December 2008 Archives

The history books will forever record the hours between 2:00 and 3:30 on May 28, 1983, as the Mid-Afternoon of Morris Yakowitz. It was the Saturday before Memorial Day, which meant Morris was staring down the barrel of a Three-Day Weekend, which were never welcome occurrences in the Yakowitz household. Granted, "household" is a fancy word for the one-bedroom apartment he lived in by himself, far from the home where he grew up, but it will have to do.

Morris hated three-day weekends with a passion people normally reserved for rival sports teams. Being virtually friendless and almost perversely unadventurous, he had a hard enough time filling run-of-the-mill two-day weekends with activities. Adding an extra day to the itinerary (as the company where he worked did) just seemed to make it an insurmountable challenge. If he had been born 20 years later and had access to the internet, maybe his situation would have been different, but stuck as he was in 1983, he simply wasn't up to it.

Martin had grown pretty cavalier about sticking his hand down his pants in public. He wore the same pair of loose-fitting blue sweats everywhere he went, and if he got the urge to slip his fingers under under the elastic waistband he just did it. Wherever, whenever. He didn't care much about what other people thought anymore. If they were offended, Martin's philosophy was: screw 'em. They could look away if they wanted to. Concepts like "public" and "private" held very little meaning for him these days. Hygiene and grooming were no longer top priorities for him either, especially since he'd quit his job and decided to live off his savings. He pretty much let his hair and nails do as they pleased, occasionally trimming his bangs with a pair of kitchen shears when the hair got in his eyes. Martin bathed no more frequently than once a week, and his toothpaste and toothbrush sat neglected in his filthy bathroom. His diet now consisted almost entirely of Orange Crush and Hostess snack cakes, though he would occasionally splurge and get himself an order of chili cheese fries. His days were aimless and formless, consisting mainly of long naps, eating binges, marathon viewing sessions of cartoons and pornography, and occasional "field trips" into town where he would mainly wander around and look at things.

Martin was the happiest man on earth.

These birds are strikingly similar to birds I've created in the past... (Illustration Friday, topic: similar)

A little music always helps.

Vector art, Adobe Illustrator CS4

My wife and I begin the process of moving into our first house this week, so if I seem a little more quiet than usual, that's the reason.

Prints: chrisleavens.imagekind.com

I can't help it. I love it. I adore it, if I was a crack head, it would be my crack. If I was a teacher, it would be my lesson book, if I was a lawyer, it would be my quick comeback and sharp smile. I think about it all the time, I repeat its name whenever I can. I don't care how expensive it is, it's worth every penny. I don't care that its family is going down the tubes. Sometimes I find myself waking up in the middle of the night wondering if it is ok to go visit my dear friend. I'll whisper its name in the hopes that it will soon appear...venti-no-foam-two-equal-latte. I soon realize that it wasn't meant to be, but comfort myself with the simple phrase, "soon my friend, very soon."

In the office, I find myself looking at people, evaluating them, wondering if they are as good as you-know-what. I can almost feel the warmth that comes from its fresh, smooth and rich body. No one is as good as my venti-no-foam-two-equal-latte, no one. My favorite daily memory is when I arrive first thing in the morning to pick it up for work, and my friends in green immediately know who I'm there to see. They acknowledge my presence with a wink and prepare it for the day's adventures. I just can't do anything without my friend by my side, keeping my hand comfortably warm as we leave its home. Now my day can begin...

Call me Ishmael.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

There once was a man from Nantucket.

Recognize these phrases? Certainly you do, for these are the opening lines to some of the greatest works of literature in the English language. It is in the tradition of these immortal opening salvos that Mr. Clark and I present our latest project, 12 Surefire Story Starters. Willkommen! Bienvenue!