Motorcycles vs. Motorskills

When you are driving a motorcycle and you wreck it by falling to one side - sending the bike sliding - it is called "laying it down." A biker will say, "I layed my bike down," and other bikers will know that he wrecked it.

Yesterday I was standing still and suddenly, without provocation, I fell to my side. I have learned this is called "being a huge f***ing moron."

When a biker lays his bike down he will likely tear up his leather pants and perhaps a leather jacket.

When I fell I ripped the seam in my pants.

When a biker wrecks and gets a large bruise it is called a raspberry.

My bruise it apparently called and "idiot mark."

When a biker tells other people about his accident he gets all kinds of sympathy. His friends, even the hugely macho men, will ask if he is ok and if his bike still works.

My friends just sorta laughed a lot.

When a biker has an accident he is referred to as... a biker.

I, it would seem, am a dick.

Man what a month.

Sorry guys. I simply haven't felt up to posting this month on any of my blogs.

I went to the psychiatrist last week. That was a waste. He didn't read my palm or care that I was a Pisces or toss the bones or anything. I offered to give him a locket of hair and he looked at me like I was mental. He said something about me misunderstanding his job.

Then he wanted to put me on medication. What a nutt!

I talked him out of the medication ploy. It was tricky though, he was very persuasive:

Dr: If you are feeling depressed we could put you on Welbutrin.
Me: no
Dr: Ok.


Anyway, after we chopped up several onions, did some theraputic dancing and tossed the Urim and Thummim he decided that I wasn't a lost cause. These phrases came up a little bit more often than I had hoped:

"Wow, that is weird."
"No, your right, you shouldn't be able to do that if you aren't double jointed."
and
"Are you sure you don't hear voices?"

He asked if he could see me again, which wasn't as special as women say it is.

I left his office feeling a bit uneasy and slightly more worried than when I went it. However, as I left his receptionist assured me that I did not look fat in my suit, so the trip wasn't a total loss.

Come On!

Man, why do some guys wipe boogers on the bathroom walls?

Guys, is the bathroom not already sufficiently disgusting? Was there some karmic Muse of Nastiness that told you to pick your nose and smear it in the tile grout? I mean, really!

The men's bathroom is already one of the grossest places on earth. There's the nasty smells and the suspicious rust on the side of the stalls. Not to mention the fact that just about everything in there has probably been touched by some other man shortly after he touched his own junk.

Seriously, I wouldn't touch the walls for anything. If I happened to find myself in the unsual circumstance of having a booger on the tip of my finger while taking a wizz, the last thing I would do is wipe it on the wall. Sure the booger comes off, but what germs hop on?

Look, if you can't wait another second and you must pick your nose while you pee, then just hang on to it until you wash your hands. But who am I kidding? If you are wiping your snot on the wall then you are not the type to wash your hands. You nasty ass.

My boss doesn't wash his hands. He's a nasty ass too. When he takes a leak he stands akimbo in front of the urinal; like he's saving the world by taking a pee. Like there is some special pride to be had in the fact that he doesn't have to hold his member to use it.

ugh.

I don't care if you pick 'em. Who doesn't? But keep your damn boogers to yourself, people.

The mouths of babes.

I know people hate it when other people talk about their kids. Especially those dumb things that kids say all the time.

But my kids are better than other kids, so you will read and suffer.

The other day I was driving the kids to the dentist and my seven year old daughter said, "Daddy, do you think that your next baby will be a boy or a girl?"

"Sweetheart," I said, "Mommy and daddy aren't trying to have a baby right now."

"I know," she said optimistically, "But you could. Mommy could stop taking that pill and she could be pregnant in January and have the baby in September."

I'm sure my eyes must have bugged out. "What pill?"

"That pill," she said. "The one that makes it where you can't have babies."

"Oh, that pill," I said.

"Yeah. And this time Cole and I are old enough to vote on the name."

"No sweetheart," I said as mildly as I could. "Mommy and daddy get to choose the name."

"I know, but we can make suggestions."

"No. Mommy and daddy will choose a good name."

Then she breathed a disappointed sigh.

"But sweetheart," I tried to reassure her, "Mommy and daddy aren't ready to have another baby."

"I know," she said, dejected.


I couldn't believe she had such understanding about the process. I half expected her to start giving me instructions on how to "do it" to ensure we get a boy.

I'm starting to believe that my daughter is smarter than me. I mean... a lot smarter.

Exercise

I've decided that I need to get serious about my health. So I've started exercising and dieting.

So far the only exercise I am doing is Kegels. That's where you stop the flow of pee while you are peeing. It stings at first, but you get used to it.

It's working too. I did so many Kegels while I was peeing a while ago that my Kegel muscle tightened up all on its own and stopped the flow of pee. Of course, it relaxed in the hall way on the way back to my office and I pissed all over myself. But I can definitely tell I'm getting some real Kegel tone.

I wonder if you can get a six pack just from doing Kegels.

Probably not. I probably need to eat a lot of carrots and shit too.

Thanksgiving

So my dad says:

"You know I have this friend, (name deleted to protect the less than innocent), whose son is pretty much a dead-beat?"

"Yeah," I say.

"You know, he dropped out of high school, got a whole bunch of tatoos and piercings. He doesn't really have a job. His father had to kick him out of the house. Recently he was arrested for drunk driving and his father had to pay seven thousand dollars to bail him out. He's got no real direction or aspirations to anything."

"Yeah," I say again.

"Well, I was just thinking the other day that I really am thankful that you aren't like that," he says with a pause. "Really."

That's great. Here's my paraphrase of this:

Son, I'm thankful, this Thanksgiving, that you are not an embarrassment. I'm not necessarily thankful for anything you've actually done. At least, not so I would verbalize it. Not for anything that you've done in your career, or any way in which you've been a blessing to your family or to our extended family. Not for any way in which you've brought light into this otherwise dark place. I'm just thankful that you basically don't suck. And that... well, you're kind of a tool. So, keep on floatin' along. Don't make any waves. And, God willing, next year I'll be thankful for nothing again.


NOTE TO READERS: I'm very difficult to please. I have found that every time someone offers me a compliment I find it hard not to think of the things they didn't compliment me on and wonder why. I'm seeking therapy as we speak.


And for those of you who don't know, I carpool with my parents almost every day.

I am thankful that someday this arrangement will end. If no other way, then by death.

Jeeze sometimes I wonder how my children will ever grow up happy with me as a father.

To cook a turkey.

This is my son's recipe for cooking turkey. You need to cook it this way from now on. It doesn't matter what you use to write c-o-L-e with, just so long as the turkey doesn't get wet. I'd recommend a Sharpie.

Lucy's Pumpkin

I watched It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown this week. I have to say that Lucy has some mad pumpkin carving skills. I mean, her designs are kind of simple, but did you see how fast she accomplished it? She just stuck the knife in, spun it around, and BAM! You'd think she was passing a warm knife through butter.

Last night I helped my kids carve their pumpkins, which basically means I carved two pumpkins. These things aren't exactly easy to carve. It took me five minutes just to get the lid off of my daughter's pumpkin. I cut a circle around the top just like I always do and the damn thing wouldn't come out. I even stuck a spatula in the slit I had cut to try and wedge the top off, but it snapped my spatula in two.

A little background: my kids got their pumpkins from my in-laws. Now my father-in-law is pretty even keeled about these things, though conservative to be sure, but my mother-in-law is so conservative-Christian that she won't even use the term Easter. She calls it resurrection Sunday. And the notion of celebrating Halloween is anathema to her. I just know that she did research and found the most uncarvable pumpkins around. There's probably some Christian Pumpkin website where you can buy Jack-o-lantern Free Pumpkins. It probably has little cherub angels floating around with harps saying, "We've grown the devil out of these pumpkins."

Well, the joke is on them. Because I carved those damn things. And sure, I might have lost a spatula in the making, but I carved those pumpkins into the most wicked jack-o-lanterns you've ever seen. One is in the shape of this cute googly eyed bat and the other is Spiderman.

IT'S OFFICIAL!

I am officially a PAID writer. YAY!

"What did you write?"
"Can I see/read it anywhere?"
"Who was it for, have I heard of them?"
"Will there be more work in the future?"

All excellent questions. Unfortunately I only know the answer to one of them. I will disclose all information when I have it all to give you. For now, I am just excited to be able to say that I am a paid writer. I am totally putting that on my tax returns this year.

1039

Yay! We've reached 1039 visitors!

Is it obvious that I completely missed the 1000 milestone. What a loser.

So look, if you were visitor 1000 you deserve something. Not something big or important, mind you, but something. Maybe an autograph on loose leaf paper or a drawing or something.

So, just name what you feel like you deserve.
Then I'll come up with a list of reason why I cannot do it.
Then you'll name something similar, only slightly more reasonable.
Then we will begin what is called haggling. But don't get discouraged, as though you will never receive anything, like with those money back rebates. I will give you something. I have a whole collection of pens that don't write. We'll find something.

Waking up Late

You know, I recommend it to everyone: waking up late.

I woke up at 7:38am today. I'm supposed to be at work at 8:00am and I have an hour commute; not to mention the time it takes to get ready (about 10 minutes).

I was late.

Truth is, my carpool called, which is the only reason I woke up that early, and I instantly knew I was late. There's just something about that feeling of waking up refreshed when you know good and well you got to bed late, and by all rights you should feel like hell. Well I woke up feeling like a million bucks. Ok, I have no idea what a million bucks feels like. I woke up feeling like 2800 bucks, tax free.

Then came the problems. Technically I took Tuesday off because my kids were sick, and technically I have a job interview tomorrow for a promotion (that I don't really want). So it isn't exactly a good day to call in sick or be late.

But I felt great! So it didn't matter!

I hopped out of bed and told my wife, who was also quite late at this point, that I would feed the kids, which I did. Then when I told them they were late my daughter started crying. She gets really upset about things like being late. This is probably because she's too young to understand how important it really is. So, rather than leave the kids to my wife and get to work just a little late, I took my daughter to school and missed the last bus into the city.

Now I was looking at being almost two hours late to work. But I still felt great!

So I was driving along on this crisp, chilly morning, running two hours late and just feeling peachy. I rolled the window down and smelled the fresh morning air. It smelled awesome. There's just something better about the air outside when everyone else is at work. It smells fresher, or perhaps freer. It smells like playing hookey and that smells fantastic.

So I recommend that everyone wake up late, or better yet, take a sick day. YOU DESERVE IT! Sabatoge your clock. Change am to pm and pretend it was a mistake. Unplug it and convince your spouse that the power went out over night.

And if you get fired don't even try to sue me. You knew it was a bad idea from the beginning.

Keeping a Nice, Clean House with Children, Pets and Plants

It isn't possible.

Bad News

Ok, so yesterday I had a meeting. It was at 11 o'clock. I'm typically late for meetings (because they suck), but I'm also fairly inconsistant (because I don't want "the Man" to get a bead on me), so I arrived early to this meeting.

As I stood outside the meeting room all of the other meeting attendants showed up. I had never noticed it before, but as I looked at my group I realized there were some fairly stereotypical architypes in the group. There was the Excentric Retiree, back on contract. There was the distinguished, no nonsense black female assistant to the assistant commissioner. There was the oriental IT guy who speaks with a heavy accent. There was the slightly overweight, laid-back white male coffee drinker. There was the youngish, over worked-but driven subject matter expert. And there was me.

So I stood there looking around the group before our meeting and I thought to myself: these probably aren't architypes at all. I've just been working with these guys for so long that it's hard for me to imagine the job without them.

Then the other meeting ended and out came its attendees. First came an excentric retiree, back on contract. Then came a distinguished, no nonsense, black female assistant to the assistant commissioner. Then the oriental IT guy. He actually waved to our IT guy. Then came a slightly overweight white guy with a cup of coffee in his hand. Then a youngish lady, who looked incredibly harried and determined.

I couldn't believe it! Every person in our group had a mirror in the other group. They weren't identical, but their character was represented. Then one of the members of my meeting started to go into the meeting room, but he stopped and backed up to make room for the last person from the last meeting to exit. "It must be my mirror," I thought. It had to be. The universe was about to reveal my true character to me. I held my breath. Then out came...

a troll.

Now I don't believe in trolls, but if ever a troll existed this was him. He stood about 5'7". He was easily 50 pounds over weight. He was slightly hunched over and copious amounts of hair were sprouting from the back of his shirt collar. His nose was huge and hooked and his forehead was shaped like a brick. The top of his head was mostly bald, but he still wore his hair longish and unkempt. His walk was more of a bow-legged waddle, and when he exited the room he belched and dropped all of his papers, which were already in complete disarray. "Awe, f***," he said, rather less than eloquently. Then as he bent over to pick up the papers he farted audibly. He immediately stood up and look almost embarrassed. Then he pointed to the 'no nonsense black female assistant to the assistant commissioner' and said, "It was her!" And burst into a gross laughter that was a cross between Har Har Har and Raw Raw Raw. I think he bumped everyone from our meeting on his way by, except me, saying "Excuse me," only to me, and the smell of him lingered in the meeting room until long after our meeting had dispersed.

Suffice it to say that the meeting was a total wash for me. I kept wondering if everyone else had noticed the similarites between all of the character architypes, and whether they had associated troll-man with me, as I had done. And what if there really was a connection? What if the universe was trying to tell me something? Surely not, right?

Surely not.

Is it me?

Is it me or is nobody keeping up their blogs the way they used to? It seems like ALL of the blogs I frequent have either gone on hiatus or slowed to a crawl. Is there something about fall that inspires people to do nothing?

I mean, sure my blogs have fallen behind, but I'm a slacker by trade; it's one of my endearing qualities. I'd hate to disappoint my adoring fans by stepping up and becoming reliable. That'd be creepy.

But everybody else is just being lazy. All of the blogs I love to visit... you people need to step up and get the lead out of your ass. Do it for me.

Hot Babes.

Hot babes never come around here anymore. And by hot babes I mean ANY BABES. Because on the Internet all babes are hot.

I don't know what has caused the slow down in babeage. I'm still as Internet awesome as I always was. Still, the babes have made themselves scarce.

I did a quick Google search on spells to increase desireability (of said hot babes for me/my blog), but it wasn't exactly what I was looking for. One website, which touted itself as a "love spell and voodoo" website had advertisements for "oils and lotions." It also had a weight loss spell and a potion spell for benzoil peroxide; the active ingredient in many an acne cream. Then I found a link on the voodoo magic website to a "real voodoo magic" website. That kinda summed it all up for me. When you run a voodoo site and have a link to a "real voodoo site" it kinda screws up your street cred. I tried to find a link to the "real love spells" website but there was none.

I thought about going to the "real voodoo magic" site, but just before I left clicked my guardian angel appeared unto me and reminded me that I already had two strikes against me. So I had my secretary go to the site and I looked over her shoulder. Lame. Everything required butchering a chicken. I can't butcher a chicken. If I had those kinds of skills I'd have a better job. And if I had a better job I'd probably have more money and thus I would attract more women.

Anyway, right as I was about to learn the proper incantation to attract "numerous babe suitors" my gardian angel showed up again with some kind of little deamon and a Divine Property Transfer form, #106. Apparently there is a lot of paperwork in afterlife. So I said, "It wasn't me. She was looking at the site." And my angel said, "Yeah, but you asked her too. You led her down that path." Then my secretary jumped to my aid and said, "I was totally gonna look at this website later anyway."

Then, of course, her guardian angel popped up and told her that she also has two strikes and that this would be her third. She also had a little red imp and a DPT-106. Then my secretary said, "He made me do it!"

Nice. I can't really blame her, but nice.

Luckily my guardian angel and her guardian angel had a history. A fire flashed in my angel's eyes. He said, "Claire! Bringer of ugliness and fake boobs!"

Then Claire said, "Fake boobs! I'm an angel. My boobs are totally real and divine!"
*author's note: they were very, very nice boobies.

"And my name is Claire, Bringer of the Rain Clouds," she said.

"Yeah," my angel said, "But they're chubby clouds."

That's when Claire socked my guy in the nose. The little imps at this point had sidled up to each other and were placing bets on who would get what soul and who would win this fight.

My angel got up from the ground holding his bleeding nose. "Your little hussy was trying to tempt my charge to the dark side."

"Like Hell," Claire said. "That evil little bastard was clearly coercing my innocent lamb."

My angel froze for a moment. It was clear he wasn't quick with the retort. "You are lousy in bed!" he shouted. At that point Claire grew two extra arms to better beat the holy crap out of my angel. I didn't stick around to watch, though. I had work to do.

Back at my office I looked up a few more voodoo sites. I figured my angel was tied up for a while and I had some free time. They all sucked. It was just common dating knowledge mixed in with killing chickens.

For Example:
To better entice the ladies try these five fool proof steps.

1. Talk to some ladies (and slaughter a chicken).

2. Use the lady's correct name (and rub chicken blood on her face).

3. Do not fall asleep, or say, "Oh my God, you are so stupid," while the lady is talking (and debone the chicken).

4. Flash a lot of money (and throw the leg bones on the floor, if they land in an X then she is not the girl for you, any other formation and there is a 50/50 chance).

5. Smile (and if the leg bones landed in an X then ask the lady for some sex; after all you have nothing to lose. If the leg bones did not land in an X then ask the lady for sex 'PLEASE.' It sounds a little desperate, but if you flashed enough money it just might work).

See, common sense.

So, ladies... I mean, Ms. Ladies, have I mentioned that I have a lot of cash? :)
(have sex with me (please))

get lucky

Ok, today I am wearing my favorite ant boxer shorts, which are just boxer shorts that have a patern of ants on it, I am wearing my Dr. Seuss T-shirt which is black, so it is slimming, and I am wearing my green and blue knit shirt which takes my soft chubby curves and actually makes them appear to be somewhat muscular. I am also wearing black slacks which don't fit altogether that well. Nevertheless, on the average I think I am wearing a fairly lucky outfit. I am undaunted by the fact that I don't believe in luck. Today, hopefully, will be my lucky day.

As a point of proof today will be lucky I have just sojourned up to the third floor for a bathroom break. The second floor bathroom was full. Upon my arrival to the third floor I smelled the arroma of baking sugar cookies. That in an of itself is a good sign. When I entered the bathroom it smelled of the bathroom at my maternal grandmother's old condo. I am uncertain as to whether this is good or bad. As I left the bathroom the smell of sugar cookies had been replaced by a smell I could not pinpoint, but which was neutral. And when I got back to the second floor I smelled analgesic of some sort; kinda like Ben Gay.

So, Ben Gay and sugar cookies. Which wins out? I don't know. This is why I don't believe in luck.

New Words same old tune

Sung to the tune of "On Top of Olde Smokey." When the lyrics don't fit the rhythm just force it.

On top of olde me-eeeeeee
All covered in I-really-feel-like-crap
I dropped my poor eeeeeh-verything
And I think I pulled a muscle in my back.

I rea-lly wanna go home
And lie on my couch
And watch fuzzy T - V
Because I don't have cable.

Some people are rich.
Some people are poor.
I feel like cra-ap.
I really feel like crap.

Please let me go ho-ome.
Please let me go home.
I'm just gonna keep whining.
*cough cough* Ow, God, that hurt my back.

Ouch!

I got the super smack-down today. Or, yesterday. I don't know.

I post to a lot of art blogs. And I don't know about you, but I like to say a little more than, "Cool man," or, "That's great," or something that I could say without actually ever looking at the art. Not that I get upset when I receive posts like that. But I always like it when someone leaves a comment that shows that not only did s/he view/read my post, but that s/he considered it thoughtfully. And ok, I try to make it funny.

Well, as may be obvious from reading this blog, I have been known to get carried away. And in getting carried away sometimes these thoughtful and well considered comments become more about me being funny than they are about the art I am commenting on, thus totally destroying whatever integrity my mission of being considerate and thoughtful might have once claimed.

http://avalanchesoftware.blogspot.com/2007/09/theres-gotta-be-crying-fairy.html

So I was at this blog and I made a comment about this painting. The purpose of the painting was to be INTENTIONALLY bad fantasy art. So it is supposed to be uber cheesy and cliched. So I made some comment about this painting drawing in the goth-girl crowd and these are some of the comments my comment received:

XXX said...
thank you antishakespeare for a glimpse into your pathetic life of vulgarity. There are probably better forums for your "creativity" than this art blog. Branch out...then cut the branch off. Oh, Casey, nice painting by the way.
September 14, 2007
---


OUCH! Ok, perhaps my comment was self indulgent and unnecessary, but vulgar? Was I vulgar? I really can't remember. My comment was deleted and I have no recording of it, so I don't know what I said. But wow, it was enough to make him call me pathetic. Sadly, I like the art this commentor usually posts.

XXX (blog administrator) said...
Nice image casey. aintshakespeare, your first comment has been deleted. I left your second up but in the future please refrain from comments that could be offensive. We create family entertainment and have a wide range of ages that visit this blog. Lets keep it clean and refrain from comments involving genitalia. Peace.
September 14, 2007
---


HOLY CRAP!!!! Genitalia??? Did I use such language in a comment? I must have really gotten carried away. I mean, sure, on my own site I might say such things, but in a comment on another blog? How can I have possibly wandered into the neather regions and naughty places of the body in the small space of a blog comment? I think I only said "pierced nipple," ...but please God, don't let me have said vagina.

How embarrassing.

Maybe I should have a Day After clause. If I think of a comment then I write it down. Then, 24 hours later I reveiw my comments and if I find them to be appropriate I'll submit them. Otherwise I'll trash them. I wonder how often I'd actually post if I instituted such a rule.

Anyway. I apologized. I can be a big guy and admit when I'm wrong. It happens often enough that I am old hat at eating crow. It does not taste like chicken. It tastes like hummility.

Aintshakespear said...
Ok, fellas, sorry. I guess I got carried away. My comments should be about the art.I actually like this piece. The melodrama -tears, skulls, and watery eyes- are classic.

Macaroni Art

Yesterday my daughter told me I was as good at art as I was at making macaroni.

She is learning from her mother to tell me things that don't really say what they seem to say. Perhaps I should just take it as a compliment and let it go.

I make macaroni from a box. Not exactly original. Of course, I add extra cheese and extra milk in it to make it thicker and cheesier. So perhaps it is a bit original. Hmm. I'm sure I'm making too much of this.

After she told me this bit about the macaroni art I gave her a piece of chocolate. Then she sang "Praise God from whom all blessings flow..."

Naturally I laughed and she got embarrassed and ran up to her room. Ah, children.

DRAGON CON

So I finally broke down and went to a Dragon Con.

I never had the courage to admit to my wife that I wanted to go before. I guess I was afraid it would be the geek-straw that broke the cool camel's back. When we first started dating I was totally into indie-music, I was in a band, I had written several songs... et cetera. That facade has slowly cracked and chipped to reveal a comic book reading, cartoon watching, fantasy loving boy.

Anyway, last Wednesday I suggested that we go for just one day to Dragon Con. She said, "Are you kidding?" And I said, "Yes, of course I am. That would be so totally lame." I thought I had recovered from that divorce pretty nicely. But my wife has always been able to read the truth in such situations. And in fairness to her, she has never ever made me feel like a geek/nerd/dork/whatever, even when I totally deserved it.

So that Friday my wife called me at work and said that she was considering attending the Con. YAY!

We went on Sunday. There was no line at all, which was nice because it was 1000% humidity outside.

This year we decided that since we had never been this would be a reconnaissance mission; we'd scope it out for next year. We walked the whole thing, all three hotels worth, in about three hours. Rebecca's back was hurting when we finished and the next day I got a most unholy cramp in my foot.

I saw some really cool celebs. Lou Ferigno (the Hulk) was there, Gil Gerard (Buck Rogers), Erin Gray (the hot chick from Buck Rogers), James Marsten (Spike from Buffy the Vamp Slayer), Peter Mayhew (Chewbaccaa), Richard LeParmentier (General Motti from Star Wars), and William Katt (the Greatest American Hero), though he wasn't at the signing booth so I didn't get to see him. I didn't get any autographs because I've never really wanted to collect those. But I did get my picture next to the absolute coolest celebrity there:

R2D2. He and his twin brother, Bob2D2 were there. You probably didn't know R2 was one of twins. Well, this picture proves it. That chubby guy to the left clearly couldn't tell the difference, but I am standing next to the real R2.

Bob2D2 did some stand in work for R2 during the movies. He always had a chip on his shoulder because R2 got the part. But when you see them up close it is clear that R2 was deserving. They look about as similar as Sylvester and Frank Stalone. Frank was at the convention, by the way.

Anyway, Bob2 let the celebrity get to him. He sank into a life of drugs and home-brewed motor oil. He actually pulled a knife on me while I was there. He went off asking if he wasn't good enough for me, and why did I like R2 better. The hotel security had to escort him back to his room so he could pass out. It was really sad. I saw a tear drop from R2's eye.

Oh, I did see one more celebrity. Doc Hammer was there! He is a writer for the Venture Brothers. Not to mention an artist and musician. He was not signing autographs (I would have gotten his). I saw him smoking outside one of the hotels talking to some chicks. You would be proud of me. I managed to compose myself as Rebecca and I passed. We were a good twenty yards away before I went into full fledged conniption fit. My wife, the ever cool, did not flinch. But then, she's not as big a fan as I am either. Had it been Johnny Depp I'd have probably come home alone.

Anyway, it was great fun. I highly recommend it. But if you go expect a crowd and allow yourself many breaks to sit and eat and catch your breath. You will have fun. If for no other reason that to look at all of the wonderful costumes all of these fans make and wear to pay hommage to their favorite Sci-Fi/Fantasy characters.

The Truth Comes Out

I try to be a good husband. Yesterday my wife had a bad headache. She get migraines from time to time, and sometimes they cause the muscles at the base of her skull to knott up and ache. And sometimes the pain causes her a good deal of nausea. It was doing both this time so she holed up in our room to avoid the noise and bustle of the children. I tried to step up to the plate and do all of the nightly parental duties like preparing dinner, making sure the kids' homework was done, entertaining the children and all that stuff. I even took my wife dinner in bed.

Then after the kids had gone to bed and the noise level had died down she came out of the bedroom and sat on the couch to watch some TV in the dark with me. I offered to rub her neck and put Ben-Gay on the spot that was all knotted up. Anyway, as I'm rubbing her neck I hit just the right spot and she grips the couch as though she's about to hurl. I didn't know if I should keep going so I ask her, "Am I making you want to throw up?" And she says:

"Not any more than usual."

Tie

I wear a tie to work on days when I expect to do nothing. I know that sounds the opposite of what you'd expect, but I treat the tie as a sort of executive camoflauge. The more I look the part the less likely people are to ask whether I'm keeping busy.

Today I am well shaved and showered and my hair is combed. I am wearing all matching clothes with belt and watch and my clothes are cleaned an pressed. There is no way I will be getting any work done today. I might as well be invisible. I could pull my bosses pants down in the middle of the lobby in front of the Commissioner and no one would know who did it. I blend in that well. If I had a jacket to wear with this outfit I'd probably disappear forever.

Man that's depressing.

Incidentally, my loyal readers, I am sorry that my posts for July were so spare. I have two writing projects that are monopolizing my time. Well, really it's just one. I have a project with an animtaion company that is really exciting. If everything works out well I may be writing scripts for an animated cartoon this company is pitching to a cable network. It's very exciting.

Here at home a friend of mine and I are working on a book. My part is actually already done. I wrote this book a while ago and recently my friend mentioned wanting to work with me. I was exstatic because he is a fantastic artist. So this is hopefully the first of many endeavors in the future.

The future is looking up!

Bathrooms and cows

Man, my office smells like a bathroom. More accurately a urinal. Dear Lord, what is that coming from. And by the way I don't mean my tiny little office, I mean the whole section of this floor.

What is that? Ugh.

*****

Anyway, on my way in to work today I saw another of those Chick Fil A advertisements. It was a big poster of four cow hooves and it said, "Show of hooves if you hate Hamburgers." Naturally there were some mispellings. Because cows don't spell correctly, everyone knows this.

Usually I like these Cow commercials. They are funny and the original concept was creative, but the longer it draws on the more it seems to be grating on my nerves. Not because I'm just annoyed with it. There's something a bit more disturbing underneath it all. The notion that animals are cognizant of their place as People Chow is a little unnerving. And if animals are aware why are chickens so much more suitable to eat than cows? And what do you think the cows think about the fact that they are negotiating with people to have us eat "fewer" of their kind. Surely they know that people are still eating their ilk by the tonnes. Can you imagine if an alien race came to earth and decided that they liked the taste of people and some other animal. Would we put up posters along the highway saying, "Raise your hand if you hate the taste of people!" And then imagine if these posters only had a marginal effect. Further, imagine those same invading aliens reading that poster, while eating a people burger, and thinking it was "cute." So anyway, the more of these advertisements I read the more they start to sound really Soilent and creepy.

When I read this most recent one, with the four hooves sticking up in the air, I couldn't help but wonder if those were computer graphic hooves, some really well done plastic stage props, or, perhaps, real hooves once belonging to a cow cum hamburger.

Black Pants, Black Shoes, Brown Socks

I'm starting a new fashion trend. It's called, I suck at dressing myself.

OK, so this is nothing new. I'm not starting a new trend, I'm just joining an old one.

Seven or eight years ago I read in a Maxim article that wearing socks that did not match your shoes was a fashion feau pas. Since then I have always tried to have brown socks with brown shoes, black socks with black shoes, and et cetera. But the burdens of being outrageously hip have finally caught up with me and I just don't have the energy for it. That and my dark clothes did not get washed this weekend.

In addition to having mismatched socks I have not shaved today. To be more accurate, I have not shaved in four days. And my beard grows pretty fast. Once upon a time my beard was a lush red-brown. Now it is a less lush grey-red-brown. And I didn't comb my hair.

So, all things considered today would be the prefect day for a STAFF MEETING! Yay! My scraggly beard, unkempt hair and ill-matching socks were all so excited to represent me today. I wouldn't have been more uncomfortable if a bug had jumped out of my hair. Well, ok, I would have been a titch more uncomfortable had that happened. But only a titch.

Luckily for me most of my projects are rolling along right on schedule.

I feel really bad about the sloppiness of my person, but my mind has been totally preoccupied with other, grander things, of late. There is a potential job offer looming in my very near future. It's a writing job, and I am down right loopy about that. And I have several art projects that are exciting me quite a little bit. All things considered July is looking to be a very interesting month for me.

If you don't view my sketch blog regularly check here for my latest animation:

http://www.goodsomeday.blogspot.com/2007/06/bad-animations.html

It isn't great, but the possibilities are exciting. So exciting, it would seem, that I can't bring myself to shave. Or wash my clothes. I did brush my teeth, however. :)

Mega Shirt

I have one of my favorite Star Wars shirts on today, so I am hoping to get a lot of stuff done. I've never really believed in lucky clothes or lucky anything really, but perhaps that is my problem. Perhaps if I did believe in this shirt it really would be lucky and I really would be able to get a lot of work done. I'm sure that even if I did believe in the shirt the whole concept would be psycho-somatic; that my believing in the shirt would lead me to believe that by wearing the shirt there was no way I wouldn't get stuff done and that by believing stuff would definitely be getting done I would be removing from my brain the stress of the potential that stuff would not be getting done which would free up my mind to being creative and constructive which would inspire me to work and therefore stuff would be getting done, thus further enforcing my belief in the shirt that helps me to get things done.

Unfortunately I don't believe this shirt holds any lucky powers to help me get stuff done. It's not even that cool a Star Wars shirt. It's only my favorite Star Wars shirt by default. It's my only Star Wars shirt. My really cool Star Wars shirt had way too many holes in it and I had to finally admit to myself that it was no longer wearable. This Star Wars shirt is from Phantom Menace and Phantom Menace was toilet fodder.

In fact, this shirt makes me so angry because of it's lack of magic and disparity of magic in the movie which this shirt represents, that I am feeling angrily inspired to rebel against this shirt. I think I might have an idea that needs cultivating. Stupid shirt. Stupid uninspiring shirt that has, by its total banality, provoked me to inspiring myself.

UPDATE:
Two hours later and I haven't accomplished much of anything. Except hating this shirt. I have done that about seven times.

UPDATE:
Wow, half the day is gone and this shirt hasn't done a thing for me. In fact, I may have been the laziest I've been in years. Episode 1 sucks.

UPDATE:
Maybe I need some caffeine.

UPDATE:
I just went to a meeting. This was not, however, a stroke of inspiration. The meeting was planned weeks ago. On top of that I was totally superfluous in that meeting. I might as well have been sleeping. Hopefully the caffeine will kick in and I'll be jumping all over the constructivity.

UPDATE:
Ok, I totally got two ideas today and I actually worked on one. So I was productive. However, while I was working on it I got heartburn, which Cokes tend to do to me. Therefore, it probably was the caffeine that was the cause of my inspiration, not the Episode 1 (fourth string) Star Wars shirt. But it is impossible to say, which makes me even madder at this stupid shirt. Darth Maul is awesome. Mace Windu is awesome. Young Obi-Wan is awesome. Jar Jar = lame. Anakin = lame.

Warning! The Lord decided to stay at home this week!

This past Sunday our lay-minister did our sermon. Normally he is quite good, if a bit conservative, but this week he was off. He made mis-statements and he said the opposite of what he meant. It wasn't horrible, but you could tell he was unrehearsed. Anyway, during the benediction, which is where the minister essentially says an ecouraging farewell blessing, he said, "Go now knowing that you have left the presence of the Lord and the fellowship of believers."

What what what?

I've left the presence of the Lord? Can you really do that? Can God choose NOT to be omnipresent? He must be able to. Otherwise He wouldn't be all powerful. So did God stay home this week? I guess so. God must've gotten a Nintendo Wii for Father's Day and He decided to stay home and play tennis.

I'm ever so slightly worried by this. On the one hand the Lord will be super relaxed and happy because of His awesome new gift. On the other hand, if Jesus beats Him in a game we could be in for some shit. I hope God's a good sport.

My shirt

I'm wearing a white shirt today. But underneath it I have on a peach shirt. All of my white T-shirts were dirty. So I have this orange glow about me. I wore an orange tie today to try and throw off anyone who might otherwise notice the glow. I don't think it will work.

I haven't posted in a while so I thought I would let you know some very important things.

In the last week I messed up the settings on my firewall and now I cannot host games on Battlenet. This bothers me.

In the last week I had the pleasure of sitting in a $1300.00 chair. It was soooooo nice. A guy I work with is in charge of decorating the Department offices around the state. So these furniture companies give him these chairs to try out. He'll keep them for several months and decide if he likes them, or if they are worth it. So you cynics out there know, there is no way in hell the government could afford to buy everyone a $1300.00 chair. We won't even splurge for 1 such chair. But I got to sit in it for about 10 minutes. Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooh. If I had unlimited amounts of money... and there were no sick children... or starving children... or sick and starving animals... and all else was right with the world... and I had cable, I'd totally get me one of those chairs.

In the last week I gave my kids away. This was a great choice! I should have made it ages ago. I gave them to my in-laws. My wife is having problems with this decision. She keeps calling them up and talking to them. I try to explain to her that she needs to let go. And last night I over-heard her talking to her mother about when we will be "getting them back." I hope that doesn't mean what I think it means.

Actually, a week without the kids has been very quite, very peaceful, and very clean. But very lonely.

Bad Movie... Bad!

So I was in Ingles buying wine coolers the other night for a cheap, depressing buzz (I hate beer), when I saw these movie bundles. For $10 you can buy 13 movies of a particular genre. I got the 13 Swords and Sorcery Classics movies and 13 Horrorrific Classics. I knew they would suck. I was just hoping they would suck in that fun, "Holy crap this really, really sucks!" kinda way.

Well, last night I watched Blade Master, not the 2005 movie, the 1984 movie. Oh, was it bad. So, so deliciously bad. On the Good scale it rated a 2 out of 10. On the Bad scale it rated a 7. The scales are directly opposite. If you watch it, the two best scenes to look for are when Ator is tied up and watching the innocents get killed (I don't think he closes his mount for 5 minutes) and when he fights the giant snake.

Oh it was good. You're moving right along in this less than wonderful depiction of barbarian times when out of the blue (pun intended) Ator is flying a hang glider. He tells his team to get into the castle through a secret intrance, which takes a max of 30 minutes, then suddenly he's up in the air. Now Ator is a intellectual barbarian of sorts. He doesn't wear a lot of clothes. So there were no secret pockets in which he could have stored said hang glider. Persumably he built it from scratch, he cut the bamboo and tatch, strung it together with leather, and made the wings out of leather from an animal he must have killed, skinned and cured. All in the time it took is party to get inside the castle.

I highly recommend for a good hour and a half of really bad movie watching. See it with a friend.

Random Morning Thoughts

It is so quiet this morning that as I sit at my desk I can hear the beep of the crosswalk on the streetcorner outside. Every time I hear it I am jealous of whatever person is crossing the street because they are outside. I imagine that they were at work, just like me, until finally they snapped and said, "THIS IS THE ONLY LIFE I GET AND I'M NOT SELLING IT TO YOU!!!!!!" and they ran out the door and down the street. Now they are on their way home to start a new life. Good Luck!

In the bathroom I heard a guy in the stall talking on his phone. At least I hope he was talking on his phone. He said, "Ugh. Mmm. Huh. Yeah, just give it to me and I'll fire it right out to you." I love cell phones.

Then as I was on my way back to my desk I stopped to fill my cup up with water. Now, I know it has to do with pressure and things that I don't really understand, but I find it disturbing that the water fountain dribbles and dribbles until someone in the bathroom flushes, then suddenly a flood of water comes out of the fountain. Now I can't shake the feeling that the water tastes funny.

'Nother Dream

I went to bed way early last night because I was depressed. Whenever I get enough sleep I have dreams. Sad that I don't dream very much. Usually these dreams are cool.

Last night I dreamed that I lived in a relatively small town. In that town there was an old house/library that was situated in the center of a strip mall. I don't know if the other stores were built around the house or if it was originally part of the strip. The house had been owned by one of the old founders of the community and he had been rich and eccentric. It was generally rumored that he had not left the entirety of his estate to anyone when he died, but no one knew exactly what he had done with it. Legends were that it was hidden in the house some where.

As luck would have it I knew where. There was a secret passage that pretty much everyone knew about in a book shelf. That passage led to a giant library with a beautiful sitting area and fireplace. Behind the fireplace was one of many shelves that contained books and odd nick-nacks that the old man had collected over the years. Among the nick-nacks I had discovered a button.

Somehow, however, I was not the only one who had discovered the button. A rich female celebrity had also learned the truth and, as TV would suggest is always the case, arrived at the house at the same time as I. We both brought and entorage and there were cameras rolling.

I am not certain of who the rich celebrity was. When I first awoke I thought it was J. K. Rowling. But later I thought it might have been Martha Stewart. She had longish blong hair, she wore all black, though not skin tight, and she was wicked-cold. What's more she was rich and totally did not need the money or the fame of discovering said fortune.

She got to the button first. However, when the mystery button was pushed the treasure was not revealed. There was a tast that had to be performed. The task was such that only someone who had studied the old man's life would know exactly where and what to do. After the first task other tasks followed. The celebrity and I were always neck in neck to completing each task; she'd win one and I'd win the next, until finally a giant door was revealed. Finally we came to the last taks and we were instructed to speak the word that defined these four things and the door would open. The four things were spoken, but they were all so different that no one present could conceive of a single word that incorporated all of them. Puzzled, we all stared at the giant door. One by one everyone left the library until the lady and I were alone. Then she left and I stood there staring at the barrier that kept me from fortune.

When I woke up I tried to remember the four things that the word was supposed to define, but I could not. There was an ephemeral memory of one or two examples, but those quickly faded. Oh well.

Good Greif!

When is that flying animation finally going to drop off into the archives. It has messed up the format of this blog for several months now.

Good News! I got a new idea in a flash of inspiration last night as the cats turned something over downstairs and I thought my house was being burgled. I wasn't being burgled. After I checked under every couch for woefully skinny intruders I headed back upstairs to bed. On the way I got an idea for ANOTHER BOOK I'LL NEVER FINISH!

I'm so excited at the prospects of not finishing yet another project and pushing all my other projects deep into the labrynth of incompletion. I never finish anyth


ps. I am a born again nose doucher.

Champaign Nasal Spray

My name is Michael. That is the English-male version of the name. Not to be confused with Michelle. The English-female version. See, we spell them differently so you don't get confused and accidentally call a guy Michelle. I have a small amount of forgiveness stored up inside of me for those Europeans who are used to calling men Michelle, but none for those native English speakers who look at my name and say Michelle. You'd be surprised how many substitute teachers during my public school years called me Michelle; subsequently paving the way for all of my "friends" in class thinking it was funny and calling me that for the rest of the day. I guess the joke was that if they called me Michelle it somehow made me less male.

Most people these days get my name right. The clever ones who aren't certain, and can't tell by looking at me, usually ask, "What do you go buy?" And I say, "Michael." They usually nod and make a mental note that the person before them is not a Michelle/woman, but a Michael/man. My doctor, for example, calls me Michael. She has a thick file on me and inside I assume there is a black and white outline of a person on which she has probably drawn a penis. Next to the hand drawn penis is probably a little arrow pointing from it to a note that says "Michael, not Michelle." My doctor knows I'm a man.

So imagine my surprise yesterday when my doctor told me that the answer to my allergy and sinus issues was to DOUCHE! Yes, you read that correctly. I was ordered by my doctor to "douche" my nose several times a day. And she didn't just say the word once, she said it two or three times. She didn't say to irrigate it. She did say once to rinse it. But by and large she used the word douche. I am to douche my nose with saline, which is essentially salt water.

So far I have given my nose two salt water douches and I tell you what, it isn't doing f***ing sh** for me.

Dream

I had another weird dream last night. I lived in a different house, in a different town, and in what seemed like a different time. The dream time/place in which I lived was reminiscent of the Goon Docks from Goonies.

Anyway, in my dream the world was coming to an end. Not a violent end. Not a religious end. Just and end, and everyone knew about it. It was understood and it was sad, but everyone knew that at midnight on a certain night, approaching rapidly, the world would stop, and so would all of the people in it. Everyone was pretty much resigned and peaceful about the whole ordeal; I suppose because they couldn't do anything about it. There was no science that could find a new planet, no engineering that could redirect an errant asteroid, and no prayer to a long forgotten god that could stop the end. So everyone pretty much went about their lives.

Now, I have a wife and two children and in my dreams it was the same. But for some reason, on the last day, I got it in my head that I wanted to be at Cartoon Network when it all went into the crapper, and not with my family. So, as the last day is winding down I hop in the car and head on into the city.

Luckily I had an epiphany before it was too late and I realized I would rather be with my family when it ends than with some strangers. So I turn my car around and headed home, with barely enough time to get back.

Then, on the way home, the solution occurred to me. For some reason I realized that the world was comming to an end because, by some stroke of chance, all of the VCR in creation were set to the same time and were properly functioning. So when all the clocks reached midnight at the same time it would cause some kind of cosmic fart and we'd all stop.

The solution then became clear. All I had to do was reset our VCR clock. Then they would not all be the same and life would go on. There was a catch, however. When I got home my wife did not want me to mess with the VCR. She understood my explanation and the purpose it would serve. But she had the VCR set to record the end of the world and she didn't want to miss it. Furthermore, the VCR clock was finally right and she did not think to highly of intentionally miss-setting it. Afterall, if all it took to end the world was everyone's clock being right, what was the guarantee this wouldn't happen again.

In spite of my wife's protests I reset the clock. But did I get to reap the benefits of saving mankind? Did I get a huge house and a key to the universe? No. I got to wake up because my bladder was full.

So, I think it is important for all of you out there to know that I saved the world last night. A little gratitude would be appreciated.

Final Letter for Campaign Four

Dear [adult swim],

I work pretty well under pressure. That's always a plus.

I went to a high level meeting the other day to discuss some new security devices that our company was considering for purchase. My boss was supposed to go, but at the last minute he informed me that I would be going.

"Michael," he said, "You need to go to this security meeting on floor ten."
"Ok," I said. "Are you going?"
"Why should I waste my time when I have plenty of yours I can waste?" Then there was a pause and my instincts screamed to run. But my feet failed. "Oh, and the Commissioner wants me to write a report about the meeting, so you'll need to do that too."

The meeting turned out to be pretty interesting. I thought it was going to be about computer network security, but it was about actual physical security of the department's field service offices. They had all kinds of neat laser monitors and retinal scans that seemed pretty accurate. Some guy named Dick Jones was leading the proceedings. He was very good about letting us play with the products. Then things took a turn for the worse.

"Ok," he said, "Now I want to introduce you guys to our top of the line security guard, Eddie. Who's next on the attendance roster?" He looked over the roster a bit and hummed a fake tune. "Ah ha, where is Bill?"

I tenatively raised my hand. "Bill is my boss. He's not here."
"Ok then," he said, "You'll be Bill. You look like a low rung."
"Pardon?" I said.
"Here," he said and handed me a very real looking and very heavy gun. Then he pulled the crimson sheet off of a giant menacing robot. "This is Eddie; our secuirty unit ED-209. Ok, Bill, point the gun at me."

I really didn't want to do this. The whole scene started to feel vaguely familiar. But there were a lot of people staring at me, and at this poing I kinda did want to shoot Dick. So I pointed the gun.

Immediately ED-209 came to life. "YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE LAW. PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN. YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO COMPLY."

I looked over to Mr. Jones. "I'd do as he says," he said, so I quickly tossed the gun down.

"YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE LAW. PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN. YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO COMPLY."

"WHAT??????" I yelled.
"FOUR - THREE - TWO - ONE..." Yet again my instincts screamed to run, but my feet failed me. After the count of one a huge and horrible noise erupted from the ED-209. A tiny bit of pee escaped, I confess, but nothing else happened.
"Well," Dick said with a humorous chuckle, "It's a good thing we didn't give Eddie any ammunition."

I know the look on my face must have been horrible, but if the ED-209 had had a face it would have looked determined. "YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE LAW. PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN."

This time I actually tried to run, but the ED-209 was fast. Before I got two feet he grabbed my arm in one of his claws. Then he pushed a lady out of her seat and bent me over the back of it. Then he started thrusting against my... Well, let's just say it felt like an episode of Oz. "HOW DOES THAT FEEL, BITCH. NOW PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN."

After a few seconds he stopped thrusting. "I guess it's also a good thing," Dick said, "That we haven't yet equipped him with his giant stainless steal phallus."
"Why would you give him one of those?" I asked sincerely.
"YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE LAW..."
"NO, I'M NOT!"
"PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN."
"I don't have a..." I almost finished when ED-209 picked me up and threw me into the window. I smashed into the window and then bounced back and crashed to the floor. I could hear ED-209's disappointment.
"PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN," it said again and picked me up then threw me into the window three more times.

"I guess," the Commissioner said, "It's a good thing I had those Plexiglas windows installed."

"ED-209!" a smallish, female, oriental voice said from the doorway, "You ah guiwty of moh-lesting the innocent. Pre-pehu for demolition."
"BRING IT ON YOSHIMI!"

I may have been concussed and hallucinating at that point, but I think that Eddie did a Judo stance. Then the oriental lady did a flip over the table and landed a convincing VENOMOUS SNAKE strike to ED-209's power button, and he shut off.

Before I blacked out the Commissioner leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I better not see a worker's comp claim for anything that has happened here."

Rumor has it we purchased 10 ED-209s for our metro area locations.

Michael
May 1, 2007

Ps. When I woke up three hours later I went right back to work. Call it ethics... whatever.

family matters

Sorry about not posting the last letter last week. My grandmother went into the hospital and we were told that it was the end. Incidentally this is about the fifth or sixth end she's come to. Nevertheless, this time things looked real, and, as it turns out, probably were. Anyway, I took off most of last week and went up to Kentucky to visit her. I will try and get that story on the blog, if not today then definitely tomorrow.

jobs

Sometimes when I'm posting a lot I forget that I have a real job. But I don't care so I keep posting and posting and I fall behind on my real job. But in my brain drawing and writing are all I want to do (more drawing right now). So I go to work and I work, work, work really hard. But half the day goes by and all I've managed to finish is a really cool drawing of a wolfman. So then I get fired. And then I am sad. And I have to post about how sad I am. And draw about it too.

I didn't really get fired.

Yet.

Good Some Day

Oh, and I did go ahead and start that art blog. There will be some writing on the other blog, just as there are some pics on this one. But it will mostly be writing to explain a pic. The blog is called Good Some Day. I doubt I ever will be, but we must be positive.

Pleanty of pics for all you picture hos.

Jeeze

I haven't forgotten about this blog. My internet at home is down and it is frustrating the crapola out of me. I need to clean up some pictures that I want to post with the next story/last letter of campaign 4. However, those pics are in my e-mail, which I cannot access from home. Needless to say I do not have the correct software on my work computer. And I probably shouldn't be doing that kind of thing at work anyway. Being that it's not my job.

Anyway, stuff to come. Probably on Monday.

New Blog

So I'm thinking of starting a new, separate blog from this one for my drawings. What do you think?

I'll keep this one up, of course, but this one was designed to focus on writing. The occasional picture is necessary to break up the monotony of writing (reading), so I will still post pictures and drawings, especially drawing of things I write, but I fear that posting tons of sketches and concept drawings and the like will stray too far from the intent of this blog.

In addition to that, I'd hate for people to come here and think it was a blog for art and wonder why the hell I can't keep my trap shut.

So, to those 4 viewers I have out there, what is your opinion? Should I make a new blog, or should I just post all of my pictures and art here on this one? (*note out of fairness: I've pretty much already decided to make the new blog, so it doesn't matter how you answer, but if you want to appear as though you have influenced and encouraged me you should say yes, that I should make a new blog)

.

Copyright

I've been looking at a lot of artists sites and blogs and they all say generally the same thing:

All works/pictures (etc) posted to this blog are the property of ____ (whomever), Copyright ____ (same whomever) 200X. Use of these works/pictures without permission of the artist is not allowed.

Then I thought to myself, "Self, you have never said anything about all of the pictures and stories you have posted. What if someone tries to steal your stuff." So I decided to make a comment of my own:

All of these pictures and stories are mine, dammit.

For those of you who appreciate them, thanks... would it kill you to leave a comment now and again?

Please do not reproduce or use anything from this blog without the author/artist's permission. Just ask, I'll probably say yes. I'm pretty easy. Just remember that this work represents countless hours of work. Time I could have used for sleep and/or bathing.

And yes, it is all Copyrighted. If I must post it I will. (after checking the Library of Congress, it appears that I must) So, there ya go.

GIF attempt

Since it could take me a century to color all 21 pictures in this animation I thought I'd go ahead and show you the b&w version. I don't know why the GIF moves so slowly. If I render it as just a regular animation movie it looks like real wings flapping. But then it only cycles through twice. I had to do the GIF to keep it continual. And in doing that I got the slo-mo version.

Anyone know how to fix that? I'm all ears.

Picture

Here is a sample picture from the last letter. I'm having so much fun drawing these pictures that I've kind of lost track of just about everything else. I finished the letter two weeks ago and I keep thinking of pictures to draw. When I get a break from work in a couple of weeks I'm thinking of starting to animate this letter.

Anyway, here is the pic. I'm considering coloring it. However, if I decide to animate the letter I doubt it will be in color. It takes me about three hours to color a picture this size in Paint Shop. There are faster ways, but I cannot afford them.

Enjoy.

Letter 26

I don't know folks. These letters aren't very good. I mean, there are some really funny ideas in here, but they're peppered with crap.

I may eventually post the rest of the letters. I will definitely post the last letter. I have some funny pictures to go with it. But as for letters 26 through 32... I'm just not feeling it.

More Dreams/Letter 25

I know that I said I don't remember my dreams very often, and that is true. But the dreams I have mentioned here lately have all been real. The one in the current letter was one of my favorite, mostly because it was so inexplicable. And though the discription of the dream is breif the dream itself seemed to last forever.

Letter 25:

Dear [adult swim],

Last night I had another very weird dream. I dreamed that I was part of a band of rebels fighting against an oppressive regime which had been over run by a sect of hyper-motivated fascists threatening apocalypse. And my job was to drive around the country in my Chevette, a car which I've never owned, and to assemble giant entertainment centers, desks and bookshelves, as much as four or five times their normal size, out in the middle of nowhere. I'm not sure how this aided in the resistance, but I know it was an important job, and I was constantly in danger of being caught.

When I awoke from that dream I thought of this horrible pick-up line:

Baby, if you were mine I'd erect a tower in your honor.
A flesh tower.
I have a life sized model in my pants, if you're interested.

It's not exactly a pick-up line. It's a pick-up three lines. So the speaker will have to do some entertaining to keep the lady listening. I don't know. I was never good at that kind of thing.

When I was in the shower I thought that Quagmire, from the Family Guy, might say it this way:

Baby, if you were mine I'd erect a tower in your honor. And by honor I mean vagina.

Michael
March 19, 2007

C+

Good grief. I read over some of the letters recently and I have to say I'm ashamed at their quality. 22 and 24 just blow. I give them a C+ at best.

I mean, it's too late to do anything about it now, they've all been sent. I only wish I had been more critical when I was writing them. Thinking of 30+ funny ideas to write about is a lot harder than you think. You get on a real role and you start pumping out the letters one by one, then you stop and count and you have like four letters written. Then you start to beef them up with sorta-funny letters. Only what you don't realize is that most of the letters you thought were funny were your sorta-funny letters and the ones you thought were sorta-funny letters were sorta-shitty. So after you have sent 30 some-odd letters out and you cannot get them back you start to think, "Not only will [adult swim] never hire me, I'll be lucky if they don't sue me for boring them to tears." But as I said, it's too late to do anything about it now.

The final letter, which technically hasn't been sent, has been written, and I think it is pretty funny (fingers crossed). I am trying to make some nice pictures and things to go with it. I think if I do a campaign 5 I'll change my tactics. I have some ideas brewing, but I'll need a break from sending stuff out. [adult swim] will probably also need a break. I imagine it is tireing caring my letters from the mailbox to the trash can.

!Viva la Michaelco!

Letter 24

Dear [adult swim],

Last night I dreamed that I worked for you again. This dream was even more disturbing than the last one where I was made of Play Doh.

In this dream there were no real offices at Williams Street. There was only a labrynth of unlit hallways with desks and tables randomly throwin in odd corners for people to stand at and work. There were no chairs. On a rare occasion there was a door that may have hidden an office, but the doors were always closed.

Typically I worked at what would be a small end table. I didn't have a computer or anything like that. I don't even know what I did. I only know that I worked at a machine that looked like the old Micro Fiche machines in libraries. The blue glow from the looking glass was the only light I had to work by.

I busted my hump for the short period of time that I worked there, and when my project was over you all decided to throw me a congratulations party. There was a long table and a huge feast. I was enjoying myself quite a bit when I saw a sliver of light coming over the horizon and I realized that it was sunrise.

That's also when I realized that I was not just Michael but also Lestat from Anne Rice's vampire novels. This was before he was so powerful that he was immune to sunlight. So I had to run from the party and try to find a safe, dark place I could hole up until sunset. I made it to an unused closet just in time.

The next day, oddly, I wasn't Lestat anymore. I was just me. And I didn't know if you had hired me on full-time because I had to duck out of the party early. When I got to work the Williams Street Doberman, named Pretty, was standing at the end of the entrance hallway growling. He remembered me though, and he let me through.

Then the dream got really frustrating as I spent my whole work day in a glass elevator trying to find my workspace. (I had watched Willy Wonka earlier that evening, which probably explains this part of the dream.) By the time I found my desk it was time for me to go home. So I went to the top of the building and hopped on one of the company issued hover-bikes and rode home.

It's only a matter of time.

Michael
March 18, 2007

Ps. So you know, in my dream everyone was happy I was working for you. There were a couple of people who kept trying to trip me up. But I'm pretty sure they were just jealous of my comedic prowess and my superior ninja skills.

Letter 23

Dear [adult swim],

It was bright and warm yesterday. I don't know if this happens to you, but I walked outside for lunch and I accidentally looked up into the sky. I know better than to do this on work days, but I already wasn't thinking clearly.

Anyway, I looked up into the sun, and, as usual, it burned a hole right through my face and out the back of my skull. It totally fried my brain and left me a mindless zombie.

I wandered around the city for the rest of the day, slack jawed. My only words were, "Uuuugh," and "Mmm-uuuugh," and "Pretty daaaay."

I made my way into a park and slid down the slide a couple of times before some frightened parents chased me away. Then some homeless people hit me up for money.

"Got any money, fella?"

"Uuuugh," I said.

"Come on, dude," the other one said, "That's a nice tie. You gotta have some cash."

"Mmm-uuuugh," I said a little too condescendingly.

"Oh, is that right?" the second guy said.

"Let it go, Jackie," the first guy said.

"Are you kiddin' me. He totally just told me to mmm-uuuugh. I can't take that bullshit from a tie wearin', faceless f***er!"

"Pretty daaaay," I said.

"Don't change the subject, bitch," he said and pulled out a knife.

"Jackie, don't get crazy!" But it was too late. He stuck me three or four times in my chest.

"Mmm-uuuugh," I said a bit more sorrowfully.

"You won't let it go, will you?" Jackie said while the other guy shook his head with an angry grimace. Then they beat the snot out of me, stole my cash and my tie, and left me for dead in a trash can.

After a few hours my healing factor kicked in and I grew my face and brain back. Now my boss is saying I have to take annual leave instead of sick leave for the time I missed. Does that sound fair to you?

Michael

March17, 2007

Bad Dreams

I had a pretty bad dream the other night. I don't usually have "good" dreams that I remember. A rare few have crept through to my consciousness, but even those were not terribly note worthy. I once had a dream that I went to a garage sale and bought a Star Wars figure for a buck and the lady was trying to get rid of her stuff so she just gave me the rest of her collection, which was considerable.

Of course, that dream turned out to be very frustrating when I woke up and realized it hadn't happened.

No, most of my dreams are disturbing or scary. Or sometimes they are dreams come true with a horrible twist. Like I had a dream that I finally got an interview with Adult Swim, but the whole thing went horribly. They kept asking me all kinds of intensely technical questions that I did not know the answers to. The interview was intensely nerve racking and I woke up tired.

The other night I had another bad dream. It probably all stems from the fact that I have been feeling fatter and fatter lately. But in my dream an ugly goblin rendered me down to my most basic form and all that was there was two buckets of fat. Then he poured me into some dirt and as he poured me I took the form of an upright fat, pink pig. It was really horrible. So I have decided that I need to start exercising again.

apology/Letter 22

When I wrote this letter I didn't much care for it, but I went through a little dry spell and I needed to send something in. So I scratched this mistake onto paper and thus it went. For my two cents it's one of the weakest letters I sent. With my luck it will be the one letter they open:

"Oh, dammit. It's another letter from the Michael guy."
"Well maybe we should finally open one of these and read it."
"Why? I bet they suck. If he was any good we'd have heard of him."
"It could be good. What if he's an up-coming star?"
"Not likely. Ten bucks says it blows."
"Ok, your on."
-they read the letter-
"Ok, that blew. You owe me ten bucks."
"Yeah, your right. That was lame as crap. And now I'm pissed at that Michael guy. If we see any more of those letters just toss 'em straight into the shredder."
"Like all of the one's before this one."
"Yeah."

Judge for yourself:

Dear [adult swim],

I dream about being rich sometimes. I wouldn't mind it, but who would really? I am horrible with money, which is why I have none. It's also why I have a whole bunch of plastic broken shit. My house is made of particle board.

So anyway, sometimes I dream I make it big. Usually I dream that I struggle against the odds, with a nemesis or two, and I toild to create something wonderful. And then reluctantly, and quite unexpectedly, I make a fortune.

Other times I dream I win the lottery. It's easier. My mental RAM doesn't get all tied in knots thinking of back stories and contract negotiations and years of development and... reality. -sigh-

If I had money the first thing I'd do is get my cable turned back on. I haven't had cable for months. I'm trying to pay a debt off responsibly. Then I can have my shows back. I have to get my cartoon fixes on line and that really does tie my RAM in knots.

Anyway, I've been reading a lot of books lately. Thought you want to know that. Soon my brain will reach critical mass.

So far I can't see what the big appeal is. I mean books are "cool." I've "learned to read." I can "use my imagination." But books simply don't replace cable. I can't open a book at 1 AM and "accidentally" find soft core porn.

But I've read like a thousand books since my cable was cut off. Some where between twenty and a thousand. Yesterday my father told me I was becoming "quite cultured." Lickily I was only on the second story when I threw myself out the window.

Now I have to pay for that window before I can get my cable.

Michael
March 16, 2007

Letter 21

Dear [adult swim],

Yesterday one of the office secretaries said that I was elitist. I mean, she didn't just walk up to me, slap me on the face, spit in my eye, and say, "You elitist bastard!" or anything. It was conversational. I made a joke about being elitist and she said something like, "That's so true," but the way she said it indicated she wasn't joking. So I said, "I'm not elitist!" and she stopped laughing. Then there was this long stupid silence and she said in a high, fake-ish voice, "Awkward." Then she said, "Oh come on. you don't even try to hide it. You're totally an elitist." Then I looked hurt so she said, "But it's in a cute way."

I don't need her condescension!

When I got home I told my wife about it and she said, "It sounds like the secretary has you pegged."

I'm better than both of them.

Michael
March __, 2007

Ps. You can't catch an STD from going to a prostitute in your dreams, can you? I mean, no matter how skanky she was, she was still just a dream, right? It just doesn't make any sense.

Pps. It was my friend who wanted to know about the STD thing.

Classy/Letter 20

Ok, I have to be the first to say that the following letter is probably the classiest one I have written to date.

Letter 20:

Dear [adult swim],

I sometimes wonder if women have the same work/poop hang ups as men. Cause, I mean, things are different for them, physiologically, and so, well, it's a bit more convenient. So do they touble over the question: to suffer or to crap? I know men do.

At some point in every man's life he's sitting on the toilet in the first grade bathroom, the ones that were actually in the classroom, minding his own business and concentrating on the task at hand, when he hears his name being called.

"Has anyone seen Michael?" the teacher would ask. "He was just here a second ago."

The class would rustle and a quite voice would mumble something that the poor pooper's ears could not strain to hear. Then the door would fly open and that jackass Paul Glass would be standing there. "Yep, told ya. He's taking a dump." And when he walked away he totally left the door open and half the class could look in. Then every couple of seconds a girl's head would appear in the doorway and giggle until finally the teacher appeared and said, "Hurry up, Michael, we have work to do."

Every man has a story like that. You could put any name in there.

And every man can remember a time in second grade where he went to the community restroom to go number two and the stall door wouldn't lock. Then in came a couple of fifth graders and they started opening the door and teasing him because he was pooping. And they'd punch him in the arm because the smell was aggravating them. Then finally the assistant principal came in and dragged the fifth graders off the the principal's office and made the boys apologize over the intercom for "Teasing Michael X while he was taking a dump!"

Every man remembers such trauma. But I wonder if women share in this bathroom anxiety. If you're already sitting is there a dilemma?

If you believe my wife then the answer is no. She says women don't poop. But I know that's not true. One time, when I was younger, this girl slept over at my house, and when I woke up there was a giant turd in my shoe. There was no other explanation.

Michael
March 14, 2007

A note/Letter 19

I think the above picture is one of my better ones. I'm not a character designer or an artist. On occasion I surprise myself with a decent picture, and I usually share it. I thought this one was funny.

Incidentally, I originally drew this pic to go with the last letter. Then I was doodling and drew the last pic and it totally didn't go with Letter 19 so I stuck it with Letter 18 and this pic with this letter. Oh well, I sent both letters on the same day anyway, so perhaps they all got read together and no one is the wiser.

Letter 19:

Dear [adult swim],

More on the subject of my mermaid.

She had a nose ring.

I don't really have a problem with body peircing, it's just that everything goes in cycles. And eventually time tells us what is really cool and will stick, like leather jackets, and what is not really cool, but in fact, ridiculous, like rat-tails. The nose ring is the rat-tail of the 2000s.

I dated a girl with a rat-tail in high school. A real winner (not really). I actually liked her rat-tail. They were still popular then. We had been dating about a day when she cut it off.

She eventually dumped me because we didn't "gel," which I guess was her way of saying, "I've slept with, like, 100 men, and I'm only 15."

But I digress. My mermaid, whose name was Lusca, did not have a rat-tail. She had a nose ring. And frosted hair. And a treasure map tattooed to her boobs.

It was for this reason she told me I was not allowed to see her boobs. She said the treasure belonged to her ex-husband Cthulhu, and if I were to see it I would know the location of his lair and he would rise in the night and kill me and all of civilization. At first I believed her, but later she told me the treasure map was tattooed to her ass, and then to... well, another place I might have a want to see. Later she started saying things like, "If you don't buy me a car with a pool inside it Cthulhu will kill you and all of civilization," and, "If you don't draw me a luke warm bath, and make it brackish Cthulhu will kill you and all of civilization," and, "If you don't get off your lazy ass and go to work today Cthulhu will kill you and all of civilization." I just stopped listening.

I eventually flushed her down the toilet with all her eggs. Thought I had seen the last of them. But apparently, and Aquaman tells me this is legit, my "fertilizing her brood," represents a marital contract. And it would seem that Atlantis Law has no problem with the fact that I'm already legally married. Aquaman couldn't even think of the names of all the men and women he was currently married to.

Michael

March 13, 2007

Ps. Aquaman said he was almost pretty certain Cthulhu didn't exist. So I shouldn't worry about it.