Last night, I saw a play entitled June 3-4, 1989. Though it needs a new title, it was very powerful, moreso since almost all the players were Mandarin speakers, visiting students and the children of immigrants. I was nine years-old at the time of the Tiananmen Square Massacre, the summer I turned ten. No matter what I learn about the PRC or how many times I visit the mainland (I've decided that I have to at least visit China before the decade's end), China will never escape the shadow of Tiananmen. Everything I know passes, to one degree or another, through that blood-soaked filter.

Put a lot of thought today into Mike Nordstrom, the champion of Ironsburgh and protege of The Spade in Empire City. Refined his "powers," and cleared up a lot of my own confusion about how such an average Joe came to possess and command a (possibly extradimensional) Martian Deimos-type Planetary Annihilator. His "codename" was Challenger, but now I'm considering a number of alternatives, none of them quite satisfactory. Yet.

Tiananmen Square and my own comic book ideas in the same post. The beautiful intersection of the sacred and the absurd, or am I simply hopelessly random?

"You're spending the night with me... Fred Garvin: Male Prostitute." I need a girl, but a better girl than my last one.