Grounds and I'll probably swing over to chat with the local talent. I don't think the brilliant Douglas Paszkiewicz will be there though. But hey - I think I made Doug slightly uncomfortable at the last convention he was at anyway. After mandatory small talk, we looked down at his table of swag and comics and came to the delightful/horrifying discovery that I had bought numerous copies of everything on his table. There was nothing left for me to spend my fanboy money on. ("I was in too much shock and awe to suggest a commission.") Poor Doug - all he could do was look up at me and shrug. Then we both spent two minutes of silence trying to figure out which of us was more pathetic.

I suppose this is why you can have really stupid swag. Oh sure, you won't move it at every convention, but there is always going to be "one" pathetic fanboy who will buy anything you have. ANYTHING. (Maybe that idea of VIX feminine sanitary products isn't such a stupid idea afterall.) Seriously, Doug could have had 2x4s with sharpee sketches on them and I would have bought one. Maybe two. HELL - I WOULD HAVE BUILT A SECOND HOUSE WITH THEM!

Okay. Time to get back to work. And dream about ... I don't know... sleeping.

Today is "bring your children to work" day.

Yah. I'm not doing that.

Why? Well, simply put, because I love me children. I mean, some jobs are just a little better suited to bring one's offspring to work than mine. I guess they don't really expect me to make my children "work" or anything, but I can just see giving Cal a taste of my job.

I'm off to watch Jason Litzau fight tonight. Or more appropriately, I going to watch him try and save his career. Two fights and twice on the canvass. He's got a lot to prove. He went from HBO to ESPN2 in two fights. Needless to say, that's not where he wants to be.

For fighters, a loss can be a devastating handicap. Seasoned fighters with a fresh defeat can find themselves fighting not to lose, instead of fighting to win.

Anyone who has watched Litzau fight know that besides the hand speed, he has the skills. Yet, he wants the fame and glory so badly he puts everything into his fights, wanting to win over crowds - to be the hometown hero.

The name of the game is boxing and that's just what he needs to do tonight. Box and win. Taste that advantage again.

I've got my fingers crossed for the kid. It would be a shame to see that potential go to waste.

I know...

I know....

No real blogo entry again.

What can I say - I'm busy, tired, and an emotional train wreck.

Actually, that says it all pretty well.....

Anybody notice anything odd about this picture?

That's right. The praying mantis is using Crane Kung Fu to fight the giant bow-wow.

Come on, fella. You probably kick ass at Praying Mantis style as you're a ... well... you.

Maybe it's a fake out. Start with a little Crane, switch over to Monkey or Snake, and then use Praying Mantis to slice the Pup-puppers head off.

My poor dad.

He's passed out on the couch.

I think I kept him up too late playing cards.

Bad son.

Sure was fun though.

For the last three nights, my daughter has asked me to read Richard Scary's A Firefighter's Busy Day.

This panel always, ALWAYS, makes me a laugh.

What is causing the look on the pigs face?

Is it the alarm?

Or did they finally figure out what happened to Swookums, the fifth firefighting piggie?

HA!

My Pop arrives on a plane in less than an hour.

*happy dances*