So awhile ago I dug in, and rebuilt the framework of the website from the ground-up. I added a bunch of features that the Cavalcade crew has been clamoring for, while eliminating those that didn’t work out. Now the time has come for me to come up for a new look. Whenever I get to this stage, I do a mock-up in photoshop first, to hammer out my ideas and goals. This time, I went crazy with it.

There are a LOT of ideas in this image, and I can tell you off the top-more than %70 of them aren’t going to be in the final product. I actually stopped on the proof before I finished because I saw that it was veering off into some land that I didn’t want it to go. So enjoy the un-coded take on the future of the cavalcade:

Stop. Deep breath.

Reboot.

The attic is a bit full right now. But all is not lost, or at least that’s the hope that flitters like a firefly between all the clutter and noise. Hands tremble as the adrenaline vacates the bloodstream and the buzzing noise of hot blood rushing through ears subsides, allowing me to hear the soundtrack pulsate its own calming heartbeat of…well, Nine Inch Nails. To each his own, right?

Underwent a bit of surgery last week, reattaching something that has long-since been missing. Forgive the tangent, but it will make sense in a minute. A little over 6 months ago, the laptop started having serious issues with its battery, being unable to maintain any kind of charge. This, of course, made it useless for the express purpose for which it was designed to serve: Mobile Computing. This of course left this particular Subway Jockey without the reins needed to harness the great beast and direct it as needed.

Now, if I were any other person, this would have been resolved rather quickly with a call to Apple and a fresh battery. Instead, I allowed myself to be distracted by the clutter in the attic and constantly forgot the need to schedule the apple appointment until just after it was too late. Always making do without, I got used to typing up little notes on the cell phone, or kick-klacking longer-winded ramblings when I should have otherwise been working…or sleeping. However, as time went on, those other things became more dominant thoughts and priorities, and the beast remained unharnessed.

As much as I wrote about it, I’m not sure it ever really sunk in how much the meditative affects of writing on the Subway to and from work everyday affected everything else. Without the ability to let it unfurl on the page, the beast storms and rages behind every action; every thought. The stories it wants..no…needs to go galloping through remain untested and untold, adding a layer of frustration to every other activity. After all, as any author will tell you, a writer that doesn’t write is nothing at all. The sheer act of writing, no matter how full of crap-sauce and crapulence the product is, That is what makes one a writer.

So I have been nothing. The days turned weeks, which then led to months.

Again, it’s not like there haven’t been tales a-plenty. A tornado just touched-down right outside of the apartment, blowing out the passenger side window of the car in a hailstorm of glass and debris. That same storm would leave our building without power for two days. Meanwhile, there was an insurance claim to file, followed by the rental car, which was acquired the following morning… and promptly towed from the lot by the apartment complex that evening. For those following at home: The Enclave Apartments of Silver Spring care more about getting their 30 pieces of silver in the form of the kickback from the towing company more than actually making sure the residents have running water, electricity, or air conditioning during a heat wave.

Ambiguous start there, I know. I could be talking about anything. A rash, blood-borne parasite, alien consciousness, or even an interdimensional gateway like in that Stephen King story. But no, none of those things are in my groin today… that I am aware of.

As the train hurtles down the tracks towards what is most certainly my doom (read: work), the car shudders and shakes, with most of the vibrational force being directed into the fore-mentioned groin. A sensation that is not altogether unpleasant, and indeed, would most likely be quite enjoyable were I in a better mood. So, as my groin is currently occupied and entertained, I believe I shall wend my brain elsewhere.

Left the phone in the car, so this is being typed out by cramping thumbs into the notepad of the iPod touch. Since I would be using the notepad on the iPhone, this is no step down, so it’s hardly worth mentioning save to say that on the iphone I’d be distracted by the Twitter and Facebook apps, and thus spare you this rambling, disjointed mess. If the battery on the office laptop held a charge, I’d surely be typing something a great deal more meaningful than may clumsy thumbs could mash out here, but alas…

The shuddering massage is in my lumbar region now. Less pleaurable by far. At least the iPod is playing Lateralus by Tool, providing my inner ear with a hammering massage that leaves them ringing and desensitized…perfectly suited for another day in a career dedicated to customer support.

Two stops left now. Curious as to what’s left inside. Sadly, not much.

There are two articles, no…not articles-stories-left in the queue behind the scenes of Subway Jockey, the little foster home where this cramp-inducing meandering little thought is going to be posted. Both are great stories. Both have more than a few hundred words drafted in their honor already. Yet both of them lie incomplete. There’d be thoughts on this but…

It’s time to go to work now, and my thumbs need a rest.

To state that there is an unspoken bond amongst men that differentiates us from women is not only a stereotypical, cliché opening, it’s a lazy one that’s not entirely true. For a moment, if you will, contrast my parent’s other son and me. I prefer the finer urbane things in life (or pretentious, I leave it to you): fine wines, luxury sedans, tailored suits, the arts, and living as close to the heart of the city as possible. He, on the other hand, prefers Coors light, guns, hunting, and living in the suburbs. Surely he has other interests, and I’m not giving him his proper due. But as we can’t stand speaking to each other, and haven’t in just under two years, I can’t really say.

However, as the clichés allude to, there are often deep bonds of commonality between many men. To return to the prior example: As much as he and I disagree on, well…just about everything, we share a common love of Scotch, Football, my Niece, and most importantly: Red Meat. That list may have gotten out of order somehow, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out where. But the point stands: even in the grand canyon that is the depth of our mutual dislike for one another, there are the common bonds of manhood. Bonds that tie every red-blooded ‘Merican male together (insert obligatory grunt here).

These bonds transcend verbal interaction, raising to a level of communication that is both psychic and genetic; occurring equally in the testosterone-injected neurons of the cerebral cortex, and the fire-fueled blood that rages through our manly hearts. There are things that we, as men, just understand and are able to express with the barest of nods-or indeed the fore-mentioned grunts. Take for instance, the laws of the Men’s bathroom.

This will be a slightly disjointed mess of a draft, as it is one of the few tales not intended for a larger purpose of being published elsewhere. Instead, this will be a bit of unadulterated random bloggery, as a thought is swirling around the more than slightly pickled gray-matter I call a brain after last night’s whirlwind of frolic and fun. You see, amongst the cadre of people I call friends and/or acquaintances, an Erlenmeyer Flask is begging to be filled with fermented things both great and small, especially when in service to the temple for the Holy Order of The Cavalcade.

Of course, whatever concoction was created in said receptacle has left me a quivering mass of huddled hangover. But this remnant is a perfectly acceptable side-effect of the sheer amount of stress decompression experienced by the participants. There’s a reason the Cavalcade meets once a month, it’s because we need it.

However, this is quite tangential from the original goal I had when I sat down to scribble this missive. Instead, I hoped to briefly indulge a few thoughts on another topic: Gallows Humor.

According to that bastion of fact-checked truthfulness, Wikipedia, “Gallows Humor is a type of humor that arises from stressful, traumatic, or life-threatening situations; often in circumstances such that death is perceived as impending and unavoidable.”

As far back as I can recall, my first response to any and every situation is either sarcasm or a flat-out joke. Part of this comes from family dynamics, as the entire Pearson clan is a fairly sarcastic bunch of people that frequently uses mockery to show endearment. The rest may come from a general lack of empathy, but I never cared enough to fully investigate that angle. But the point stands: when in doubt, I go for the funny.

Cheryle, my ex-wife, was one of the first to notice this behavioral pattern, and the first to accept it fully. Whenever something horrible happened to our little family unit (something that occurred way more often than it should have), she would come to me-not for empathetic comfort-but for me to start making wildly inappropriate jokes, laughing the pain away. Even after the end of our union, she’d call for those jokes on rough days. Indeed, it was she who first mentioned that it was probably a defense mechanism, a way of coping with situations that might otherwise overwhelm the psyche and bring about a depressive swing in my mental cycle.

Have to admit: there’s a stifled maxi pad joke echoing through the brain because of that last sentence.

“And what if you could have genetic perfection?
Would you change who you are if you could?”-21’st Century Cure

The music is beating out a driving rhythm on a bright spring morning as the overheating laptop is causing my hands to sweat. It’s an older machine, the one used to compose countless essays in years past. A widget in the logic board has shorted/melted/whatever, causing this damn thing to be a downright fire hazard. Which is why it was long-since benched for the newer model currently residing in the trunk of my car. Due to a rather random misadventure last night, I don’t feel like heading downstairs quite yet, and so I’m risking my hands (and my bed) to the potential flash of flame. It ads a certain air of excitement and danger to the process of detailing said tale that I think may be appropriate.

I’ve thrown in the rockingly volatile soundtrack to Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008), a gory bit of melodrama currently being ripped off by the big budget Repo Men (2010). The surreal story the soundtrack weaves about a man in costume prowling the city streets repossessing organs for an evil corporation, and his wayward daughter’s journey of discovery-is providing an elegantly violent ambiance, as well as the energy I need to move forward. But enough introduction, let’s move on with our story, shall we?

“Everybody, Everybody! Get down, get down now. S-s-s-stand up!
Don’t be shy. People, people, people! Cut up, get up, get up! Everybody testify!”-We Started this Opera Sh*T

Wednesday, March 17

St. Patrick’s Day in the D.C. area is not the organized institutional chaos that is Boston’s or New Orleans’ parades, but the bars and restaurants of the area aren’t going to let such an obvious source of revenue slip through their fingers, so its still quite the night of debauchery… if you know where to look. Fortunately my erstwhile acquaintance, Marquis, is one who keeps his ear to the ground for such goings-on; and through magic of social networking, he’s able to spread the prophetic message that is the Church of Partytown. The gathering was looking to be a fairly epic reunion of friends who hadn’t seen each other in more than 6 years, so it sounded like it may be quite the shindig.

Another friend, Kate, was looking for a night out as well. Her boyfriend James was taking a brief vacation with some college buddies down in Florida, and she’s not the type of gal to sit at home pining. When a pretty woman wants to go dancing, who am I to say no? Letting James know of our plans, we struck out for a night on the town. Failing in my duties as a narrator, I have to admit the night is a bit of a blur. I remember old friends, new ladies (another Marquis staple, as I recall), a DJ, dancing and more than a few beverages of a variety of colors, not just green. Eventually, after tiring ourselves out by shaking our collective “booty,” I escorted Kate home. Not quite ready to collapse into the bed my body was screaming it needed, I headed out to another local bar where an altogether different crew of friends had gathered.

It’s here that I’d elaborate further, but nobody who was there at the time I arrived has a clear memory of anything that occurred. Besides, this is all to establish that by the time the weekend arrived two days later, my body and mind were both gelatinous piles of goo that were incapable of serving their primary functions due to exhaustion (and possibly a mild pickling effect).

A quick time-cut, and we’ll rejoin our main cast on Saturday night.

New U Fitness is the official site of Natalie Leon, a personal trainer, group fitness instructor, and wellness professional. Her specialties include fat loss, especially for clients suffering from obesity; sports specific training for tennis players and dancers; and functional training for posture and balance improvement. Moreover, Natalie is trained to help those with chronic diseases and other special populations.

Micah designed her new logo, as well as her website.

Interestingly enough it is fueled in no small part by a dizzying mixture of Rihanna and beer. Not entirely sure how that happened, but we’re going to roll with it.

Also reminiscent of the fore-mentioned classic horror novel is the wind howling outside my window with such force that I can actually feel the breeze through our recently refurbished window panes. It can’t be heard over the screams of the atmosphere, but there’s a not-inconsequential amount of water also falling from the sky. After teasing the citizens of DC with pleasant spring-like weather for the last week, Mother Nature once again shows us her pissy side by throwing gallons of water and doom on our heads for the entire weekend. After a punishing winter that dumped more than 54 inches of snow on a town that is used to getting less than 5 a season (totaling my car in the process), I think it’s safe to say that DC has a hearty middle finger pointed to the sky right about now.

I’d take some of this pent-up energy I’ve amassed outside and scream at the sky, rebelling against our harsh punishment, but I have a feeling a gust of wind would simply lift my body off the balcony and bounce me off the walls of the building like a rag doll.

I don’t need proof/I’m torn apart & you know / What you did to me was a crime

Rihanna is singing very directly to the troubled clown that is her ex (Chris Brown) in a surprisingly powerful number entitled “Cold Case Love.” Like many outside of her target pop audience, I’ve often dismissed Rihanna’s music as disposable club constructions. Not so with this track. If you’ve been living in a cave, she’s ruminating over her widely publicized domestic violence situation that we’re going to move away from as we continue down the wending thought processes being tossed across these keys.

Waiting for an email from my friend, Steve.

He’s getting married to a lovely lady named Colleen in October, and asked me to design the Invitations for them. Steve and I go back pretty far. Hell, he’s one of 3 people I still regularly talk to who was at my own wedding which was-holy monkey-biting God-10 years ago this May! Dad still mentions the shoes Steve wore every time his name is brought into conversation. A spiffy pair of saddle shoes taken straight from the 1950s.

Steve is big into music. No, seriously: big with a capital “B.” He’s got the single most elaborate stereo system I’ve ever seen, and where I might break the bank to buy a new suit (or video game system) I can’t really afford, he’ll sell the occasional kidney for a rare collectible guitar (of course, he’s worked all of that out of his system by now, Colleen)! A cherished memory: He allowed me to listen to Paul Simon’s Graceland on a pair of pristine electrostatic speakers. It was the first time I’d heard the album-one of my all-time favs-in years, and I’d never before heard it with such clarity.

With this in mind, it wasn’t terribly surprising to hear that the couple had decided on an old school rock poster for their wedding invitations. As far as design clients go (even design clients whom I’m working pro bono), they’ve been pretty damn fantastic. They had plenty of samples of the look they were going for, all the information that needed to be relayed, and most importantly: Plenty of lead-time for me to get it done at my own pace…

Ok, enough Rihanna. Switching iTunes over to completely random selections from the music library.

So you just know that I couldn’t do a damn thing with it until Steve and Colleen were officially freaking out with how little time was left. Part of it was that I was over-committed through the holidays, but the biggest bit was that the creative side of my brain was stuck in a complete sludge-block of molasses, B-movies, and computer technology. Every time I sat down to work on it, I’d work for 15-30 minutes, hate everything on the screen, shut Photoshop down and surf the internet to watch the latest episode of “Chuck.”

No one’s fault but my own there.

As is always the case, inspiration struck at the absolute last minute, and I’ve been working like a dog the last 24 hours, putting together proof after proof for their perusal. We’re on the 4th iteration of the idea now, and I just got the email containing the details for the “save the date!” cards. I hope to have at least the first pass at those cards done before I crawl into bed, broken and bleeding from the ears, eyes, and nose as the gray mass of my cerebral cortex leaks out and pools on the trackpad of the laptop.

It’s really the least I can do for a good friend that I’ve let down so far.

It’s an hour later now and iTunes is, in an amazing bit of random synchronicity, playing “Bad girl”-the first Rihanna tune I ever purchased. The irony being that it’s the song she did with her ex that was getting all the airplay before their personal business hit the newstands.

My own (girl)friend just called. Her mom’s birthday dinner went well, the guests just left, and she wanted to see what I ended up getting up to on this Friday night/Saturday morning (since I called earlier to see if she wanted to get together). How am I? Hunched over a keyboard, reading an email from Steve about his cards. English is failing as the beer/Rihanna/3 hours of sleep I’ve had in the last 3 days all collide in that cerebellum-mush-generating-collision that I just knew was coming.  It took ten minutes to explain the wedding invitation concept, as the gaps in words grew as motor functions have started to fail.

Eyes burning now.

In the other window, the image file for the cards burns with the brilliant flash of a plain white screen slicing through the pitch black of an apartment shutdown for bedtime. Rihanna’s gone, and so is the energy that fueled the desire to pick up the virtual pen. Brain’s locked now. There’s a mission. No chance I’m going to sleep without those cards in a more complete state.

iTunes’s disturbing irony continues as it selects Prodigy’s “Smack My Bitch Up”

Time to go to work.

Writing Samples

A light-hearted romp through the world for B-Movies and Grindhouse exploitation cinema, the writing style of the Cavalcade is all about attitude and passion. The key goal is to get the audience excited about watching, what on occasion, be some truly awful films, so the copy has to be energetic and fast-paced.