Drummy Croc
La Luna
Yomi
A Funeral in MonsterlandWednesday, October 27, 2010
works in (lack of) progress
Most of the new artwork I've done lately has been illustrations for a friend's book of poems—Wonder Girl in Monsterland, by Brenda Sieczkowski. The recurring character is named Yomi, Japanese for "underworld." The text is full of oddities I tend not to grasp until I draw pictures of them, at which point I think, okay, that makes sense now because I'm looking at it.
Drummy Croc
La Luna
Yomi
A Funeral in Monsterland
Drummy CrocLa LunaYomiA Funeral in Monsterland
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
A Certain Lamentable Splendor (complete collector's edition)
or, Clan of The Cave Geeks
“Man, that place is sad,” responded a friend when I sent him a photo from the convention room floor at GAME con—and sad it was.
And yet, as always, because of some indelible devil’s advocate DNA in me, I found myself respecting the geeks of geekdom anew. OK, not the ones wearing the fuzzy fox tails, and maybe not the Damsels of Dorkington, and, well, maybe respect is not the operative feeling here, but some kind of appreciation feebly rose up...
...appreciation for a sort of social bravery that says it is okay to exist without an iota of cool. Bravery that could indeed be disqualified as such by the likelihood that hormonal deficiencies or degrees of autism have established in these folks either A) total lack of self-awareness, or B) sociopathic behavior that is not anti-social, but quacky-social, drawn to dwell in only the most impractical, imagined realities.
Today this bravery walked up to my Artist Alley table embodied by this earnestly, politely, home-schooled-ly harmless proto-woman dressed up in boy clothes and near-total sexlessness. For the minute she was there, I was merely bemused. Later, I sort of felt this retroactive affection for her—the same feeling I have for Sue Heck on “The Middle.” What a superb dork girl, in her outdated suit-jacket, jokey buttons, and modest androgyny. Was this one of her normal outfits? For all I know, she was in costume as an alternate-universe Dr. Who. She bought my choose-your-own-adventure comic book for a dollar and seemed pleased with it. I soon re-read said comic with her in mind, hoping that its crude comedy wouldn’t corrupt or disgust her.
Most of the day passed uneventfully. The “con” was scarcely attended. The lovable nerd girl had been one of maybe five people wearing a tag indicating that she was a paying attendee as opposed to a merchant, artist, or other “guest.” Mid-day passed. I bought a barbecue sandwich from a dim meat-scented alcove and ate it in the Media Room, where two other slobby gents were watching Tron. The twelve or so minutes of Tron I watched were pretty good, maybe because my sandwich was so dang savory. I kind of regretted spending two bucks on water when pop was also two bucks, but maybe I did the right thing in forsaking pop.
I was falling asleep around 3:00 when my friend Cody arrived with Mrs. Cody, AKA Sam. They provided me a vivarin-esque boost of conversation. Cody got annoyed when the audio-video tech guy zeroed in on me and said, “Do you have the movie we’re showing at 9?” I indicated Cody, and the AV Guy sort of scolded Cody in advance, saying, “You’ll give it to me on time, right? Because the movie I was supposed to show last night at 9, the guy JUST gave it to me.” Cody told him he’d have it on schedule. The AV Guy retreated but seemed unsatisfied.
Cody would be on two panels later, as well as providing the one must-see film on the movie schedule. In the meantime, he was going to see the first panel, with screenwriter, teacher, novelist, etc, Diana Botsford. I had no idea who she was, but decided to go check it out. I found out that she is like an all-around bad-ass who stealthily exists in our meager locale. She’s worked on several Hollywood movies, several TV series, and she’s shipping out to Antarctica in a few weeks to research her next Stargate spin-off novel. Who knew? Around that time, I’m sure to be fixing toilets and raking leaves, so I was wondering why she was giving us the time of day, but she treated even the kid holding the light-bulb-capped wizard’s staff with total respect.
After that, my old landlord and cartoonist-about-town Phil Morrissey showed up. I was quickly being surrounded by characters from my past. The show was being run by Scott Villareal, an all-around nice guy I went to art school with. He’s very dramatic, and half-hugged me in public, which is always a little more than I bargain for....
Part 2: OK, I'm a Bastard
I was trying to figure out how to break the ice with Phil, because I hadn’t seen him in a long time, and as usual, he was “holding court” with a certain segment of geekdom (above photo). He is, as far as I know, the local king of the Anthropomorphics, or Furries—people who like art and role-playing about humanoid animals, but of a certain fantastical seriousness. Think Avatar rather than Bugs Bunny, because the characters tend to have the proportions and the secondary sex characteristics of humans. Phil draws these, and some people collect this art exclusively, as well as sometimes dressing up in mammalian costumes. I don’t think Phil does the dressing up, though I’ve noticed that he and his art comrades have formed an Anachronistic Hats Society of sorts, for reasons unknown. I would eventually give him one of my new comics once a window opened in his fandom popularity—he was in big demand here, so it took a while to reach him without interrupting.
Just when I decided to throw in the towel, nearing 5:00, I was finally recognized by Joe-Man, seen above in his wheelchair (right side of photo). He’d passed me a few times and even said Hi once, but it had been 17 years since I’d been, for one semester of a poetry workshop, his wingman—getting his tape recorder out of his bag, relocating his beverage cup, removing obstacles from his path. He’d finally worked out who I was. He pulled up and began a 45-minute awkwardfest of reminiscence, starting with, “So Chad, have you written any more perfect haikus lately?”
I call Joe “Joe-Man” because he used to call me “Chad-Man” in class. He talks as if he’s been building me up as legendary in his mind, saying lots of grandiose things about my poems, even quoting lines that I’m pretty sure I never wrote. I keep saying thanks to statements like, “I felt as if I was sitting next to the next Poet Laureate of the United States.” A few times I said things like, “I think you might be overestimating me, Joe, but thanks.” Later I wondered why, if he thought my work was so great, why did he seem completely uninterested in all the new work I had on the table?
It is easy to be haunted by Joe-Man, who is near to being his own ghost—the wheelchair-bound specter of whatever functional man he might have been had he not been born into a tragically damaged body. He told me, after a metaphysical preamble, that “in the fourth year of his parents’ marriage,” he was born premature, and his father, a drinker and womanizer, was unprepared for such a child, and took out his anger and disgust on his family. He said he had given up his bitterness and had, in ways inspired by my “perfectly balanced poetry,” achieved a more Zen outlook.
How does one respond to this? Joe-Man is a being of pure tragedy. The sheer obscenity of what he’s had to endure, coupled with his overblown notions and his obvious need for social interaction make him the perfect foil for any positive outlook. If each of us must build a ship of conscience and practicality to stay afloat in this world, Joe-Man is something like a torpedo designed to sink whole fleets. I know because, after that semester with him, it was clear that his presence was simply catastrophic to any able-bodied group, disruptive and destructive to all discourse and progress. You begin with the best of liberal intentions and end with guilty resentment and existential terror. Joe is the eternally suffering child in the classic story “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.”
The thing about Joe-Man in this context is, he’s the only one in the room with an obvious, physiological explanation for being a delirious, fantasy-addicted fuck-up. On the other hand, I never saw him involved in any sort of gaming throughout the day. He obviously watches and reads science fiction/fantasy, but just like 17 years ago, he’s still addicted to inflicting himself on others. He parked in front of some tables and dominated their attention, sometimes for hours on end. Several times during the day, he rolled up very close to question the M.C. WHILE THE GUY WAS ANNOUNCING SCHEDULE INFO ON THE LOUDSPEAKER, so the M.C. had to stop in mid-sentence and cover the mic. At one point late in the morning, he motored his chair across the 40’ Pac-Man maze and got a wheel stuck on one of the “power pellets.” I think it was obviously not to be tracked across; I think Joe just wanted to get attention and maybe a chance to complain. I might not jump to this conclusion, but in his long haunt of (S)MSU, he was often seen ramming his chair into counters and library check-out desks, complaining about handicapped discrimination. Actually, it just wasn’t his turn yet. Whatever his major at the time, Joe minored in martyrdom.
It turned out that my wife once encountered Joe, recognizing him in my photo. Possibly not long after my semester with him, she sold him some perfume at a department store, for his “girlfriend,” whom he’d never met. They’d been corresponding by email, and Joe would help her escape an abusive boyfriend. Joe, I say the world is ripe enough with torment, without you sowing it Johnny Appleseed-style.
I finally packed it in. The biggest disappointment of the day was that the giant Pac-Man board was never officially used. But at least two children and some home-styled Ghostbusters got a little use out of it.
I broke even, around the $30 mark.
“Man, that place is sad,” responded a friend when I sent him a photo from the convention room floor at GAME con—and sad it was.
And yet, as always, because of some indelible devil’s advocate DNA in me, I found myself respecting the geeks of geekdom anew. OK, not the ones wearing the fuzzy fox tails, and maybe not the Damsels of Dorkington, and, well, maybe respect is not the operative feeling here, but some kind of appreciation feebly rose up...
...appreciation for a sort of social bravery that says it is okay to exist without an iota of cool. Bravery that could indeed be disqualified as such by the likelihood that hormonal deficiencies or degrees of autism have established in these folks either A) total lack of self-awareness, or B) sociopathic behavior that is not anti-social, but quacky-social, drawn to dwell in only the most impractical, imagined realities.
Today this bravery walked up to my Artist Alley table embodied by this earnestly, politely, home-schooled-ly harmless proto-woman dressed up in boy clothes and near-total sexlessness. For the minute she was there, I was merely bemused. Later, I sort of felt this retroactive affection for her—the same feeling I have for Sue Heck on “The Middle.” What a superb dork girl, in her outdated suit-jacket, jokey buttons, and modest androgyny. Was this one of her normal outfits? For all I know, she was in costume as an alternate-universe Dr. Who. She bought my choose-your-own-adventure comic book for a dollar and seemed pleased with it. I soon re-read said comic with her in mind, hoping that its crude comedy wouldn’t corrupt or disgust her.
Most of the day passed uneventfully. The “con” was scarcely attended. The lovable nerd girl had been one of maybe five people wearing a tag indicating that she was a paying attendee as opposed to a merchant, artist, or other “guest.” Mid-day passed. I bought a barbecue sandwich from a dim meat-scented alcove and ate it in the Media Room, where two other slobby gents were watching Tron. The twelve or so minutes of Tron I watched were pretty good, maybe because my sandwich was so dang savory. I kind of regretted spending two bucks on water when pop was also two bucks, but maybe I did the right thing in forsaking pop.
I was falling asleep around 3:00 when my friend Cody arrived with Mrs. Cody, AKA Sam. They provided me a vivarin-esque boost of conversation. Cody got annoyed when the audio-video tech guy zeroed in on me and said, “Do you have the movie we’re showing at 9?” I indicated Cody, and the AV Guy sort of scolded Cody in advance, saying, “You’ll give it to me on time, right? Because the movie I was supposed to show last night at 9, the guy JUST gave it to me.” Cody told him he’d have it on schedule. The AV Guy retreated but seemed unsatisfied.
Cody would be on two panels later, as well as providing the one must-see film on the movie schedule. In the meantime, he was going to see the first panel, with screenwriter, teacher, novelist, etc, Diana Botsford. I had no idea who she was, but decided to go check it out. I found out that she is like an all-around bad-ass who stealthily exists in our meager locale. She’s worked on several Hollywood movies, several TV series, and she’s shipping out to Antarctica in a few weeks to research her next Stargate spin-off novel. Who knew? Around that time, I’m sure to be fixing toilets and raking leaves, so I was wondering why she was giving us the time of day, but she treated even the kid holding the light-bulb-capped wizard’s staff with total respect.
After that, my old landlord and cartoonist-about-town Phil Morrissey showed up. I was quickly being surrounded by characters from my past. The show was being run by Scott Villareal, an all-around nice guy I went to art school with. He’s very dramatic, and half-hugged me in public, which is always a little more than I bargain for....
Part 2: OK, I'm a Bastard
I was trying to figure out how to break the ice with Phil, because I hadn’t seen him in a long time, and as usual, he was “holding court” with a certain segment of geekdom (above photo). He is, as far as I know, the local king of the Anthropomorphics, or Furries—people who like art and role-playing about humanoid animals, but of a certain fantastical seriousness. Think Avatar rather than Bugs Bunny, because the characters tend to have the proportions and the secondary sex characteristics of humans. Phil draws these, and some people collect this art exclusively, as well as sometimes dressing up in mammalian costumes. I don’t think Phil does the dressing up, though I’ve noticed that he and his art comrades have formed an Anachronistic Hats Society of sorts, for reasons unknown. I would eventually give him one of my new comics once a window opened in his fandom popularity—he was in big demand here, so it took a while to reach him without interrupting.
Just when I decided to throw in the towel, nearing 5:00, I was finally recognized by Joe-Man, seen above in his wheelchair (right side of photo). He’d passed me a few times and even said Hi once, but it had been 17 years since I’d been, for one semester of a poetry workshop, his wingman—getting his tape recorder out of his bag, relocating his beverage cup, removing obstacles from his path. He’d finally worked out who I was. He pulled up and began a 45-minute awkwardfest of reminiscence, starting with, “So Chad, have you written any more perfect haikus lately?”
I call Joe “Joe-Man” because he used to call me “Chad-Man” in class. He talks as if he’s been building me up as legendary in his mind, saying lots of grandiose things about my poems, even quoting lines that I’m pretty sure I never wrote. I keep saying thanks to statements like, “I felt as if I was sitting next to the next Poet Laureate of the United States.” A few times I said things like, “I think you might be overestimating me, Joe, but thanks.” Later I wondered why, if he thought my work was so great, why did he seem completely uninterested in all the new work I had on the table?
It is easy to be haunted by Joe-Man, who is near to being his own ghost—the wheelchair-bound specter of whatever functional man he might have been had he not been born into a tragically damaged body. He told me, after a metaphysical preamble, that “in the fourth year of his parents’ marriage,” he was born premature, and his father, a drinker and womanizer, was unprepared for such a child, and took out his anger and disgust on his family. He said he had given up his bitterness and had, in ways inspired by my “perfectly balanced poetry,” achieved a more Zen outlook.
How does one respond to this? Joe-Man is a being of pure tragedy. The sheer obscenity of what he’s had to endure, coupled with his overblown notions and his obvious need for social interaction make him the perfect foil for any positive outlook. If each of us must build a ship of conscience and practicality to stay afloat in this world, Joe-Man is something like a torpedo designed to sink whole fleets. I know because, after that semester with him, it was clear that his presence was simply catastrophic to any able-bodied group, disruptive and destructive to all discourse and progress. You begin with the best of liberal intentions and end with guilty resentment and existential terror. Joe is the eternally suffering child in the classic story “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.”
The thing about Joe-Man in this context is, he’s the only one in the room with an obvious, physiological explanation for being a delirious, fantasy-addicted fuck-up. On the other hand, I never saw him involved in any sort of gaming throughout the day. He obviously watches and reads science fiction/fantasy, but just like 17 years ago, he’s still addicted to inflicting himself on others. He parked in front of some tables and dominated their attention, sometimes for hours on end. Several times during the day, he rolled up very close to question the M.C. WHILE THE GUY WAS ANNOUNCING SCHEDULE INFO ON THE LOUDSPEAKER, so the M.C. had to stop in mid-sentence and cover the mic. At one point late in the morning, he motored his chair across the 40’ Pac-Man maze and got a wheel stuck on one of the “power pellets.” I think it was obviously not to be tracked across; I think Joe just wanted to get attention and maybe a chance to complain. I might not jump to this conclusion, but in his long haunt of (S)MSU, he was often seen ramming his chair into counters and library check-out desks, complaining about handicapped discrimination. Actually, it just wasn’t his turn yet. Whatever his major at the time, Joe minored in martyrdom.
It turned out that my wife once encountered Joe, recognizing him in my photo. Possibly not long after my semester with him, she sold him some perfume at a department store, for his “girlfriend,” whom he’d never met. They’d been corresponding by email, and Joe would help her escape an abusive boyfriend. Joe, I say the world is ripe enough with torment, without you sowing it Johnny Appleseed-style.
I finally packed it in. The biggest disappointment of the day was that the giant Pac-Man board was never officially used. But at least two children and some home-styled Ghostbusters got a little use out of it.
I broke even, around the $30 mark.
Marketing Freebie
HUGGIES: Strap Me to My Excrement!
(feel free to use this in your next ad campaign, diaper companies)
(feel free to use this in your next ad campaign, diaper companies)
Monday, October 25, 2010
Secondhand Story
My wife’s cousin told this tale this weekend. It’s too wacky not to share:
“I was taking my dog to the vet when I saw this baby cow in the ditch, with its butt just on the side of the road and its head sticking up. I pulled up the driveway and this mean dog was barking and snarling so I was scared to get out of the car. When the vet finally came out, I told her about the calf by the road and she said, “Oh, that’s Trish!” The vet walked out to the road and called Trish by her name; the calf stood up and wobbled around. She said, "Trish is blind!" and put her finger in Trish’s mouth so she could suck on it like a bottle. “Come on, Trish.” I couldn’t get out because the mean dog was still acting like Cujo. The vet was coming back my way, when Trish ran into a tree, which made me laugh hard but it was also sad. Then when they got there, Trish ran pretty hard into my car. Twice.”
Regretfully, I have no picture of this one.
“I was taking my dog to the vet when I saw this baby cow in the ditch, with its butt just on the side of the road and its head sticking up. I pulled up the driveway and this mean dog was barking and snarling so I was scared to get out of the car. When the vet finally came out, I told her about the calf by the road and she said, “Oh, that’s Trish!” The vet walked out to the road and called Trish by her name; the calf stood up and wobbled around. She said, "Trish is blind!" and put her finger in Trish’s mouth so she could suck on it like a bottle. “Come on, Trish.” I couldn’t get out because the mean dog was still acting like Cujo. The vet was coming back my way, when Trish ran into a tree, which made me laugh hard but it was also sad. Then when they got there, Trish ran pretty hard into my car. Twice.”
Regretfully, I have no picture of this one.
Monday, October 18, 2010
A Certain Lamentable Splendor
or, Clan of The Cave Geeks
“Man, that place is sad,” responded a friend when I emailed him a photo from the convention room floor at G.A.M.E. con—and sad it was.
Don't ask me why people do this to themselves— why grown men dress as cartoon dogs or wear wizardly dunce caps or why young women with acceptable or even admirable flesh agree to dress as Slave Leia or Silk Spectre, on any day but Halloween, for the onanistic entertainment of boy-men on the brink of flunking out of Natural Selection 101. I do not know why. If I could eat at Hooters without great embarrassment, I could answer these questions.
And yet, as always, because of some indelible devil’s advocate DNA in me, I found myself respecting the geeks of geekdom anew. OK, not the ones wearing the fuzzy fox tails, and maybe not the Damsels of Dorkington, and, well, maybe respect is not the operative feeling here, but some kind of appreciation feebly rose up...
...appreciation for a sort of social bravery that says it is okay to exist without an iota of cool. Bravery that could indeed be disqualified as such by the likelihood that hormonal deficiencies or degrees of autism have established in these folks either A) total lack of self-awareness, or B) sociopathic behavior that is not anti-social, but quacky-social, drawn to dwell in only the most impractical, imagined realities.
Today this bravery walked up to my Artist Alley table embodied by this earnestly, politely, home-schooled-ly harmless proto-woman dressed up in boy clothes and near-total sexlessness. For the minute she was there, I was merely bemused. Later, I sort of felt this retroactive affection for her—the same feeling I have for Sue Heck on “The Middle.” What a superb dork-girl, in her outdated suit-jacket, jokey buttons, and modest androgyny. Was this one of her normal outfits? For all I know, she was in costume as an alternate-universe Dr. Who. She bought my choose-your-own-adventure comic book for a dollar and seemed pleased with it. I soon re-read said comic with her in mind, hoping that its crude comedy wouldn’t corrupt or disgust her, as she was the sort of pathetic sweetheart that my wife and I frequently "fantasize" (quotes=touch of irony) as our daughter.
Most of the day passed uneventfully. The “con” was scarcely attended. The lovable nerd girl had been one of maybe five people wearing a tag indicating that she was a paying attendee as opposed to a merchant, artist, or other “guest.” Mid-day passed. I bought a barbecue sandwich from a dim, meat-scented alcove and ate it in the Media Room, where two other slobby gents were watching Tron. The twelve or so minutes of Tron I watched were pretty good, maybe because my sandwich was so blasted savory. I kind of regretted spending two bucks on water when pop was also two bucks, but maybe I did the right thing in forsaking pop.
I was falling asleep around 3:00 when my friend Cody arrived with Mrs. Cody, AKA Sam. They provided me a Vivarin-esque boost of conversation. Cody got annoyed when the audio-video tech guy zeroed in on me and said, “Do you have the movie we’re showing at 9?” I indicated Cody, and the AV Guy sort of scolded Cody in advance, saying, “You’ll give it to me on time, right? Because the movie I was supposed to show last night at 9, the guy JUST gave it to me.” Cody told him he’d have it on schedule. The AV Guy retreated but seemed unsatisfied, in his Asperger's-afflicted way.
Cody would be on two panels later, as well as providing the one must-see film on the movie schedule. In the meantime, he was going to see the first panel, with screenwriter, teacher, novelist, etc, Diana Botsford. I had no idea who she was, but decided to go check it out. I found out that she is like an all-around bad-ass who stealthily resides in our meager locale. She’s worked on several Hollywood movies, several TV series, and she’s shipping out to Antarctica in a few weeks to research her next Stargate spin-off novel. Who knew? Around that time, I’m sure to be fixing toilets and raking leaves, so I was wondering why she was giving us the time of day, but she treated even the kid holding the light-bulb-capped wizard’s staff with total respect.
After that, my old landlord and cartoonist-about-town Phil Morrissey showed up. I was quickly being surrounded by characters from my past. The show was being run by Scott Villareal, an all-around nice guy I went to art school with. He’s very dramatic. He half-hugged me in public, which is always a little more than I bargain for.
(part 2 coming soon)
“Man, that place is sad,” responded a friend when I emailed him a photo from the convention room floor at G.A.M.E. con—and sad it was.
Don't ask me why people do this to themselves— why grown men dress as cartoon dogs or wear wizardly dunce caps or why young women with acceptable or even admirable flesh agree to dress as Slave Leia or Silk Spectre, on any day but Halloween, for the onanistic entertainment of boy-men on the brink of flunking out of Natural Selection 101. I do not know why. If I could eat at Hooters without great embarrassment, I could answer these questions.
And yet, as always, because of some indelible devil’s advocate DNA in me, I found myself respecting the geeks of geekdom anew. OK, not the ones wearing the fuzzy fox tails, and maybe not the Damsels of Dorkington, and, well, maybe respect is not the operative feeling here, but some kind of appreciation feebly rose up...
...appreciation for a sort of social bravery that says it is okay to exist without an iota of cool. Bravery that could indeed be disqualified as such by the likelihood that hormonal deficiencies or degrees of autism have established in these folks either A) total lack of self-awareness, or B) sociopathic behavior that is not anti-social, but quacky-social, drawn to dwell in only the most impractical, imagined realities.
Today this bravery walked up to my Artist Alley table embodied by this earnestly, politely, home-schooled-ly harmless proto-woman dressed up in boy clothes and near-total sexlessness. For the minute she was there, I was merely bemused. Later, I sort of felt this retroactive affection for her—the same feeling I have for Sue Heck on “The Middle.” What a superb dork-girl, in her outdated suit-jacket, jokey buttons, and modest androgyny. Was this one of her normal outfits? For all I know, she was in costume as an alternate-universe Dr. Who. She bought my choose-your-own-adventure comic book for a dollar and seemed pleased with it. I soon re-read said comic with her in mind, hoping that its crude comedy wouldn’t corrupt or disgust her, as she was the sort of pathetic sweetheart that my wife and I frequently "fantasize" (quotes=touch of irony) as our daughter.
Most of the day passed uneventfully. The “con” was scarcely attended. The lovable nerd girl had been one of maybe five people wearing a tag indicating that she was a paying attendee as opposed to a merchant, artist, or other “guest.” Mid-day passed. I bought a barbecue sandwich from a dim, meat-scented alcove and ate it in the Media Room, where two other slobby gents were watching Tron. The twelve or so minutes of Tron I watched were pretty good, maybe because my sandwich was so blasted savory. I kind of regretted spending two bucks on water when pop was also two bucks, but maybe I did the right thing in forsaking pop.
I was falling asleep around 3:00 when my friend Cody arrived with Mrs. Cody, AKA Sam. They provided me a Vivarin-esque boost of conversation. Cody got annoyed when the audio-video tech guy zeroed in on me and said, “Do you have the movie we’re showing at 9?” I indicated Cody, and the AV Guy sort of scolded Cody in advance, saying, “You’ll give it to me on time, right? Because the movie I was supposed to show last night at 9, the guy JUST gave it to me.” Cody told him he’d have it on schedule. The AV Guy retreated but seemed unsatisfied, in his Asperger's-afflicted way.
Cody would be on two panels later, as well as providing the one must-see film on the movie schedule. In the meantime, he was going to see the first panel, with screenwriter, teacher, novelist, etc, Diana Botsford. I had no idea who she was, but decided to go check it out. I found out that she is like an all-around bad-ass who stealthily resides in our meager locale. She’s worked on several Hollywood movies, several TV series, and she’s shipping out to Antarctica in a few weeks to research her next Stargate spin-off novel. Who knew? Around that time, I’m sure to be fixing toilets and raking leaves, so I was wondering why she was giving us the time of day, but she treated even the kid holding the light-bulb-capped wizard’s staff with total respect.
After that, my old landlord and cartoonist-about-town Phil Morrissey showed up. I was quickly being surrounded by characters from my past. The show was being run by Scott Villareal, an all-around nice guy I went to art school with. He’s very dramatic. He half-hugged me in public, which is always a little more than I bargain for.
(part 2 coming soon)
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A Little Taste of Thunderdome
At work I was dumping sand around some pavestones and tapping them into place when this pickup went ripping by with two young jerkoffs riding it and a puff of outlaw flair. I was nearly ignoring their rampage until they yanked it around a curve down the block and I heard something metal land on the road with a clang. It sounded like a pipe, and it was: I went jogging down to get it, thinking, If those fuckers want this pipe, they're going to have to see me.
I grabbed it up and had just enough time to walk back to my worksite before I heard the same loud truck circling back, driving slowly along the same curve and then turning around to look some more. I walked toward them in the middle of the road pumping the pipe in the air with one fist, thinking they'd see me in their mirrors. I rehearsed what I wanted to say, something like, "If you didn't drive like an asshole, fuckin' shit wouldn't fall off your truck." Then I'd hand it to the driver through his window, because it was much too long to have in the cab.
Well, they drove off, so I got to keep the pipe.
Coming soon: When Pedi-paws seems like a vibrator!
I grabbed it up and had just enough time to walk back to my worksite before I heard the same loud truck circling back, driving slowly along the same curve and then turning around to look some more. I walked toward them in the middle of the road pumping the pipe in the air with one fist, thinking they'd see me in their mirrors. I rehearsed what I wanted to say, something like, "If you didn't drive like an asshole, fuckin' shit wouldn't fall off your truck." Then I'd hand it to the driver through his window, because it was much too long to have in the cab.
Well, they drove off, so I got to keep the pipe.
Coming soon: When Pedi-paws seems like a vibrator!
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Still Picking on BP
When asked to design a commemorative "coin" for the Gulf Coast oil spill, here's what I came up with. I used Roman numerals so that Romans can read it. Pressing a nail head into the clay made a pleasing wave/scale pattern.
There's also a reverse side, featuring a Fish with a Screw in His Back.
Bonus outtake: new logo and slogan for British Petroleum. Maybe they'll have another blowout next year, so this can go on the 2011 commemorative coin.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Looks Like D-Con Works
Yes, little scratchy ceiling dweller, you stopped waking us up over a year ago. Your minuscule midnight disruptions in the overhead darkness were your only crime, for which I sentenced you to a drawn-out, fatally painful stomachache. Now I peel back the attic insulation to find your filigreed remains knee-deep in dust, this photo your best shot at fossilized preservation.
The fine bones of your tail diminish to almost microscopic size, to the threshold of nonexistence. You shall no longer poop in my rafters.
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