Something appropriately revolutionary for the Fourth of July.

The band, of course, is the Nairobi Quartet.

My horoscope for today: “Someone who once wronged you is coming back — try to keep an open mind about them.”

Oh joy.

Ever have a weekend-long anxiety attack?

I did.

I was awake from about 6:30 AM Friday until — I don’t know — sometime late Saturday afternoon, unable to think, unable to move, intermittently unable to breathe. Oh, I could inhale and exhale, sure. I just couldn’t establish a rhythm for it. I was conscious of the taking in and expulsion of every breath. I had to plan every sip of liquid so as not to interrupt my breathing. How maddening is that?

Late Saturday afternoon, I dozed off. Then woke up. Then dozed off. Then woke up. Then dozed off. Then woke up, each bout of sleep leaving me a little more exhausted than the one before. Finally, Sunday morning, I woke up, incoherent and shaking and unable to doze off again.

Throughout the entire experience, and into Sunday, two song lyrics — just two lines, each from a different song — played on an endless loop in my skull:

Of all the love I have won or have lost,
There is one love I should never have crossed.

and

A man gets tied up to the ground,
He gives the world its saddest sound.

Before anyone asks: No, there was no substance abuse of any kind involved. Unless you count Diet Pepsi.

If I don’t at least get a story out of this ordeal, I’m going to be very pissed.

So. How was your weekend?

…for your concern and good wishes.

Try to not be sad, though. Keep in mind that a somewhat positive outcome is still possible with the lung transplant.

Personally, I expect to continue writing comics nobody buys well into the Gore administration.

(Note to my enemies: Feel free to thwart my expectations by ordering extra copies of COUNTDOWN TO MYSTERY.)

I can’t sing anymore.

My voice cracks. I can’t stay on key. I can’t carry a tune. I can’t sustain a note.

I was never what you (or anyone else) would call a great singer. Even “good” would probably have been a stretch. On the right song, though, there was a time when I could have been described as a reasonably convincing singer.

I hate not having that ability anymore.

For those who haven’t yet seen it on Newsarama, here’s the Justiniano cover of COUNTDOWN TO MYSTERY #1, the new dual-feature title that will star Doctor Fate and Eclipso.

Although it symbolically portrays Doctor Fate’s tower and amulet, we won’t be seeing either of those two things in the actual story for quite awhile. As I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, our new Doctor Fate will be acquiring his knowledge of magic — and its accoutrements — gradually, over time.

If that seems disappointing, consider the bright side. You’ll actually be on hand when he finds the amulet and when the tower is built — and the tower no longer looks like a big granite tuning fork.

I’m told DC will be making its announcement about Doctor Fate today at the convention in Philadelphia. At least a couple of the news sites will be covering it, and we can discuss it here after it’s all official.

I think something may have been jarred loose Saturday night, including a couple of long-held and erroneous preconceptions about my very own self.

We’ll see…

My sincerest thanks to the individual responsible.

When the creative juices get gummy and won’t flow, it’s time to think about something else.

Therefore, it’s time to think about something else — cleaning the house again, maybe. The carpets need vacuuming. The kitchen needs sandblasting. *Les toilets* need Ti-D-Bowl or the equivalent.

Mayhap in the pedestrian doth poetry abide…

Its song of origin (“Goodnight Vienna”) isn’t much, but that line is one of my all-time favorite John Lennon lyrics.

I’m about to burrow deeply into the next *Doctor Fate* script, and it may be a week or so before I resurface, but I wanted to get that post about my health out of the way first. This is it.

There are, shall we say, a few problems:

First, as some of you guessed from earlier posts, I have a condition called ulcerative colitis. I’ll spare you a long (and extremely gross) description of the condition. You can read what the Mayo Clinic has to say about it here. For those who’d rather not, just think of UC (coincidentally, also the initials of my high school) as the nuclear version of irritable bowel syndrome. That sounds like a joke, I know, but when it’s in a “flare”, UC can be utterly debilitating. Fortunately, mine has been almost completely under control for the past year or so.

Second, as I’ve related here, I have coronary artery disease — built-up gunk in the arteries, basically — which was treated late last year by the insertion of stents to clear the blockage and let the blood flow freely again. All indications are that the procedure was successful. On my recent trip to L.A., I underwent a cardiac stress test and an EKG, and the results were good.

What I haven’t mentioned is why I underwent the angiogram
that discovered the blockage.

I also have a disease called pulmonary fibrosis. It’s a progressive condition which, over time, essentially turns the inside of the lungs to scar tissue, rendering the patient unable to breathe, resulting in — well, you know, that thing that never quite happens permanently in comics anymore. In about 40% of cases, the cause of pulmonary fibrosis is unknown. I’m one of the 40%. (Irony of ironies, mine has nothing to do with smoking.) There is no cure. Detected in its earliest stages, some forms of pulmonary fibrosis can be slowed by medication, but the doctors think mine, which was diagnosed in September of ’05, has been working its nasty little magic for at least seven years. Though it’s now in its final stages, it’s remained fairly stable since it was diagnosed. It may continue to progress very slowly, or it may suddenly become much more aggressive; there’s no way to predict which course it will take.

Although the condition is incurable, some pulmonary fibrosis patients make good candidates for lung transplant surgery. The folks at UCLA’s Lung Transplant Center seem to think I’m one of those. I’ve passed all the tests so far. I need to get some dental work done before I can be put on the transplant list. (I know. That sounds like a joke, too, but oral infections can be extremely virulent, and any transplant procedure involves severely damping down the immune system to prevent rejection of the foreign tissue.) After that, of course, it becomes a waiting game.

I’m going into these matters at such length for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I promised I would. For another, I want to acknowledge the help I’ve received from several sources during what has been, as you might imagine, a stressful time. I’m hugely grateful to friends like Mary Skrenes, Harris Miller, and Bret Walker, who’ve assisted with everything from keeping landlords happy to getting me to and from airports on time. I also want to thank The HERO Initiative, “the first-ever federally chartered not-for-profit corporation dedicated strictly to helping comic book creators in need”, according to the organization’s website. HERO, whose board is composed of people who’ve spent their careers either in comics or loving them, has helped not only myself but many, many other creators. It deserves your support. Check out the website for more information.

I debated with myself whether or not to allow comments on this message. I decided yeah, I would, but please folks — don’t get morose or teary — and above all, just in case anyone’s tempted, do not accuse me of courage in the face of adversity. I’m scared shitless. (And no, it’s not because of the colitis.) So let’s all keep it real, okay?

Okay, that’s it. I’m digging in on *Doctor Fate*, and I’ll see you all when I can come up for a little daylight again.