My tribute to our lord and savior, Mr Gerard Arthur Way, who finally made it to his forties! From one seventies child to another, welcome, sir!
You like fatherhood, comfy clothes, meditation, going for walks, and cats. You still can’t swim, you still can’t dance (much) and you still don’t know karate. Face it, you’re not getting any younger.
I don’t wanna be younger, I just wanna…
Well if you wanted youthfulness, that’s all you had to say. Cause I got genes to make you cry or make you go, how does he look this way? For all the Britpop looks, the photographs that Kerrang! took, Remember when I broke my foot from Frankie jumping onto me?
I’m not thirty I’m not thirty I’m not thirty You wear me out
What will it take to show you that MyChem is really dead? (I’m not thirty) I’ve told you time and time again but you can’t seem to get it in your head (I’m not thirty) You think Frerard was real, you loved it when my roots were teal But that was then and anyhow for the last time, I write comics now!
Forget about the Revenge looks The photographs my boyfriend that Frankie took You said you read me like a book, but the pages all are Doom Patrol
I’m forty I’m forty! I’m forty, now (I’m forty, now)
But you really need to listen to me Because I’m telling you the truth I mean this, I’m forty! (Trust Me)
I’m not thirty I’m not thirty Well, I’m not thirty I’m not thir-fucking-ty I’m not thirty I’m not thirty (Forty)
Can you imagine how proud Gerard must be? He was a drug addict and an alcoholic for years. He was suicidal and he thought he was never going to make it past 25. But now it’s his 40th birthday, he has an amazing wife and a cute daughter, he’s finally accomplishing his dreams as a comic book writer and he’s very happy. He made it and he inspires thousands of people every day, because if he can do it, so can we.
With that being said, let’s all wish this wonderful man a happy birthday and stop judging him for not looking like his 27 year old self.
another thing that I think about a lot is how absolutely terrible han solo is at calculating when he’s going to make planetfall
which is not to say han solo is bad with numbers, han solo is one of those self-taught savants, who can do complicated interest calculations in his head; what han solo cannot do is the finicky interstellar calculus that tells you if you start out at 1800 hours local time, on a planet with a 90 hour sidereal day, and travel at 9 parsecs per hour, skipping between the Terrabe Bypass and the Alui Corridor, you’ll make planetfall on Tatooine around 0700 local time, just when everybody’s headed out to the noonday meal.
that’s the kind of shit he hates.
it also results in an unending string of hilarious misadventures wherein han solo arrives at precisely the wrong time anywhere he goes and ends up 1) preventing the kidnapping of a young duke’s son because everyone else was asleep, 2) dropping through atmo at the exact right moment to stop an Imperial rollout of monitoring droids, because he throught the no fly order wasn’t in effect until the next day, 3) hanging around at high noon, waiting for jabba to come back from his daily nap, only to be waylaid by a man claiming to be a jedi and his wide-eyed kid, 4) amusing leia to no end as he sits at one of the mess hall tables, biting his thumb and trying to work out four-dimensional calculus with a flimsi napkin and an old-fashioned stylus, 5) annoying his son to no end as he was late for everything, yes, dad, everything—uncle luke said you arrived four days after I was born.
better late than never, han says with a grin, every time. and anyway, your mom was on a planet with a very short solar cycle, messed up everything.
for his 40th birthday, leia buys him a top of the line galactic calculator, which only needs the local time, and then galactic coordinates of origin and destination to estimate the local time of arrival.
she finds han at the kitchen table three days later, biting his thumb and working out the time to the outer rim with a flimsi napkin, and a stylus.
November 14th. In the coffee shop, the man in the Make America Great Again hat smiles at me, so I take this as an invitation.
“Pardon me, but I have to ask— do you think Trump’s ideologies keep every person in this country safe?“
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Ma’am, I can’t get wrapped up in identity politics, all I can worry about is how I’m going to feed my girls.”
At my 40th birthday party, an acquaintance asks why we have “so much Mexican art in the house.”
“It might be because I’m Mexican,” I say.
“No,” he laughs, “you’re not Mexican.”
“Yes. I am.”
“No,” he continues, reassuringly, “and if you are, you’re only, maybe, 17%.“
The winter air stiffens between us. An old, familiar pain.
There was a time when I would have thanked him.
The early years, when I wanted only to pass, to rid myself of my last name— the dead giveaway, its muddy lineage
crawl out from the burying shame that held me down every time my father picked me up from school in our shitty car, his bushy mustache & brown face magnified by the sun.
A local white woman posts a photo of her new tattoo: a Mayan god etched eternal on her flesh. When I point out the disrespect, she assures me she speaks Spanish fluently, spent three years in South America.
For the next six hours, I argue with her friends. They demand I quit being so divisive. Judgemental. Close-minded.
“We have a racist running for President, and you’re complaining about a tattoo?” asks the white boy, who spray paints murals all over this city with impunity.
O, to be permitted the luxury of only worrying about one thing at a time.
O, to be white in America, to wake up knowing every god is your god.
When you never see yourself, you search for yourself all the time.
You know the white girl in the sombrero isn’t you. The bro dude in Calavera makeup isn’t either, not the ponchos and glued on mustaches, not the lowrider Chevy in the Disney movie or the hoochie-coochie sex pot on the Emmy award-winning television show.
Maybe you are only this:
the scorched bird pulled from the chimney, covered in soot. Not the actual bird, its velvet sack of jigsaw’d bones, but the feeling of recognition.
The ash of knowing.
A white comedian tells this joke: “I used to date Hispanics, but now I prefer consensual.”
The audience laughs. And you do, too. Until the punchline hardens, translates into a stone in your throat.
You swallow it, like you always do.
You don’t change the channel, but you also can’t remember a single joke she tells after that.
A few months later, the comedian’s career blows up. She’s so real. So edgy. Such a hardcore feminist. When someone writes an essay on her old stand-up routines— noting her blindspot when it comes to race,
her response is:
“It is a joke and it is funny. I know that because people laugh at it.”
If two Mexicans are in a car, who is driving? A police officer.
How do you starve a Mexican? Put their food stamps in their work boots.
What’s the difference between a Mexican and an elevator? One can raise a child.
What do you call a Mexican baptism? Bean dip
How do you stop a Mexican from robbing your house? Put a help wanted sign in the window.
What do you call a Mexican driving a BMW? Grand theft auto
What do you call a Mexican without a lawnmower? Unemployed
What do you call a building full of Mexicans? Jail
How do you keep Mexicans from stealing? Put everything of value on the top shelf.
What do you call a bunch of Mexicans running downhill? A mudslide.
Why don’t Mexicans play Hide ’n Seek? No one will look for them.
What does a Mexican get for Christmas? Your TV.
What do you call the Arizona man shot to death by his white neighbor, screaming, “Go back to Mexico!” Juan Varela
November 29th. For weeks, I’ve avoided eye contact with strangers. My face is a closed curtain. My mouth, the most decorated knife. I pay for groceries, grab the receipt & let my half-hearted thank yous trail like smoke. I no longer want to see who refuses to see me.
Anyone is everyone.
December 1st. I keep waking up. There isn’t anyone white enough to stop me.
Pantomime the living until the body remembers: wicked bitch. Bloodwhirl. Patron Saint of the Grab Back.
Still. Still. Still. Still. Still. Still here.
I etch my own face upon my wicked flesh. I am my own devastating god.
When you have both genders represented, then you have a healthier point of view. The energy is great, you all are working together as a community, and everyone is participating in the exchange of ideas. You don’t feel a hierarchy; you don’t have anyone feeling like they are being left out or bullied or humiliated.
I just want to make the best music of all time with my best friends.
You are, Chris, believe me. You’re so selfless that even on your own birthday you gift us, your fans, with more amazing music. Thank you. It’s hard to believe the world has been graced with someone as sweet, as humble, as down to earth, as talented and as positive as you (let’s not forget funny), yet here you are proving time and again that good people do exist and that we should no take them for granted. I’m proud to say I’m your fan and I’ll always love you and the music you wake along with the boys. Happy 40th birthday, you man-child Chris! Hope you never lose your spark.