Not the granddaughter, that’s for sure. She may be spoiled, but she’s not entitled (yet, thankfully). It’s more loved than spoiled. The fruits of being the only grandchild, I suppose.

Still, there are some individuals around here who behave like sullen teenagers forced to a relative’s house pouting on the couch. Spoiled, ungrateful, living in a fantasy land of projected (but untrue, or at least, delusioned) bad behaviour that ultimately allows them to claim the victim position, despite being almost entirely the offenders.

Man, am I ever sick of that pose.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 271 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Art Of Asking, Amanda Palmer
Comics: Chu 5-8
Music: New Moon, Discs 1-2, Elliott Smith

Not my old friends, but my wife’s childhood best friend.

It’s nice to see them pick up where they left off and it’s nice to really get to spend time with the woman my wife always talks about, and her husband, who seems nice as well, and has quite the tragic backstory.

Of course, my wife presented me as the rich kid, which you know, I’m not. I’ve lived more in poverty than not and my parents didn’t really start making a lot of money until I was well into my teens.

I spent much of my childhood in awe of my cousin, who had the complete Star Wars figurine collection, including the Darth Vader head carrying case, while I had a basic Princess Leah and Luke, plus Chewy, which was cool. (And, they had cable. We didn’t have cable. We had antenna.)

I didn’t even have Han. No Landspeeder or X-Wing.

We were poor, kids.

(Kidding, of course – we were comfortably lower-middle to middle and then upper-middle, so my childhood was mostly a matter of restraint – two working parents, comfortable, without excess.)

Anyway, I went to a dirt school, and most of the people I knew and hung out with didn’t come from money, and the ones that did were like our family, stable income, some extra, nothing dramatic.

Normal kids.

So, when people say that I’m a rich kid, it bugs me, because they see how well my parents have done for themselves, but they see it from the later point of view, where that money was made largely after we were already teenagers, or out of the house.

My mom cut my hair with a bowl on my head, for crap’s sake. We never had brand name shit (and I still don’t give a fuck about that), except for one long sleeve Vuarnet shirt, the kind that changed colour when it got wet, which made sweating real awkward.

Fancy, we were not.

Target: 900 words
Written: 815 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Journey To The Centre Of The Earth, Jules Verne
Comics: 100 Bullets 13-16
Music: Other Standup, Bill Hicks (we are the hooligans)

Ah, it’s been a while since I saw it, but man, what a great show, even if this version was a bit more amateurish than the one we saw in Toronto in 2007. They’re doing Rocky Horror in the spring, which should be cool. They’ve already got a Magenta, and I’m getting a Janet.

I’m not sure, but I think Evil Ed might end up as Frankenfurter.

Anyways, one of the four musicals I’ve actually enjoyed, the other being Book of Mormon and Phantom.

I think the best part was my wife’s uncontrollable nervous laughter whenever she was getting sprayed with blood.

I guess I know how she’ll be in an emergency now.

Target: 900 words
Written: 1284 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Journey To The Centre Of The Earth, Jules Verne
Comics: 100 Bullets 9-12
Music: Standup, Bill Hicks (in which he destroys his own comedy recording and issues one of the angriest takedowns of a heckler ever, beautifully. I'm not sure "I'm a drunk cunt!" wouldn't get him cancelled nowadays, but hey, I laughed)

This world is too expensive, and my wife has expensive taste.

I think it’s time for a restructuring. A little deflation could save everyone.

Target: 900 words
Written: 816 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Lost In The Barrens, Farley Mowat
Comics: Once And Future 27-30
Music: Unknown Pleasures, Joy Division (I'm literally wearing a shirt based on this album cover right now, so you know, I'm good)