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Warren Ellis has written around thirty graphic novels, comics, prose fiction, journalism, videogames and screenplays. Sometimes he take photographs. He also creates and co-creates websites, including this one. He has awards and stuff, he's been in big magazines and newspapers, and he's been published in NATURE, which he always mentions because it makes him laugh.

Warren Ellis is represented by agent Angela Cheng Caplan at Writers & Artists and manager Aaron Michiel. He's a consultant to artbomb.net and opi8.com He's on the web at warrenellis.com, strangemachine.com and diepunyhumans.com. He's thirty four and lives in England and he never ever sleeps. Never.

Recent Columns:

Missed a column? Here are links to recent Brainpowered's:

36: Things Online That I Am Sick Of

35: A Foul Collection

34: Monetising The Fringe

33: Walking Camera

32: Microcast

31: All You Need Is Hate

30: Nothing Happened

29: New Spectator Sport

28: While I've Been Gone

27: Webcomics' Second Coming

26: Grey Fog

25: Notes From the Futureground

24: Saving Fantagraphics

23: Manhwa

22: Turning Point - The Anatomy Lesson

21: Planet Artbomb

20: The Ducks

19: Moving Books

18: Searchlight

17: Online

16: Singles

15: "03"

14: Nowhere Girl

13: The Full Head Tingle

12: Alternity

11: NoCal

10: Land of the Lotus Eaters

09: Five Thousand Miles

08: Norway

07: Nearly a Revolution

06: Mists of Time

05: Closing the WEF

04: Speed

03: Haircut Boy

02: The History Man

01: Firing Up

 

09: Five Thousand Miles


I hate Los Angeles.

I hate Los Angeles because it is a city not designed for humans. It is designed for cars. Humans not required. One day it's going to be filled with nothing but robot cars, cavorting on the highways of a city where humans were never ever meant to be.

Having a cigarette after dinner elsewhere in LA tonight, I see a Crazy Homeless Guy with a megaphone. He raises it to his lips, makes to speak -- to Announce, to make a Proclamation -- and then thinks again, lowers it. Raises it again. But no. The time is not right. He gets on the bus, disappointed. Something was wrong. His megaphone hangs in his hand. Perhaps there wasn't an agent in earshot.

I also hate Los Angeles because it's not a city. It's six or seven cities stuck together by seventy five thousand miles of road. I write this in Burbank. Burbank appears to be one of those half-alive cities, like Canberra, that people drive to in the morning and utterly abandon at night. This hotel is like a colony on Mars. There's not another living thing in sight. And, in the distance, the cars jabber and scheme in the dark.

The bastards.
 

SAFETY DANCE

I am going to Cable TV Station, housed in Big Media Corporation building. I am told that there are two levels of heavy security here, as there are at all studios here. Level One is a bored Pinkerton drone who sticks a broom under our car to see if Osama Bin Laden is clinging to the chassis. Level Two is a guy slumped over a counter who asks my name and then writes it on a lapel sticker. Presumably this sticker renders me invulnerable to bombing outrages, anthrax showers and bags of sarin.

Los Angeles is disgusted with the world. It doesn't understand why terrorists haven't targeted it. It's Important. It's Hollywood. Surely the warty Al Queda baddies want to destroy Hollywood, right? So where are they? Was the meeting postponed? LA stares at its cellphone, desperate for the validation of meaningless mass destruction.
 

ACTION

I am meeting with my friends Producers and Screenwriter. Screenwriter arrives pale and edgy. He is into the fifteenth rewrite of an adaptation. He's been in the business a long time and is very successful. But, despite being a professional screenwriter, he is still human. He has been asked if he can make the piece's second lead green. And Welsh. And a dog. He can't take any more. He makes an awful keening sound, like a stabbed dog. There's blood in his ears. He rips his pants down and shits on the floor.

The waiter passes, looks down, and says, "Who spilled this fine American food?"

Soon, it will be rinsed under the tap and put on the hotplate. And sold to me as breakfast for $20.99 plus tax.
 

NOISE

I'm extremely fond of the new sampler CD from Wasp Factory records. If you're fond of things like VNV Nation, then the likes of Goteki and the rest of the Wasp Factory stable have something for you. Go to www.wasp-factory.com for a taste. Tell them I sent you. Label manager Mark Eris has a occasional column at www.opi8.com.
 

ROAR OF THE GREASEPAINT

I'm signing at fine graphic novel purveyor Isotope Comics in San Francisco on November 16. They're also doing a party that evening. You can get contact details for them at www.isotopecomics.com -- give them a call and get the information.

-- Warren

 
Warren Ellis can be reached at brainpowermail@aol.com. BRAINPOWERED is copyright (c) 2002-2004 Warren Ellis. All rights reserved.
 


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