“Banish broken beats!” bellow bibliophiles. “Bastardizations befitting bad behavior!”

Clearly, clever constructs cannot convince crazed commentators; copyreaders cull conciseness.

Doubtful? Don’t despair. Drink deeply dramatic discourse.

Every enlightened editor eliminates extraneous expressions, exploding even elegant exposition.

Frustrated from fiery faultfinding, freelance feature-formers fiercely fight futile feuds.

…God. Greater grief gets generated.

Halting.

First was Malfunction Junction, one of the only journal comics I’ve ever enjoyed. Quality art and quality writing, especially some of the one-liners (“Hey man, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you have your mother’s nipples.”). It vanished without warning; so, it seems, did its creator. Some of the comics are recoverable through the Wayback Machine; others seem to be lost for good, except (presumably) on someone’s hard drive.

Today there was a second. Hate Song. A masterpiece of some of the crudest and yet wittiest humor ever encapsulated in comic form. I can’t even begin to describe it without breaking the rules of decency I set for this place. Until today, there was still hope for a final strip, a final ending to a story that stretched from redneck suburbia to prison to the city zoo to the digestive tract of a whale. But the creator has spoken, and the site is coming down. The archives are already gone; the farewell message is soon to follow.

I regret these losses, but I understand the reasoning behind them. Paying for a domain name and for bandwidth, especially on something that may never be updated again, or that only receives a handful of visitors in a month, is hard to justify. People move on from their earlier works, distancing themselves from efforts they might consider puerile. It is the way of things.

So to Matt Milby, Ed Brisson, and KC Green: thank you. Thank you for your creativity, your dedication, and your willingness to share your work with all us crazy folks on the ‘net. It’s been a blast.

There are plenty of places where I am comfortable, of course. Given enough time, I can grow to like any given setting, and I apparently have competent social skills, as I tend to find at least one or two people with whom I can communicate. But a true feeling of brotherhood (siblinghood, perhaps, is a better term) is hard to find, especially at the drop of a hat.

Concerts, though. All of us, gathered together in the same place, are there to hear the music, see the bands, and maybe buy some merchandise to support the industry. There’s no hierarchy among the fans. No arguments over politics or religion or anything other than the walls of sound blasting from the amplifiers. No posturing, no contests of one-upsmanship, no anger.

Now, this certainly doesn’t apply to many, or even most, musical performances. Different genres attract different types of fans, not all of whom are as comfortable with such a kind yet frenzied atmosphere (and I’m looking at you, hipster scum) (not that hipster actually means anything anymore). The focus shifts from the music to the “experience,” and people begin to speak of their past attendance at such events as a way of determining who has the longer… well, you get my drift. But there is at least one genre that, in my experience, has produced nothing but positive experiences.

Metal.

Young or old, jeans or studded leather, baseball cap or mohawk, the fans are just that: fans. They headbang, they fist-bump, they compliment each other on their attire. They scream along to the more recognizable lyrics and throw devil horns in the air during solos. A metalhead saying she saw Slayer back in ’84 will be met with goodhearted envy and appreciation rather than an upturned nose and more impressive claims of seeing older bands.

And the pit! The mosh pit holds a place of honor in my mind. Everyone follows the unwritten rules: take nothing personally, no fighting, and help someone up if they fall. It is difficult to find another place where people willingly put themselves at risk and then actually take responsibility for their choices instead of blaming it on someone else. You will be bruised. You will be aching afterwards. And you will enjoy every second of it.

Now, I know I have to address the obvious question. “But Hats,” you say, “where the hell have you b-”

No, not that question. The other one. About whether or not I actually take part in these displays of ferocious enjoyment.

The answer: no. But I watch. I listen. And, standing amongst hundreds or thousands of complete strangers, I feel at home.

Also: if you only buy one album this year, you should probably listen to more music. But Surtur Rising, Amon Amarth’s latest endeavor, is worth your money (if you like hearing angry Swedish men growling about war and Vikings and that sort of thing).

Not the usual sentiment, eh? Most people despise, or at the very least dislike, facing sickness. Even when the symptoms are merely irritating, and this particular virus is predictable and relatively mundane, there still remains the fact that I am not feeling my best.

But when am I feeling my best? Not very often, I answer myself, although the very nature of that phrase means that we are only ever feeling our best once, and then we must be feeling even better than that to claim that title once again.

The point. I am getting to it.

Having such an illness is refreshing because 1) its symptoms are treatable, 2) it ensures that I will finally catch the sleep that has eluded me for several months, and 3) it explains much about my disposition and overall health these past several weeks. Always nice to have an official doctor-given excuse.

At any rate, that is not why I am here today. Nor shall I regale you with tales of my drowsy endeavors of these past few days, most of which include attempting to play the vidjeo games, writing gangsta rap (word!), and sleeping. Especially the sleeping.

Instead, a specific topic: actions versus intentions.

Consider the Bible story. Big J and his peeps are chillin’ near the temple. Some rich guys are bragging about how much they donated. An old woman gives a small amount of money, clearly all she has, and hobbles out without a word. Big J says that she gave more than any of those rich dudes.

Or something. It’s been a while since I’ve read the book.

Anyway, in economic terms, she didn’t. She gave a contribution that represented a great personal sacrifice, and showed the depths of her moral integrity in supporting a cause that meant so much to her, but her two coins are far outweighed by the massive piles of money given by the other selfish, disgustingly wealthy donors.

Do charities care about the morality of the people who give them money? Probably. They certainly like to know where the money is coming from. I highly doubt that PETA would accept a donation from a meatpacker’s association, or that Greenpeace would use free fuel supplied by BP.

(Reminds me of one of the opening scenes in Armageddon – Bruce Willis, the oil driller, aims golf balls at a Greenpeace boat and shouts “How’d you get out here? Canoe? Rowboat? Oh, that boat down there with a thousand horsepower diesel!” Anyway.)

But it’s impossible to know someone’s intentions, isn’t it? A multimillionaire who gives half his fortune to a charity might genuinely believe in the cause, or he just might want to see his name on a building and be loved by the general public. And, when it comes down to it, money is money. It’s touching, heart-wrenching, to see someone make a monetary sacrifice that leaves then a little bit hungrier for the next month – but it doesn’t mean squat when compared to that check, so big it has its own gravitational field, from Rich Uncle Pennybags.

So yeah. Not sure where I was going with this. But it’s nice to write something, you know?

Will write when I am less ill.