Last weekend, a very unfortunate thing occurred. I cleaned needlessly.

I won’t get into why I felt I had to clean, or what made it needless. Such subjects shall be relegated to so much grist for the rumor mill. And, even so, needless cleaning is not a giant tragedy in and of itself. After all, even when one cleans needlessly, one is left with a clean apartment, correct?

The answer: Sort of.

While I was either sleeping or out of the house sometime last weekend, the shelf in my bedroom closet — piled high with boxes overzealously stacked to finally get them off my bedroom floor, where they had been since I moved in back in the fall of 2000 — collapsed, taking with it the wooden hanging rod and all of my clothes, including one relatively expensive suit, and very nearly taking out the sliding doors, which are primarily composed of full length mirrors.

I am unsure how much time elapsed between the shelf collapsing and my noticing it. Expeditions into my closet in the summertime have traditionally been limited at best, as I keep most of the clothes that I actually wear in a dresser outside the closet. No, the only reason I noticed the shelf had collapsed was that one of the mirrored sliding doors was bulging outwards in the middle. And the only reason I noticed that was that I, too, was bulging outwards in the middle.

Perhaps you’ve never had a full length mirror in your bedroom and think me peculiar, but sure enough, one day this past week, before or after a shower, I stood naked in my bedroom, admiring myself in the mirror. “Yes,” I thought. “I am a god.”

I turned to the side and noticed that my belly was sticking out about a foot further than normal. Moreover, I seemed to be looking slightly downwards at my reflection, and I looked shorter than usual. Sure enough, that’s when I saw that the closet door was bulging outwards. A tiny peek through the closet door revealed evidence of a shelf collapse.

I honestly did not think I put anything particularly heavy on that shelf. It was mostly empty boxes. The only items of notable weight were a tub of Legos and a box of old notebooks from college. But, as I discovered, the shelf was no more than thin particle board which was poorly supported, and was destined to snap in the event that significant weight were placed upon it.

For a few more days I chose to ignore the bulging closet, leaving the contained clutter to fester as I considered various ways to remedy the situation. Today, however, I finally succumbed to my irrational fear of the mirrored closet doors shattering and scattering glass fragments everywhere, including all over my cat and my eyes. I pried open the doors and began to shovel the contents out onto my only recently-uncluttered bedroom floor, soon realizing I would end up with a bigger mess than what I started with.

I then headed to my local Home Depot, intending to purchase a wooden rod and shelf, spending a negligible amount of money in the process. I would have needed a specially cut shelf, as the back of my closet has irregular dimensions. However, I never even made it to the lumber. Instead, I bought this ridiculous modular closet/shelving unit that will probably not fit in my closet at all, let alone allow me to more efficiently organize my belongings. And as I am reluctant to learn that I am right about such matters, surprise! The shelving unit remains unassembled, and the contents of my closet remain scattered on my bedroom floor.

And my belly remains sticking out a foot further than normal.

From the files, circa 1999. What began as a freeform writing exercise ended up as a pretty blatant rip-off of The Onion, if anything so blatant can even be termed a rip-off, as opposed to a misguided homage or pastiche or whathaveyou.

Eco-Librarian At B-School Is My Confidante, Says Disgraced Oil Executive

“Comfort Zone” Celebrates Grand Opening
New Adult Themestaurant Promises To Keep At Least 10 Feet Of Distance Between All Occupants

Mallady, My Lady Opens Off Broadway, On Crapway
New Street To Serve As Haven For Cliched Fluff Of Musical Theater

Stethoscope Probes Pope
Pope: “There’s nothing wrong down there.”

Halibut Lodge Formal Complaint Against Jokester’s Cheap Puns
Comic Tom Fullery: “Why Do I Crack Wise About These Fish All The Time? Just For The Halibut!”

Bottle Opener In Second Drawer To Right Of Sink
No Wait, First Drawer To Right Of Sink. How About Under Sink. In Cabinet Above Sink? On Top Of Fridge?

AUTOS: All-Latin Jukebox Built In To El Camino

EDUCATION: “Bagel” Popular With Math Teacher, Dorks
“Smear The Queer” Popular With Special Ed Teacher, Retards

MEDICINE: First-Ever Case Of Lapdanceriasis Identified, Diagnosed, Treated In Poorly-Lit Back Room

COMMUNITY: “All-Day Event” At Area Racetrack Draws Crowd, Annoys Local Man
“Blatant Attempt To Raise Money For Spousal Boob Job”

HOME ECONOMICS: Lotion Deficit Brought On By Frequent Visits To “Pants Bar”

CULTURE: Unprovoked Hitchcockianism Wrecks Perfectly Good Slasher Pic

SPORTS: Georgia Superstars, King George III, Sweep Nebraska Nipples 86-69

This should really come as a surprise to no one: the world is running out of stuff. We’re running out of fossil fuels, of wildlife, of trees, of fresh water, of eligible bachelors who don’t turn out to be gay, you name it. We’re running out of everything. Except babies. We have lots and lots of babies.

This article, originally published in the Observer of London, tells of a report which suggests the Earth’s supply of natural resources will be stripped by the year 2050, and that by then we will have been forced to colonize at least two other Earth-sized planets to adequately provide for this continued growth.

In 2050 I will be seventy-five years old, and I plan to not only still be alive but also be a distinguished elder statesman, an important thinker, a noted man of books, oft-quoted in term papers for college history and philosophy courses and in original oratories in high school speech and debate tournaments. In this capacity I will fight tooth and nail any law that would require the execution of anyone over the age of sixty-five in an effort to reduce population growth. Surely, the only viable and just option is space exploration with an eye towards exploiting the resources of other worlds, and never mind that a comic book I am writing deals with this very subject.

As Edwin Hubble discovered almost a century ago, the universe is expanding. The two simplest cosmological models thought of today show that either the universe will eventually collapse back upon itself, destroying everything in a cataclysmic implosion, or the universe will keep on expanding forever, until finally everything is spread so far apart that the temperature of the universe will grow much colder and stars and galaxies will flicker and die, leaving large-scale matter as nothing but invisible hunks of rock floating through the empty blackness of space.

So the universe really has a sunny future either way you look at it. Of course, humans will be long gone by then – or at least, we will be, if we don’t watch ourselves. In his book The Universe in a Nutshell, Stephen Hawking wonders if science/technology and population will ever reach a final steady state. If not, he points out:

By the year 2600 the world’s population would be standing shoulder to shoulder, and the electricity consumption would make the Earth glow red-hot.

So life as a human would be pretty intolerable under those circumstances. Of course, over time, as the growth continued, being human would gradually take on a different meaning. What would the philosophy of such an overcrowded civilization be? Would life be worth less than it is now, a return to the nineteenth century and vigilante justice? Or would it be worth more, with humans not allowed to die under any circumstances, even natural causes? Either way, strife is the only possible outcome.

And strife has been the Earths raison d’ê´²e for the better part of its lifetime, so this will just be business as usual.

The bottom line is that Earth as a planetary mass will probably be around until the sun dies, millions of years from now. Humanity may not be so lucky. So let’s settle Mars. Let’s go set up camps on the moons of Jupiter and Saturn.

‘Cause dammit, I’ll be an old man and I won’t want you kids running around on my lawn.

And so another Wizard World-brand comic convention has come and gone, and I think this might have been my last one, unless something changes.

I go to shop, but I have run out of things to buy; I go to meet creators, but I am too shy to talk to them; I go to see panels, but I oversleep and miss the good ones; I go to spend time with girls from the internet and they get drunk and run around and raise hell and are generally terribly difficult to keep up with.

This year, I spent far less money than I have in the past, and that probably would have been the case even if I had not spent all of Saturday chasing the girls around. Am I getting tired of comics? I don’t think so. It’s simply gotten to the point where I more or less own all the older stuff I’d been looking for in years past. Am I getting tired of comics fans? Hell yes. And being that I am one, it puts me in quite a pickle, doesn’t it?

I walked through row after row of artists and retailers peddling their wares, which, based on display alone, were by and large composed of richly detailed paintings of fantasy warrior women, with stickers over any exposed nipplage in the paintings so that small children walking by would not be subjected to a visual onslaught of nipples that their young minds were too weak to prepare them for. I looked at the fat, balding artists selling these, and the fat, balding men buying them, and could not help but think of my own future. I would like to be an artist. I like drawing women. Will I become this artist? Or will I give up on my art and become the man who buys this stuff? Do I really have to become either? Can’t I put a gun in my mouth instead?

Oh, hi there.

I suppose I should have been helping out with the First Seminannual Daily Hey Catch-up Freakout Event, but I’ve been sort of dry on content. Lucas deserves a break, though, so here I go.

Here’s a poem I wrote for a girl one time. I sent it to her and I think she liked it, but things never really went anywhere. Maybe just as well, we weren’t really into singin’ the same kinds of Christmas songs anyway.

Some of you will no doubt see right through this riddle and devine who the recipient, indeed, was. Well, good for you.

Chicago likes to have its July 4 festivities on the evening of July 3. I suspect that this is so we do not have to compete with nearby cities in Indiana, where the more outrageous fireworks are curiously legal and thus draw (and also put out) many a curious eye. Either that or Chicago just wants to party the night before so it can get drunk and not have to worry about work the next day. Either way, it is clear that Chicago is one burg that knows what’s what.

I decided to reprise my July 3 evening activity from last year, since I enjoyed myself immensely, so I pulled on my shoes and socks and pants and strolled a couple blocks over to Lake Michigan, where I stood on the beach and watched the fireworks down in the city.

However, this year was different. First of all, the beach was far more crowded. I chalked it up to the thousands of people who read my write-up of the experience last year and wanted to try it for themselves. And they’d tell two friends, and they’d tell two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on. Also notable was the presence of little children who were organizing chants the entire time. They went through several rounds each of “USA! USA! USA!” and “God Bless America! God Bless America! God Bless America!” The most interesting one was “Peace on Earth! Peace on Earth! Peace on Earth!” which isn’t really what Independence Day is all about, and to hear it chanted by a bunch of ten-year-old boys who were probably just going to go home and play Grand Theft Auto 3 was mildly ironic, but in general the ignorance of the prepubescent set is not without its charm, and this was no exception.

The fireworks themselves were unremarkable, hindered by a cloudy sky, and by the fact that they seemed to be lower to the ground than usual. From my vantage point, the fireworks were going off behind two very tall buildings off in the distance, which produced a visual image that was not dissimilar from, say, two towers exploding in a ball of flame.

Eventually, that show ended and another one started several miles up to the north, slightly closer, more audible and unobscured by buildings, but also unremarkable. I slowly came to the realization that I was bored to tears and wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there and go home and play with my new graphics tablet. For some reason, however, I felt bad about feeling this way, and so I decided to walk up the beach until the fireworks stopped.

Forty minutes later, the fireworks were still popping, and I had walked a few miles on sand in the darkness. “The hell with this,” I said, as the rockets red glare and bombs bursting in air continued glaring and bursting, respectively. “Good night, America.”

Don’t mess with Lego Warren Ellis!

He’s got French cuffs and a purple vest!

He’s got a spaceship and a robot sidekick!

Don’t make him call you SHITEYES!

A couple of my friends have started up blogs recently:

Jim Ellwanger aka “Trainman” will use his blog to talk about trains, TV Guide, and Conan O’Brien.

Jason Kaifesh aka John A Seafisk aka Lucius Amberbock aka “Huggybear” will use his blog to talk about sports, food, and Canada.

Hooray! I now have a proper half a year’s worth of postings. I can’t say all of them are worthwhile, but at the very least they provide a larger text base from which various search engines can find word and phrase combinations that will lead unwitting saps to my website.

Now to get started on July…

Daily Hey Magic Number: Zero! Now don’t bother me again until December.

This morning, I discovered a secret cave with many 1-ups. Unfortunately, I could not reach them, as they were accessible only from a platform hovering very high up in the center of the room. I think I might have to somehow find a way to drop down from above.

This is not a video game I’m talking about, by the way. I was over by Lake Michigan.

Daily Hey Magic Number: 2

I must not fall asleep now! I am in the home stretch! Put on a pot of coffee, Dolores!

Daily Hey Magic Number: 3

Not too long ago, Warren Ellis on his forum had another call for logo submissions. This is what I put in this time around:

He did not use it.

Daily Hey Magic Number: 4

English class journal entry from late May 1993 (I’d stopped dating the individual entries back in March for some reason):

Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me!

I’m going to cry. Stop. Stop. I’m going to cry. Stop. Oh, there I go. I’m crying. I’m crying. Despite it all, I still feel utterly masculine.

GET ME OUT OF THIS DAMNED BUILDING! I CAN’T STAND IT NO MORE! SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER SUMMER

God, that’s depressing. I’m going to cry now.

Daily Hey Magic Number: 9

English class journal from 23 February 1993:

There is a disturbing trend out there that would probably really bother me if I knew what it was.

It is still my undaunted opinion that LeeAnn has a nice tush.

Sometimes, while hurtling through life, I find that my needs are best suited when I’m grumpy and uncooperative. Perhaps a bit disheveled. I often find that when I’m downwind of people I smell cigarette smoke, and I think, “That person has been either in the bathroom or the teachers’ lounge.”

The best of people are those who know when to say, “Thanks, but I don’t like rock fragments in my intestines, and I don’t think you should pressure me into smoking cheese.”

The worst of people are those who don’t understand what the best of people say.

Daily Hey Magic Number: 10

English class journal entry from 3 September 1992:

There is one thing, one thing only that I know for certain: Math class makes me slightly woozy. Either I’m falling asleep or I’m totally confused. Usually both. My head is so full of cotton right now, it’s not even funny. But I guess a head full of cotton would look pretty funny. Just a big old head, cotton coming out the ears, the mouth, the nostrils and eye sockets. Cotton growing out as hair. Actually, I guess it would look kind of gross. The person would be a victim of a sentient mutant Q-tip monster. That would make a pretty good movie. Certainly something more interesting than “Buffy, the Vampire Slayer”. Good night.

Daily Hey Magic Number: 11