Eisenstein, Cheese Fries, and the Joys of Bloviation

Once in a while, the universe reaches out to you, as if to say, "hey stupid, take this opportunity I offer you now or be a feeb forever." The wedgie of fate has pulled the underwear of destiny deep into the crack of my future.

Turns out there's a good-sized group of comic creators that holds its regular meetings in a bar about a mile and a half from my house. Well, honk my hooter.

They're the DC Conspiracy. I'm hoping that my charming manner, insights and ideas about comics, and my inhuman capacity to consume cheese fries will win them over.* Like a lot of guys perched on the edge between "wanna-be" and "guy who actually got off his ass and did something," I've got theories and ideas out the kazoo. Meeting with a bunch of folks who actually have put pencil to paper should be interesting. A few scripts and a lot of developed proposals sit on my hard drive.

If it goes well, I'll have a new set of comic folks to talk to and possibly work with. If it goes poorly, I'll probably get wasted on wheat beer, yell at the top of my lungs about the relevance of early Soviet film theory, then get into a fistfight with a coat rack.

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*Don't laugh until you've seen it. I'm told that my gorging on cheese fries begins as impressive, then becomes disturbing, and finally achieves a perverse grandeur.