Just a quick note to let you know that I will not be posting for the next two weeks. I will be in California celebrating Christmas with the family (and reminding my mother who I am).
After that is New Year's week, so I will be taking the week off just because.
I will be posting a new Art the Wanderer on Sunday the 20th and will start the new year with Art on Sunday the 9th.
Everyone have a safe and happy Christmas!
See you in the new year!
Cheers,
-Jason
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
I Absolutely Do Not Care
I called my mother last night. I try to do that once a week, just to let her know that I’m alive and thinking about her. She’s always very happy to hear from me, once I remind her that I’m actually one her three sons and my name is ‘Jason.’ Sometime I think she just plays along.
NOTE: I did give her a picture of me one year, just so she would have a constant reminder. She autographed it and handed it back.
Anyway, I called my mom and after establishing my identity, she asked ‘Are you following the Tiger Woods scandal?’
Here is an exact transcript of that conversation:
‘Are you following the Tiger Woods scandal?’
‘I heard there was something going on, but no.’
‘But it’s so fascinating! He’s got fourteen mistresses!’
‘Honestly, I could care less where he’s putting his pee-pee.’
‘Really? But Sports Illustrated named him the Athlete of the Decade?’
‘For what?’
Seriously, that was the exact conversation. And yes, I do say ‘pee-pee’ around my mother. It’s an old habit instilled through several vigorous beatings when I was young. It also explains why I tend to list to the left when I walk.
But yes, I really could care less what or who Tiger Woods is doing. I could also care less about what any celebrity is doing. Their lives do not impact mine in any way shape or form. I just dread having to hear about it on the news for the next month. News should be about missiles and other life threatening things, not who’s putting what into who.
Now obviously if someone’s fooling around gets missiles launched, then it’s new worthy.
Also, as long as I’m here, does golf count as a sport? Now, I’m sure some of you out there are golfers and are ready to take umbrage at this, but my definition of ‘sport’ includes ‘and you sweat when doing it.’
NOTE: An alternate definition of ‘sport’ could be: Does it require steroids? But I decided not to take that tact because children read this (anything is possible) and I don’t want them getting the wrong impression. Stay in school!
For me, cycling is a sport. Speed skating is a sport. Football and basketball are sports. Baseball is sometimes a sport. Ice Skating is like a sport, but since the scoring is completely arbitrary, not really (though they do get sweaty). Golf, not really. Oh, I’m sure it’s difficult, but when its primary players are middle-aged men with bad backs, you gotta question it. So for Sports Illustrated to name Tiger Athlete of the Decade, it seems kinda off.
So, to sum up: I don’t care about Tiger Woods, unless he’s shooting missiles that might kill me.
Cheers,
-Jason
NOTE: I did give her a picture of me one year, just so she would have a constant reminder. She autographed it and handed it back.
Anyway, I called my mom and after establishing my identity, she asked ‘Are you following the Tiger Woods scandal?’
Here is an exact transcript of that conversation:
‘Are you following the Tiger Woods scandal?’
‘I heard there was something going on, but no.’
‘But it’s so fascinating! He’s got fourteen mistresses!’
‘Honestly, I could care less where he’s putting his pee-pee.’
‘Really? But Sports Illustrated named him the Athlete of the Decade?’
‘For what?’
Seriously, that was the exact conversation. And yes, I do say ‘pee-pee’ around my mother. It’s an old habit instilled through several vigorous beatings when I was young. It also explains why I tend to list to the left when I walk.
But yes, I really could care less what or who Tiger Woods is doing. I could also care less about what any celebrity is doing. Their lives do not impact mine in any way shape or form. I just dread having to hear about it on the news for the next month. News should be about missiles and other life threatening things, not who’s putting what into who.
Now obviously if someone’s fooling around gets missiles launched, then it’s new worthy.
Also, as long as I’m here, does golf count as a sport? Now, I’m sure some of you out there are golfers and are ready to take umbrage at this, but my definition of ‘sport’ includes ‘and you sweat when doing it.’
NOTE: An alternate definition of ‘sport’ could be: Does it require steroids? But I decided not to take that tact because children read this (anything is possible) and I don’t want them getting the wrong impression. Stay in school!
For me, cycling is a sport. Speed skating is a sport. Football and basketball are sports. Baseball is sometimes a sport. Ice Skating is like a sport, but since the scoring is completely arbitrary, not really (though they do get sweaty). Golf, not really. Oh, I’m sure it’s difficult, but when its primary players are middle-aged men with bad backs, you gotta question it. So for Sports Illustrated to name Tiger Athlete of the Decade, it seems kinda off.
So, to sum up: I don’t care about Tiger Woods, unless he’s shooting missiles that might kill me.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Signage
I happened to be driving home the other night and noticed that the sign on the local KFC had changed. Rather than ‘10pc Bcket $6.99,’ it now read ‘Die Jason Die.’ I was rather flattered.
NOTE: Granted, it’s possible they meant some other Jason. There are several million of us in Redmond alone (which is interesting as the population is only 120,000 or so). However, I was reassured when I noticed the employee holding a sign beneath it that read ‘We mean Jason Janicki. We’re cool with everyone else.’
It then occurred to me that I had never actually seen anyone changing one of those signs.
Seriously.
In all my one hundred and eleven years, I still have no idea how they actually do it. I suppose that the signs themselves could be programmable or something, but I kinda doubt a neighborhood KFC or your average movie theater would have that sort of money. I mean, if they did, they wouldn’t bother actually opening the business and would instead spend their days in a luxurious money bath with nubile maidens pouring cash over their heads and fishing quarters out of inconvenient places.
Which brings me back to my original point (and I did have one). How do they change the signs? I suppose I could simply ask someone or check Wikipedia or something, but that would be proactive. Instead, I will choose to believe they employ . . . you thought I was going to say ninjas weren’t you?
Honestly, people. I can go a whole blog without mentioning ninjas (though I managed to fail spectacularly on that count in this particular blog).
Gnomes. The correct answer is: gnomes.
As far as I can tell (meaning I made it all up), in the old days, the gnomes were enslaved by evil sign builders and were imprisoned in the signs. They were forced at vegetable-point to change the letters and those that refused were severely beaten with some sort of beating-thing.
Eventually, they rose up and after a great battle that left many a buttock bruised and veggie pureed, they won their freedom. However, they eventually realized that they rather enjoyed living in the signs and all that, so they decided to stay and work for day-old popcorn and Pez.
Yes, gnomes are weird little buggers.
So, to sum up: KFC hates me and gnomes live in signs.
Now, some people might claim that the employees simply change the signs with a stick-like tool and ladders. Needless to say, I vastly prefer my version.
Then again, what if the gnomes were also ninjas?
Cheers,
-Jason
NOTE: Granted, it’s possible they meant some other Jason. There are several million of us in Redmond alone (which is interesting as the population is only 120,000 or so). However, I was reassured when I noticed the employee holding a sign beneath it that read ‘We mean Jason Janicki. We’re cool with everyone else.’
It then occurred to me that I had never actually seen anyone changing one of those signs.
Seriously.
In all my one hundred and eleven years, I still have no idea how they actually do it. I suppose that the signs themselves could be programmable or something, but I kinda doubt a neighborhood KFC or your average movie theater would have that sort of money. I mean, if they did, they wouldn’t bother actually opening the business and would instead spend their days in a luxurious money bath with nubile maidens pouring cash over their heads and fishing quarters out of inconvenient places.
Which brings me back to my original point (and I did have one). How do they change the signs? I suppose I could simply ask someone or check Wikipedia or something, but that would be proactive. Instead, I will choose to believe they employ . . . you thought I was going to say ninjas weren’t you?
Honestly, people. I can go a whole blog without mentioning ninjas (though I managed to fail spectacularly on that count in this particular blog).
Gnomes. The correct answer is: gnomes.
As far as I can tell (meaning I made it all up), in the old days, the gnomes were enslaved by evil sign builders and were imprisoned in the signs. They were forced at vegetable-point to change the letters and those that refused were severely beaten with some sort of beating-thing.
Eventually, they rose up and after a great battle that left many a buttock bruised and veggie pureed, they won their freedom. However, they eventually realized that they rather enjoyed living in the signs and all that, so they decided to stay and work for day-old popcorn and Pez.
Yes, gnomes are weird little buggers.
So, to sum up: KFC hates me and gnomes live in signs.
Now, some people might claim that the employees simply change the signs with a stick-like tool and ladders. Needless to say, I vastly prefer my version.
Then again, what if the gnomes were also ninjas?
Cheers,
-Jason
Thursday, December 10, 2009
San Diego Comic Con! '10
Well, we have been confirmed for the '10 San Diego Comic Con! Yes, you have to register that far in advance to get a table. We had a blast at this year's con, so we're looking forward to next years!
We will also be appearing at Emerald City Comic Con and Stumptown, and plan on attending the next Portland Comic Book Show as well.
In other news, it's still hellishly cold up here in the Northwest. I actually had the heat on this week, despite my usual 14-layers of clothes. I talked to my mom the other night (who lives in California) and she was complaining that it was dropping down to 50 where she was. I then pointed out that it was 17 the other morning up here. She just laughed and told me to move (preferably closer to her).
Look for a new Art the Wanderer this Sunday and the usual bloggy goodness the rest of the week.
Cheers,
-Jason
We will also be appearing at Emerald City Comic Con and Stumptown, and plan on attending the next Portland Comic Book Show as well.
In other news, it's still hellishly cold up here in the Northwest. I actually had the heat on this week, despite my usual 14-layers of clothes. I talked to my mom the other night (who lives in California) and she was complaining that it was dropping down to 50 where she was. I then pointed out that it was 17 the other morning up here. She just laughed and told me to move (preferably closer to her).
Look for a new Art the Wanderer this Sunday and the usual bloggy goodness the rest of the week.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Fish-Men
Like many of you, I'm sure, I hate Christmas music. Oh, it's all right once or twice (and I love the Sinead O'Connor version of Silent Night), but by the second week of December, I want take a hammer to the radio.
These, though, are pure gold. It's Christmas music done with a Cthulhu theme. They sound exactly like 'regular' Christmas tunes, but then you listen to the words and bask in the warmth that is the promise of Cthulhu destroying the human race.
It's from the folks at HPLHS Bazaar, makers of many fine, Cthulhu products.
Bonus! I found a video on YouTube:
I also recommend 'It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Fish-Men.'
Cheers,
-Jason
These, though, are pure gold. It's Christmas music done with a Cthulhu theme. They sound exactly like 'regular' Christmas tunes, but then you listen to the words and bask in the warmth that is the promise of Cthulhu destroying the human race.
It's from the folks at HPLHS Bazaar, makers of many fine, Cthulhu products.
Bonus! I found a video on YouTube:
I also recommend 'It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Fish-Men.'
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Very Very Not Warm
A strange thing happened this morning. I walked outside, humming a happy tune, fully prepared to go to work and be a productive member of the team. However, as I was locking my door, I noticed something odd.
It was very, very not warm.
“Huh,” I said to myself. “It’s a bit unlike hot.” I then realized that there were icicles already forming on my hair. A closer investigation revealed that it was not just icicles, but a solid layer of ice. In fact, my whole body was covered in a thick layer of the stuff and was rapidly turning blue.
I then made two important discoveries:
1. I had forgotten to towel off after my shower
2. I had forgotten not only pants, but my shirt as well
Moving was becoming difficult, so it took a moment for me to get the key back into the lock and unlock the door. As it swung open, I then noticed a ninja above my doorway, ninja-to ready to decapitate me. Or rather, he had been ready to decapitate me, as he’d frozen solid to the wall, his black ninja garb proving insufficient against the intense un-heat that the night had produced.
So, being the friendly sort that I am, I snapped him off and carried him inside. I set him by the heater and then sat down next to him to get the worse of the ice off. He twitched a bit as he thawed out and I checked on him periodically as I toweled off and put actual clothes on.
It turns out his name is Taro, which is like the Japanese version of ‘John’ or possibly ‘Humperdink.’ I give him full credit, as he did try to stab me when he had thawed out enough. I was prepared for this, though, and merely stepped out of the way because he hadn’t realized that in my haste to get him inside, I accidentally broken most of his toes off. This caused his lunge to fall far short and send him crashing into the carpet.
We then had a nice little chat about ninja duties and obligations, the idea of creating ‘goretex’ ninja garb, and lastly, how useful toes are when you suddenly don’t have any. However, I still had to go to work, so I asked Taro to let himself out and left for work (though he did politely remind me to put my shoes back on).
Anyway, it is incredibly the reverse of sweltering in the Seattle area and I made a new, albeit toeless friend. I’ll make sure to grab his toes when they finally fall off, as I’m sure he’d appreciate having them back.
Cheers,
-Jason
It was very, very not warm.
“Huh,” I said to myself. “It’s a bit unlike hot.” I then realized that there were icicles already forming on my hair. A closer investigation revealed that it was not just icicles, but a solid layer of ice. In fact, my whole body was covered in a thick layer of the stuff and was rapidly turning blue.
I then made two important discoveries:
1. I had forgotten to towel off after my shower
2. I had forgotten not only pants, but my shirt as well
Moving was becoming difficult, so it took a moment for me to get the key back into the lock and unlock the door. As it swung open, I then noticed a ninja above my doorway, ninja-to ready to decapitate me. Or rather, he had been ready to decapitate me, as he’d frozen solid to the wall, his black ninja garb proving insufficient against the intense un-heat that the night had produced.
So, being the friendly sort that I am, I snapped him off and carried him inside. I set him by the heater and then sat down next to him to get the worse of the ice off. He twitched a bit as he thawed out and I checked on him periodically as I toweled off and put actual clothes on.
It turns out his name is Taro, which is like the Japanese version of ‘John’ or possibly ‘Humperdink.’ I give him full credit, as he did try to stab me when he had thawed out enough. I was prepared for this, though, and merely stepped out of the way because he hadn’t realized that in my haste to get him inside, I accidentally broken most of his toes off. This caused his lunge to fall far short and send him crashing into the carpet.
We then had a nice little chat about ninja duties and obligations, the idea of creating ‘goretex’ ninja garb, and lastly, how useful toes are when you suddenly don’t have any. However, I still had to go to work, so I asked Taro to let himself out and left for work (though he did politely remind me to put my shoes back on).
Anyway, it is incredibly the reverse of sweltering in the Seattle area and I made a new, albeit toeless friend. I’ll make sure to grab his toes when they finally fall off, as I’m sure he’d appreciate having them back.
Cheers,
-Jason
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Rotund and Other Words
Apparently I’m fat.
Seriously.
Whilst in California for Thanksgiving, I ate out with various family members perhaps 8 times. There were roughly four lunches, two dinners, a breakfast, and one ‘random’ meal that just sort of happened when a taco truck crashed into my mother’s backyard.
Anyway, this is not about the food, it’s about the drinks. I always get a regular Coke (Pepsi, whatever). Every single time I got a refill, the waiter/waitress would ask if it was diet. This is pretty much how it went:
Waiter: Want a refill on that?
Me: Sure (hands glass over).
Waiter: That was a diet, right?
Me: Nope. Regular.
Waiter: Okay, I’ll be back with that diet refill in just a moment.
Me: No, regular.
Waiter: Diet.
Me: Regular.
Waiter: Diet.
Me: Reeeeggggggguuuuuulllllllaaaaaaarrrrrrrr.
Waiter: Dddddddiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeetttttt.
Me: Just bring me a water.
Waiter: Toilet water coming right up!
To make matters worse, 1 in 3 times they would still bring me diet. Now, I don’t think I’m that out of shape, but apparently, waiters in California think I am. I didn’t help that my fitness buff brother (he’s approximately 8% body fat) felt the need to point this out.
“Wow,” he would say. “Looks like the waiter’s trying to tell you something!” And then he’d flex and I’d die a little inside.
NOTE: Yes, we’re that mean to each other. It’s how we show affection.
So, I have decided to do something about this. No, I’m not going to exercise more. I’m going to make little stickers that say ‘Regular’ and tape them to the glass when I get it, so the waiter knows what I want.
And maybe stop eating out in California quite so much.
Cheers,
-Jason
Seriously.
Whilst in California for Thanksgiving, I ate out with various family members perhaps 8 times. There were roughly four lunches, two dinners, a breakfast, and one ‘random’ meal that just sort of happened when a taco truck crashed into my mother’s backyard.
Anyway, this is not about the food, it’s about the drinks. I always get a regular Coke (Pepsi, whatever). Every single time I got a refill, the waiter/waitress would ask if it was diet. This is pretty much how it went:
Waiter: Want a refill on that?
Me: Sure (hands glass over).
Waiter: That was a diet, right?
Me: Nope. Regular.
Waiter: Okay, I’ll be back with that diet refill in just a moment.
Me: No, regular.
Waiter: Diet.
Me: Regular.
Waiter: Diet.
Me: Reeeeggggggguuuuuulllllllaaaaaaarrrrrrrr.
Waiter: Dddddddiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeetttttt.
Me: Just bring me a water.
Waiter: Toilet water coming right up!
To make matters worse, 1 in 3 times they would still bring me diet. Now, I don’t think I’m that out of shape, but apparently, waiters in California think I am. I didn’t help that my fitness buff brother (he’s approximately 8% body fat) felt the need to point this out.
“Wow,” he would say. “Looks like the waiter’s trying to tell you something!” And then he’d flex and I’d die a little inside.
NOTE: Yes, we’re that mean to each other. It’s how we show affection.
So, I have decided to do something about this. No, I’m not going to exercise more. I’m going to make little stickers that say ‘Regular’ and tape them to the glass when I get it, so the waiter knows what I want.
And maybe stop eating out in California quite so much.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Kinda Poopy
Sorry, folks. I'm feeling kinda poopy today, so no blog.
I did try to write one, but I kept coming back to the essential fact that I was wiped. For example:
How about those orcs, eh? They don't even get to go to the prom! I wonder if they ever feel poopy. Seriously. Do orcs get tired and achy? I sure do. I wonder if orcs have Sudafed? I do love Sudafed.
You get the picture.
I'll try and get a full blog up tomorrow, so stay tuned.
Cheers,
-Jason
I did try to write one, but I kept coming back to the essential fact that I was wiped. For example:
How about those orcs, eh? They don't even get to go to the prom! I wonder if they ever feel poopy. Seriously. Do orcs get tired and achy? I sure do. I wonder if orcs have Sudafed? I do love Sudafed.
You get the picture.
I'll try and get a full blog up tomorrow, so stay tuned.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Guys with One Ear and Raven Haired Temptresses
This blog will require a bit of an explanation. It all started two years ago at Christmas. I was seated at the kiddie table (as usual) and was mercilessly teasing my niece and nephew. I blogged about the experience, titling it: Do Not Believe Me: Parts 1 and 2.
The year after that, I was again seated with my niece and nephew, now a year older (each, not collectively) and I proceeded to tease them about their respective love lives, such as they were. I then told my niece that I would blog about the conversation and made sure she had the URL for where it would appear.
I was all set to blog about it, but then I experienced a strange, unknown sensation. It was kind of like being queasy with a side of torpor. I eventually figured out that it was because I felt a little badly about exposing my niece’s love life to the world at large, so I didn’t do the blog.
Silly me.
This Thanksgiving, I was once again seated with the now 16-year-old niece and her 13-year-old brother. The niece, Christin, then asked why I hadn’t written the blog. She read all my blogs faithfully, waiting to see it appear. When it didn’t, she asked her father why I hated her, as a single, solitary tear rolled down her cheek.
So, here we go. I will now blog about the conversation I had at Thanksgiving dinner with my 16-year-old niece Christin and her brother, 13-year-old Matthew (aka Stinky).
Remember, you asked for it:
Christin has a crush on Alex, who’s not only missing an ear, but is her brother’s best friend. So, to put it mildly, she likes younger men. However, Christin was also ‘dating’ one Ivan (or possibly Igor or Ivar or something), who gave her a necklace for her birthday, only to be dumped two days later.
NOTE: I was going to change the names to protect the innocent, but I couldn’t remember the names anyway, so I just made them up.
Christin is currently single and dreams of going to New York for college before she heads to Montana to pursue her dream of yak herding (see Do Not Believe Me: Part 1 and 2). Alex will, of course, follow her and then they will be wed under the wide Montana sky, to the sounds of yaks lowing and farting. He will leave her, though, for a sultry llama herder named Veronica. Christin’s heart will be broken, but she will find solace in the arms of swarthy truck driver named Ned, who gave up his dreams of being a NASA Engineer for the call of the open road.
Oh, Ned’s also missing an ear. Christin seems to have a thing for one-eared men. I don’t know why.
Matt was understandably coy about his love life, but I managed to drag from him that he had a crush on a girl named Susan. He wouldn’t tell me what happened, thus I am forced to assume he threw up on her (he’s like that).
I then posited that he was in love with a raven haired temptress, whose dark eyes made his voice go all funny. He protested, insisting that he didn’t know what a ‘raven haired temptress’ was. I told him it was a kind of goat. He seemed confused.
I should note that they ASK for me to sit with them.
The conversation meandered after that, but this was the ‘juicy’ bit, so to speak. I advised Christin to pursue some sort of animal husbandry related degree (like Journalism) to give her leg up on her yak herding. I suggested to Matt that he should get a dictionary. Then we had pie and played Wii games.
I won.
Cheers,
-Uncle Jason
The year after that, I was again seated with my niece and nephew, now a year older (each, not collectively) and I proceeded to tease them about their respective love lives, such as they were. I then told my niece that I would blog about the conversation and made sure she had the URL for where it would appear.
I was all set to blog about it, but then I experienced a strange, unknown sensation. It was kind of like being queasy with a side of torpor. I eventually figured out that it was because I felt a little badly about exposing my niece’s love life to the world at large, so I didn’t do the blog.
Silly me.
This Thanksgiving, I was once again seated with the now 16-year-old niece and her 13-year-old brother. The niece, Christin, then asked why I hadn’t written the blog. She read all my blogs faithfully, waiting to see it appear. When it didn’t, she asked her father why I hated her, as a single, solitary tear rolled down her cheek.
So, here we go. I will now blog about the conversation I had at Thanksgiving dinner with my 16-year-old niece Christin and her brother, 13-year-old Matthew (aka Stinky).
Remember, you asked for it:
Christin has a crush on Alex, who’s not only missing an ear, but is her brother’s best friend. So, to put it mildly, she likes younger men. However, Christin was also ‘dating’ one Ivan (or possibly Igor or Ivar or something), who gave her a necklace for her birthday, only to be dumped two days later.
NOTE: I was going to change the names to protect the innocent, but I couldn’t remember the names anyway, so I just made them up.
Christin is currently single and dreams of going to New York for college before she heads to Montana to pursue her dream of yak herding (see Do Not Believe Me: Part 1 and 2). Alex will, of course, follow her and then they will be wed under the wide Montana sky, to the sounds of yaks lowing and farting. He will leave her, though, for a sultry llama herder named Veronica. Christin’s heart will be broken, but she will find solace in the arms of swarthy truck driver named Ned, who gave up his dreams of being a NASA Engineer for the call of the open road.
Oh, Ned’s also missing an ear. Christin seems to have a thing for one-eared men. I don’t know why.
Matt was understandably coy about his love life, but I managed to drag from him that he had a crush on a girl named Susan. He wouldn’t tell me what happened, thus I am forced to assume he threw up on her (he’s like that).
I then posited that he was in love with a raven haired temptress, whose dark eyes made his voice go all funny. He protested, insisting that he didn’t know what a ‘raven haired temptress’ was. I told him it was a kind of goat. He seemed confused.
I should note that they ASK for me to sit with them.
The conversation meandered after that, but this was the ‘juicy’ bit, so to speak. I advised Christin to pursue some sort of animal husbandry related degree (like Journalism) to give her leg up on her yak herding. I suggested to Matt that he should get a dictionary. Then we had pie and played Wii games.
I won.
Cheers,
-Uncle Jason
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
