Busy Doin' Nothin'
Automatic for the People
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I took my kids to a swimming pool (Beatty Park, if you MUST know) this morning. It was very busy, and I spent half the time having fun with the children, and the other half hoping that the annoying red headed twins that kept leaping into the even more shallow than shallow pool would suffer life altering spinal injuries whilst their grinning idiot of a parent was trading cookie recepies with a woman that closely resembled a hobbit (but hairier).
The proximity to water must have reminded me of a few near death experiences, as I found myself thinking back to the two times in my life where I nearly drowned. It wasn’t the fact that I nearly died that caught my interest, though. It was the experience of remembering that fascinated me. Like in an Alan Moore comic, I was there for a few brief seconds, reliving an unpleasant part of what sadly passes for my life.
The second time, I was caught in a rip, whilst swimming happily out into the ocean when I knew I couldn’t. I was just too embarrassed to admit that I couldn’t swim that well, it was easier to just swim out there with the rest of my class. When I got into trouble, most of the other swimmers had made it back to the beach. I didn’t yell, I just knew that I couldn’t make it back, and quite calmly (or so I remember), I started to drop below the water and begin to drown.
My life flashed before my eyes, but there was no revelation. It was the good with the bad, just there. No particular order, just a quick succession of images dating back, I believe as far back as my memory extended. It was then that my body involuntarily started to struggle, as my lungs desperately searched for air. I thrashed about, for what seemed like far too long, as I pushed myself up to the surface for a few minute gasps of air. It didn’t seem like much, but it was enough to last me until the high school phys-ed teacher (that resembled Paul Hogan crossed with Les Patterson) came to my rescue. I remember being momentarily disappointed, because my life had stopped flashing, I was going to live, and I would never, ever even remotely like the ocean again.
And I can almost hear you all going ‘phew, thank god he made it’.
No morals, no point, just because.
Mark Millar Caught In 2nd Trimester
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You know how everybody regards comic book geeks, if in fact they regard them at all. Ugly, fat, borderline retarded, socially inept, compulsive, sweaty, balding, repulsive, unfashionable. I could go on and on (and this description is just based on myself).
Well, funny book creators are just as bad, if not worse. Have you seen Bendis or Quesada? Altho’ they’ve both lost a human being between themselves lately, they are both still on the ‘Danger Will Robinson’ side of their scales. Kurt Busiek, Peter David, Frank Miller. All ugly as Arseface’s ‘roids. You get the picture?
Surely, however, Mark Millar, one of comicdoms favourite sons, must buck the trend. A man that can go to bed at night, and dream up five best selling concepts in his sleep. A man that continuously writes about the super human, ultra contemporary concepts about muscle riddled specimens of superior psychiatric and genetic stock, all within the confines of a reality the avid reader can easily recognise as only one or two degrees away from their own. Surely, Millar must have one of those constantly evolving physiques that drips testosterone from its ever expanding muscle groups as he bench presses the weight of his family yacht whilst whistling the Captain America theme tune through his well formed, and oh yes, tight buttocks.
Ock aye the nooo Goo Goo Dolls I see you Jimmy Metrosexual
Nah.
