So, I'm another year older but not another year wiser. Emotionally I don't change. Stand still. But enough moping. For my birthday I began tempwork at the Moscone Convention center for the American Dental Association's convention. I handled ticket info for the Billy Crystal event. Worked with cool folks, had long hours that drained me of all my energy, but I survived.

So, when I heard about superstar comics artist JH Williams III doing an opening at local hip comic shop Isotope, I knew that'd be what I needed to recharge my engine. Even if I had work the next morning. Sadly, I can't read so I spent two hours outside the closed store watching as the rather eccentric (though one of whom is quite cute) crew framed and hung artwork from Williams' Batman collaborations with Grant Morrison. I got my dates confused. Yay me.

So the NEXT day, when I was supposed to be having a birthday dinner with my folks, I ended up attending the opening. It was great. I don't drink, so sadly these events aren't as fun for me as they are for others, but eh, that's a price I pay willingly.

What I learned:

• Grant Morrison didn't tell JH Williams that the new Shining Knight was a girl in disguise while he was making the character designs. Probably didn't tell Bianchi until the last minute either.
  
• JH Williams is the most versatile artist this side of Dave McKean.
  
• JH's next project is with Greg Rucka for DC, a miniseries that will gather a huge amount of media attention. He has completed the first page.
  
• No word on the Grant Morrison mystery project that was all the rage at SDCC. I think that Scott Dunbier's leaving Wildstorm might have killed it. But that's just my unfounded rumors.
• JH wants to do a manga sometime. (This came up after discussing his cover to Astra, Jerry Robinson's manga. Amazing dissonence between Williams' style on the cover and the interior manga.
• DC rejected William's pitch to co-write a Frankenstein series.
• Young girls have trouble finding appropriate superheroines to dress up as for Halloween.
• There are still young girls reading American superhero comics.
• I suggested to JH Williams that he do the alternate covers for Final Crisis. If it ends up being so, you know who to thank. (Or blame as the case may be.)
• I'm getting better at handling parties, but still could improve.

My mom. The first relationship any human makes is to his mother. Ours still needs work, but I think it can be salvaged. She got me an iPod. I can't use it, as this computer isn't powerful enough. (I was kinda hoping for the laptop she had promised me last year, but you can't win them all.)

Getting lost in the city. Broken GPS. Taking the family to SF during the Folsom Street Fair. Looking over the city for Once More With Feeling. (How did I miss this when I came out?) Running into the slightly-pretentious guy from the opening at Borders, where he worked.

Speaking of work, I need to find it. The job offer that looked so solid has since faded away. The temp work I did is gone, and not being replaced.

Tags: comics, life, work

This morning I awoke (late - I seem to be requiring a lot more sleep than I used to) and found a voicemail on my phone. Which I had turned silent the night before. (Mom kept texting me, saying how much she loved me and missed me. Why is it that I only feel she cares when I'm gone?) I called back, having to change to the landline since my phone gets crap reception out here, interviewed for a position and got it.

Then I found an e-mail in my inbox asking me for an appointment. I scheduled it for Friday. Hopefully I'll figure out if I'll be working for the New Conservatory Theatre Center as a SM by then. If I am, then I tell the guy no, I can't do your job even though it would make financial sense, since I want to build a resume as a theatre person.

I'm amazed at the fact that my experiences at cons and as a house manager make me perfect for working at a convention center. I really should have tried that at San Diego.

I'll need more ties, slacks and white shirts.

I finally feel like things are going my way.

Splurged on chili fries and a coke at Sliders Diner. So expensive. Eh.

Tomorrow I send my sister a copy of Wonder Girl #1 as a present. I wish I could afford comics for myself, but I can't. I need to save money. Splurging on junk food doesn't help.

Tonight I finish my New Gods map, and then maybe work on Pixie Wolves.

Last night, T talks about how much she loved Kill Bill, and how she loves Quentin Tarantino. I find out that the Castro is playing Deathproof as a double feature with Vanishing Point (the film that Tarantino was homaging/inspired by/ripping off) tonight, and we go and see it.

I forget how detached I am. That people get emotionally attached to characters. I look down at them for doing so, but I shouldn't. She spent the entire film in a constant state of fear. That movie plays with you. Gets you to care about the original cast and then blows them away. Like Psycho, only with four women who are in the shower. When she covered her face during Zoe's hoodtop adventure, I realized that she wouldn't be able to watch the film at all.

I felt bad. Really bad. Because I didn't know her well enough, I recommended a film she wouldn't enjoy.

Part of me wanted to stay for Vanishing Point, but I felt bad, and we left.

On the walk back, I realized that I'm living near the Castro and still can't get laid. I do this, you know? Force myself to relive my failures, obsess over what I do wrong. It's this whole cycle of depression that reinforces itself. I'm an actor, or at least was. But I can't fix myself. I'm broken.

It's been a week since I moved out of my mom's place. It's always been her place, never dad's. Pronouns will be quite tricky here.

Restart. I've always wanted to keep a journal, a diary, something. I have a poor memory, and have lost so much of my life to my inability to remember things. Today I was asked what my first grade teacher's name was. I don't know. I don't know any of them. I was friends with Adam Karsner, fellow geek but a bit of a prevaricator. I was introduced to Batman by two girls who were fans of the TV show. Selina was the girl who played with the boys.

There will be quite a bit of free-association. Please hold.

Primary Plus. It was a private secular elementary school. No uniforms, no religious doctrine, small class sizes and non-standard teaching practices. I don't think that a "real" school would allow me to sit out PE just because I didn't like sports. (I'm resisting the urge to censor my writings.) And in retrospect, wow. I was so stereotypically gay. Didn't like sports, extremely emotionally sensitive, cried all the time.

The time in High School Drama. Junior year? Senior? I can't remember her name, (except that she had large breasts and a manly figure) but she yelled at me to get away from her. I was unknowingly invading her space, but took it the wrong way. I cried. I hated that I didn't have the self control not to. I don't believe I've cried in such a fashion since. I probably have but have forgotten.

I love my parents. I just can't stand them. It's more that I can't stand myself, but they exacerbate things. And yes, we have changed topics yet again. I won't re-edit this into a coherent whole until publication. I always tried to keep as many of my papers as possible for posterity, assuming that future generations would want to research me. Dissect my writings, analyze my grade school test scores (which were absurdly high) and write papers about me. Because I was sure to be special. I expected a lot from myself. And learned that I couldn't deliver.

My biological father, (whose name I decided to remove, though if you really tried hard you'd be able to find out)  is a smart man. Incredibly smart. But made some stupid decisions. Became an alcoholic, which hangs over me like a shadow. I don't drink. Ever. I've had a sip of wine once for religious reasons. (Or rather to be respectful to the religious feelings of my step-mother.) Because I'm afraid that I'll become an alcoholic like him. Because I don't trust myself to be able to drink and keep myself in check. A woman in a drama course I took at DeAnza College told me that I'm just sidestepping the real issue, and that I need to confront my fears of alcoholism. I'm not ready for that. In fact, I like being able to pull the holier-than-thou card with the fact that I don't drink, don't smoke, don't do drugs. I'd like to not be able to pull the don't have casual sex card, but I'm not sure I'm ready for that.

Dear lord. I am one wandering son of a bitch.

Okay. Last Tuesday, right when I was about to finish my application for readmission to UCSD, and go with mom to the bank to settle the issue of my student loan, I got in a fight with her. All we do is fight. There's something in her voice that I register as complaint, as endless insults. Demeaning me. She says she doesn't mean to do so, that she's just trying to be helpful and is upset that I don't respect her. Honestly, I don't think I do. She's too human for that. But I got fed up, hit my limit and stormed out of the house in the flipflops that she bought for me. Left my phone behind, my wallet was in my room in the pair of pants I was wearing the day before.

I did not intend to ever return.

I walked a lot. I'm afraid right now that I might have seriously damaged my legs in the process, but I did what I had to do. My first plan was to call one of my friends and ask for help. Failing that, call my father. (Biological) Failing that, call my aunt (mother's sister) and ask her for help.

I love how my plans for independence all relied on help from those around me.

(Interruption. I just read an article in the New York Times, okay -- was given an article from today's Times to read about how Ayn Rand's work influenced Alan Greenspan and many of the movers and shakers of the world today.)

No money. No idea of who to call. I knew my aunt's number by heart but really, really really didn't want to call her. I am still upset at her treatment of my mother, but that's another story. Begged for change. Called my good friend's parent's home, hoping that they'd answer and have his number so I could cash a favor from him, crash at his place (He not living near me at all anymore) and take up the job offer he found for me. Called them, they weren't there.

Feet HURT. Walked anyways. Reminded me of Babylon 5, the whole Walkabout storyline. But that doesn't work if you are self-conscious about it.

Plan then changed to bumming a ride up to San Francisco, find my father's place and crash with him. But how? It's the wrong time of day for traffic to be heading that way, and there wasn't a convenient place to go. I found a cardboard sign, and a crayon on the ground. Made a sign. Help. And amazingly enough someone did. I was hungry, dirty and about to lose it. I cried. She gave me money. I feel bad about that. I feel so bad.

Library wasn't much help. I escaped into fiction like I always do. Was hoping to ask the librarians for help, but didn't have the courage. So I sat and read comics for a while. Couldn't use the computer to ask for help, since I didn't have a library card nor a means of acquiring one. And cowardly me didn't both asking the librarian to grant me an exception.

I will now try to finish this diatribe up without mentioning the word help.

Wandered in downtown, found this likely high girl with her gay friends promoting a poetry slam for a local coffee house that didn't go anywhere. Cute geeky guy hanging out with them. I thought I might know him, and even considered asking him for a place to crash. Girl was amazing. Kinda out of it, but amazing energy. She sang, got my spirits lifted, but couldn't help me with a place to stay, her father wouldn't allow it, and she was going to a place in San Jose. I'm fairly certain it was rehab.

Getting dark. I left at about 10. It was now 9ish. I'm not my father. (bio). I know when to swallow my pride. Defeated I began the long walk home. Feet about ready to give out on me. Part of me wanted to just spend the night outdoors just to spite my mother, knowing that she'd worry about me. I was amazed that she let me storm out on my own like that. When I left, I looked behind me the whole way. But after a while I knew that there was no chance of her finding me. Gilroy is small, but not that small.

I walked in the house, Alex watching TV, and then it became an argument again. I break my mother's heart so much. That's part of why I had to go. To spare her heartbreak. At least, I tell myself that. There's not much I can do to make her happy. We spoke. I was determined not to stay at home anymore. I had made that decision months before. That if I wasn't going back to San Diego for school that I would move out. Because at 24 you shouldn't be living with your mom. Because I can't stand living under someone else's roof after having personal freedom. Because I can't get any when I live in Gilroy and can't take anyone home.

I spent a day recovering from the torture I put my body through. My legs were shot. I felt totally depressed. And reveled in it. (And revel in the sound.) But mom (bio) and dad(step) didn't see it that way. They saw it as me being lazy. I'm afraid of being told no. I didn't ask my bio-dad to let me stay with him for fear of him saying no. And also because he wasn't my first choice. But when I couldn't get ahold of my friend Sean, well, I made the call. And he said yes. Mom wanted me to leave ASAP, not because she wanted me to go (which she didn't. She's clingy to the max.) but because she felt it'd be better for me to get it over with. I waited till Saturday.

I didn't pack ahead of time. Went to the LARP on Friday night, said my goodbyes. Didn't tell people that I wasn't going to San Diego but to San Francisco and theoretically could still attend if I had a ride. Saturday I did laundry, packed my stuff, spent about an hour trying to burn DVDs of my files, failed, couldn't find my Game of Powers book, and got on my father's nerves for borrowing the good luggage. Found the used ones in the basement. Where I learned that what I had assumed was an impenetrable barrier of chairs and furniture was not, and that my previous chore of traversing the south side of the basement to spread ant poison was doable. I had written it off.

Then the car ride north. My family during my absence in San Diego adopted (unofficially) a Mexican worker who had slowly become part of the family. I love and hate it. I like him, he's a good guy, and he's everything I'm not. A hard worker, gets along with my dad and my mom, has his own place, makes good money, has nice teeth. It's like looking at my replacement. The entire car ride Dad(step) was talking to him, and I realized that in two years he had become closer to my parents than I ever could.

At the core, I'm emotionally distant. I don't get along with my parents. We have nothing in common. I can't talk to them about anything. I'm a geek. They accuse me of not allowing them into my life. I never found a place for them. I use their money, but don't like spending time with them. Not that much at least. I always felt like they wanted too much from me.

So not getting reader sympathy.

As we ride, I realize that I've been replaced. With a son who loves them in the ways that I can't. I take solace and am hurt by this. San Francisco really isn't that far when you've got a car. Without it, it's not impossible. (Muni to Caltrain to VTA) Just annoying.

I talked to my Dad. Tell him how things have gone badly for me. How I feel pathetic, how I can't stand living at home anymore. Work things out so that I go back to school in January, finish my degree. I'm not 100% sure that I can do it, but I'll try.

Sunday is my father's 65th birthday. Thankfully I had a present for him. It wasn't originally a gift for him, just a book I'd been reading which I knew he'd enjoy, but it worked. Dinner was at this nice place that served Italian. Nice if you liked the fancy stuff. I'm not a huge fan. Before that we went to a reading of Gertrude Stein's works done in celebration of the first time she met her lover, Alice. It was an interesting staged reading. Full of elderly lesbians and artists.

Come Monday I begin job hunting. On Craigslist. I have virtually no experience, no hireable skills outside of the theatre, and am looking for something where I earn at least $10 an hour at a fulltime job. I fail. Tuesday I take a walk to Al's Comics. Owner is nice, but touchy about ensuring his comics remain in good condition. I wanted a job there, or at any comic shop really, but didn't get it. Wednesday through Friday I continue. Fix my resume. File out applications. I tell myself that if I don't get what I want by the end of the week, come Monday I'll lower my expectations, try a staffing agency, apply for Borders or some other such basic job.

I'm afraid of jobs. Afraid of trying out and being rejected. Afraid of telling an employer "I'll just be here for three months, you okay with that?"

I promised myself that once I moved to SF that I'd write for three hours every day. I haven't done so. I completed a plot for a comic, wrote two (technically three) resumes, but haven't forced myself to write. I figured out how to take a class over this quarter that'll allow me to take UCSD part time and cut my tuition in half. But I haven't written.

I'm impossible.

This journal is being written for me. That others might read it is inconsequential. This is a way for me to keep track of my memories. Otherwise I'll lose them. Already I know that there are plenty of details I neglected. Coming out to my sisters. Taking my siblings to see Stardust. Mom complaining that my account was overdrawn when she said she was going to put money in my account to prevent that.

I must have the shittiest credit.

I have such high hopes for myself. Maybe I'll start living up to them.