A Spy's Lament

I write this on what is the eve of my birthday. If I was on Eastern Standard, I'd be old enough to drink already. It's not like I even want to drink right now. No no no-- tonight is turning into something bigger than you or I have ever imagined.

The night a man decides for himself where his life will go.

The night a man strips his existence bare and studies it carefully.

The night a man transforms into a better man.

I wandered aimlessly around today after spending a double shift at the job - a bare minimum wage run by drunks, whores, and corporate bigots who want nothing more than obedience, hard-earned time and money, and every employee's soul. I'm here to tell you I'm the secret spy in what is easily to become the new Nazis. I'm the ninja in the shop. The raptor in the long grass. The sith lord in the jedi council. I can go on really. REALLY. I took the job to pass some time and meet people - I did, didn't think I'd be tempted to sell my soul so many times, but I survived somehow. Now that I know the inside of the organization, I've been secretly letting random strangers, hereby deemed my "associates," get away with things they shouldn't be getting away with. Nothing illegal, I assure you. But as I loudly proclaim when my oppressors/"bosses" aren't around: "SHOP AT ANOTHER FUCKING STORE - CONFORMITY IS NOT WORTH YOUR PAYCHECK."

Well, let's get back on track here. After wandering aimlessly around for what seemed like hours, I find that maybe tomorrow is going to be different than I'd imagined. Maybe it won't be anything really. I imagined it a day in remembrance of my life, a kick in the ass, and ending with something similar to blinding clarity/epiphany. Tomorrow is, and will forever be, just another day. No worries, I can deal.

Off tangent: Finished the Warren Ellis run on Thunderbolts today. If you're reading this and planning to read it, then let me let you in on a little secret. Book one doesn't have SHIT on book two. Granted book one , entitled Faith in Monsters [hmm...don't know how I feel about typing that - sounds like my life really], is a very good book with interesting character studies in the insane lunatic minds of superpowered serial killers turned cops. But book two, so aptly named Caged Angels [hmm...fuck Warren Ellis for making titles that sound like my life at this very moment], is a wondrous thunderfuck part two - a romp, rather, where your wildest dreams are answered. The only hint I'll provide is that after THAT book, Thunderbolts Mountain should be christened Arkham Asylum.

On the road yet again. After coming home to absofuckinglutely no one, I went straight back into the world...via the internet. Doing things here and there. Did you know that I was actually interested in other people's lives once? Yeah, weird. Today? Not at all. Shortly after I turned the appropriate age to gamble in Vegas [Eastern Standard], I had a phone conversation with one of my best friends. Turned out to be one of the better conversations about life that I've ever had. I write these words now during a "break" in the life lesson. I'd like to say I taught her a new lesson of life, and she taught me a new life lesson, but the fact of the matter is we both found a new lesson learned just from having a conversation that, undoubtedly, could not be shared with anyone BUT one of your best friends. I think I'll start terming my oddly shaped circle of friends my "Rogue's Gallery." Not because we are what equates to rogues, but because I like the connections it makes with Batman, and a lot of my friends are quite like the friendly faces gracing Detective and Batman comics monthly.

Some more messages to those of you out there.

To you-know-who-you-are: Happy Birthday. Thanks for the conversation/peptalk/life lesson trade/phonecall. It really made my day after having such a shitty day. Your birthday present is being made after I finish this up. I miss you and the next time I see you I'm going to literally hug as much as I can out of you - and then we're going on an adventure into whothefuckcareswherewegosolongaswearegoingsomewheretogether.

To my oppressors/"bosses": Did you see that pick of our old manager I put up? Check it out and then go fuck yourself with something spiked, cold, and spoon shaped. Looks like I got the last laugh --> Hahaha

To the Brian K. Vaughan: WRITE MORE COMIC BOOKS.

To Warren Ellis: I'd love to have lunch and discuss the world and comics through your truly sardonic eyes. Next time I'm in jolly ol' Southend-on-Sea?

To Matt Fraction: More Casanova please.

To whoever-you-are-out-there: I SEE YOU.

To all birthday wishers worldwide: Thanks for the early, on-time, late, and hopefully not, supertwomonthslate birthday wishes. Much obliged and yes, I will drink responsibly. Which is spy code for a fish bowl filled with ice and the best "margarita-type" spirits man can buy - with a side of huge fucking burrito.

Message to myself: Goodnight and good luck.

The History of Spies

I misspelled James Bond one day and this came of it.

For a long time now, I've always wondered how rants start out. Mine starts like this. Others start with the word, rant. Many more just get right into it and bitch about their opinions on matters that, well frankly, don't matter. Why do we 21st century humans have this automatic response to irksome subjects where we must blog, video blog, update our fakebook status, or, heaven forbid, "tweet" our emotions? Ranting is just a fancy term for expressing ourselves. Ranting started long ago when man saw something he didn't like and threw feces or rock-tipped sticks at it. Ranting broadened its horizons when it stepped into the world of art with cave paintings and then more feces and spear throwing as a response. As civilization further evolved, so did ranting - rulers would speak no words, but say many with public executions. Some time after that, ranting became two separate but equal parts as writers and artists decided to take down their emotions, their feelings, their bitching and form books and pictures with them. Ranting even branched into the world of preaching and religion - often called soapboxing because these fed up homeless would stand upon their soapboxes [literally] and shout out loud, "fuck that shit!" As time passed more and more ways to rant, publicly and secretly, developed - ranting technology we'll call it. This includes but is not limited to: a diary, a journal, a television show, a movie, a book, a magazine, NEWSPAPERS, blogs, websites, fuckin' youtube, goddamn twitter, the long forgotten myspace, and the lovely time-waster, facebook.

My favorite of all rant technology ever made is comics. Yeah, makes sense don't it? Comics are a way to voice your opinion to other like minded individuals that comprises both the writing AND drawing aspects of expression/ranting. Comics allow a writer and an artist, a writer/artist [like myself], or a writer, artist, and lots of other helpers to publish their opinions and thoughts. Sure, they come out as adventures, mysteries, and dramas, but they do their job correctly. Comics are made to entertain people for the length of the issue - they always do. What's better than pictures with words, words with pictures? Nothing. Well, Ok. Women and food are better than words and pictures, but you get the point. Comics are amazing. They're books, they're movies, they're toys, they're kickbacks, they're badass, they're old school, they're sexy, they're funny, they're naughty, and they're certainly cool. Can you believe people even forget that comics are still being made?

Here's a story: I was defending myself to this jackass of a peon asshole about what I want to do with my life. Ya' know, small talk to pass an elevator ride with complete strangers. I told the insignificant wretch I'm actually an aspiring comic book writer/artist and want to make comics until I die. He said, verbatim, "they still make that shit? Better find a real job, son." I, in words not suitable for persons age 16 or under, told the man that comics were indeed being made to this day, that he is a total waste of a human being for debasing my life's dream, I'm not and never will be his "son," and that being a comic book writer/artist is an actual job. Of course, the fellow elevator riders heard this as the most profane rebuke to come from a 20-something in an elevator, but at least I got my point across. It was actually accompanied by a small golf clap because I had to tell the same man off earlier for offending a young Mexican mother by calling her, verbatim, "a piece of ass worth a dime-and-a-half." So, the lesson learned here is to never forget comics are being made. As long as I am living, and any other comic readers are living, there will ALWAYS be comics in production to entertain and rant. Words and pictures go together better than peanut butter and grape jelly. Write that down.

Now, a rant.

To Youtube and Twitter: FUCK YOU!

To Fakebook: This relationship between you and I is like most midwestern marriages. It was fun when it started, then it was REALLY a blast, but now you're just something I'm forced to see everyday, and I'm starting to see other people. We'll continue this charade of a marriage for as long as you connect me to my friends, and then I'm divorcing you.

To the government: "I'm MAD as HELL and I'm NOT going to take THIS anymore!!!"

To that-guy-in-the-elevator: I know you'll never read this because you don't know who I am, are probably too illiterate to even read and comprehend this next statement, and are too technologically retarded to even access the web for anything except porn, WoW, and your welfare information. But I just have one thing to say to you: I hope you attempt to sell white girl to a plainclothes, get booked, thrown in the big house, get your salad tossed against your will by a big foreigner by the name of Molly, find that you like it, and become the prison bitch everybody wants a night with.

To The Roots: I think the quote is "bang on."

To Hitchcock: Please come back from the dead and make some movies. Hollywood sucks these days without you, man.

To steampunk girls: If you want a good time, call me.

Included in this essay is a "quick" strip I did. Please enjoy.

Attention All Secret Agents!

I got bored and tastefully drew my old boss naked

My Executive Assistant, Iris

It's been a while fellow agents. Negligence? Yes, completely. I had Comic-Con '09 to attend to and get lost at. Visitors from far and wide have come to see yours truly. In short, my schedule has been packed with things to do, people to see, things to see, and people to do. My free time has been divided between writing and drawing. I have no time to eat, sleep, or breathe anymore - my comics are my life and I continue to strive onwards.

Things I unearthed at Comic-Con:

ALL of Promethea - amazing, with the book start and book end volumes hardcover

All hardcover versions of Warren Ellis' great run on Thunderbolts

Signed Comic-Con exclusive copy of The Hunter by Darwyn Cooke

Most of my Casanova single issues by Fabio Moon [those bastards are elusive]

Most of that dark Bendis/Maleev run on Daredevil

Executive Assistant Iris

Currently hooked on:

Promethea

Warren Ellis

Resident Evil 5

JH Williams III

Steampunk cosplay chicks

Pina Coladas

Now: a story. After Comic-Con, I realized that I'm in the perfect mind set to work on two of my projects such that they can be done and completed to perfection. Being a perfectionist, this is what I had accidentally intended to have happen from the start. To so luckily fall into these two stories is nothing short of sheer luck.

The first story is about the Devil. If you know me personally, then you know EXACTLY what story I'm talking about because I've had this tale to tell since birth. To me it never gets old and the personality of the Devil is so fun to write that the script walks directly from my mind onto the keyboard then into my computer.

The second story is about an assassin. No one save for two know this story, but it's all about this one man's POV on life. The story writes itself and I'm the factory producing issue after issue. Writing this story also helps me write out one of my novel ideas on the side. If you know me well enough you might know which particular novel I'm talking about or can guess. You know? The one about the guy in the place with the problem? That one.

With those incredibly intentional and extremely vague descriptions look forward to samples of characters and story clips and excerpts and news and sex and guns and rock and roll and muffins and bowls of cereal and all the extra features that accompany my project work.

Promising to update more humanly possible without selling my soul to the internet,

Beau Q.

Commander-in-briefs