Awsorrible

I can't decide if this is horrible or awesome.



In essence, a school let the kids do 'Scarface' for the school play. On the one hand, I'm kind of horrified that they'd let the kids act out an incredibly violent movie like this.

On the other hand, I wish I'd gone to a school where they let us do Scarface as a school play.

I think this calls for a new word 'Awsorrible.' Which is the state of something being both awesome and horrible at the same time. Used in a sentence: "That was so awesorrible, I almost threw up!"

So if anything qualifies as awesorrible, this is it.

Cheers,
-Jason

King Me

I’ve given it some thought. A lot of thought. A very lot of thought. A box full, you might say. And I have finally decided. It was not an easy decision, but I have come to the conclusion that it is the right one.

Ladies and gentleman. Nerds. Nature enthusiasts. Amateur horologists. And everyone else, I have decided that I would like to be the King. Of somewhere.

It just seems nifty. You get a great big crown, people bow to you all the time, and if you decide you want a large hot fudge sundae at 2 am, by George, you get a large hot fudge sundae!

I think I would make a fantastic king. I’m rather odd to look at, so the stamps bearing my profile would be distinctive. I know the difference between a ranseur, spetum, and partisan, which I’m sure kings need to know. I’m a great listener, as I can sleep with my eyes open and most of all, I have a kind of baffling stupidity that’s just close enough to intelligence to confuse people (it’s how I graduated from high school).

Now I realize that there aren’t a lot of openings for Kings and when there is one, there’s already a long line of people clamoring for the job. I could, of course, start a bloody, protracted war like they did in the old days, but frankly, I don’t have that kind of time.

My only recourse, obviously, is to then find someplace that lacks a King and declare myself their monarch. Ideally, it would be a small-island somewhere with an abundance of natural resources, good internet connectivity, and a large supply of gorgeous women.

Alas, I have yet to find such a place. The closest I’ve come so far was a tiny dot of an island with a (barely) working telephone and a couple of old Playboy centerfolds tacked up in a lean-to.

So, my request to you, my faithful readers, is to find someplace for me to become King of. The person that finds me the best spot will get to be my Vizier. Honestly, I don’t know what a ‘vizier’ does, but they’re usually evil, so that should be fun.

Cheers,
-Jason

We'll Be Back!

Many people have been asking about when we're going to start updating again.

Most have been very polite: 'Prithee, good sirs, but knowest thou whence an update may appear, as a dove might descend from the heavens?'

Some have been very to-the-point: 'Update? Yes?'

A couple have been unrepeatable: 'When the BLEEP are you gonna BLEEPIN' BLEEP the BLEEP an' BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP'n update?'

And the answer is: We'll let you know in May.

Now, before you scream and hurl your monitor in my general direction, let me tell you that we have a plan. A cunning plan, in fact. If it works out, we will be able to update every week consistently. There are, however, details that need to be pondered. And if they're not pondered properly, the whole thing will fail.

So, we ask for your continued patience until we are able to announce the whole thing in May.

We do truly appreciate that you all keep asking when we're going to update again (even the BLEEPED ones). This shows us that yeah, people like what we do, which makes us want to keep producing Wayfarer's Moon that much more.

Again, please just wait a bit longer. We'll be back.

Cheers,
-Jason

Me: An Autobiography: Part 1

I happened to be at the local Borders the other day and noticed there was a new autobiography out about some guy I’ve never heard of. Apparently, he cured something or some such. This got me thinking, a torturous, hour-long process that I’m not keen to reproduce soon. ‘If this guy I’ve never heard of can write an autobiography,’ I said to myself. ‘Surely – oooooh! A dinosaur pop-up book!’

Thirty minutes later, after I’d thoroughly read the book and made the appropriate noises, I relocated my train of thought. ‘Surely, I too could write an autobiography!’

And so I did. Well, at least the first part. And by first part I mean ‘the part before I wore clothes.’

Me: Part 1: The early years.

My childhood was a blissful one. There was lots of running, leaping, jumping, licking, and pulling down large game with the rest of the pack. Even at that age I knew I was different. For instance, my fur wasn’t as thick as my siblings and I could operate a stick-shift and firearms.

My dad, the pack leader, was called GRRRWWWRORRG,’ which translates as ‘he who really, really likes to lick himself.’ My mom was named GRRRWWWRORRGA,’ or in the human tongue, ‘she who puts up with a lot.’ I had 8 brothers and 5 sisters, who I won’t name as that joke has already hit bottom.

Anyway, one morning we all piled into the family pickup and went hunting. Having opposable thumbs, I was driving, while Dad was in the passenger seat, hanging his head out the window. The rest of the family was in back, patiently waiting for their chance to leap out and maul some unsuspecting creature.

After driving around for an hour and finding no game, I stopped so the rest of the family could go walkies. I then happened upon a strange sight. It was a group of bipeds, four in number. I had not seen their kind before, so I stared in awe, as they pointed and jabbered in some strange tongue. I later learned that they were surprised at my appearance and marveled at my noble, yet savage countenance. And the fact that I was wearing pants on my head, but I digress.

Using a trail of stale Peeps, they coaxed me into their vehicle and introduced me to a strange, wondrous new life. In short, they sold me to a circus.

At some point: Part 2!

The Five Stages of –

There was this service that came with my credit card and it cost a certain amount of money each year (around $100). Now, I never used the service, so when they sent me a little note in the mail telling me that I had to call a number or they would automatically charge me for said service, I decided to call and cancel.

NOTE: The service in question was ‘monkey slapping.’ I have never felt a need to slap a monkey and honestly, if I wanted to, I would just find a monkey and slap him. I realize that some people, perhaps the old or disabled, might need someone to slap a monkey for them and if so, then they would be delighted with the service. However, at this point, it was not for me.

I realized from the get go that this would take courage and fortitude. Their phone staff was no doubt trained to keep people from cancelling, possibly with the threat of beatings or repeated viewings of ‘Battle Beyond the Stars,’ the 1980 Star Wars rip-off that starred John Boy from the Waltons.

I called the number and after navigating through the menu, was connected with Marsha, who did her utmost to get me not to cancel. She kept me on the phone for six minutes, as she offered a variety of upgrades and incentives to keep me as a customer. I realized, partway through, that Marsha seemed to be going through the Five Stages of Death – or rather – the Five Stages of Subscription Cancellation.

It went something like this:

Denial
“No,” Marsha insisted. “Don’t you realize the FANTASTIC savings we offer on Monkey Slapping? No one can claim to have a quicker, cheaper, or more efficient Monkey Slapping service. How can you not see this?”

Anger
“How dare you do this to me! After all these years of slapping monkeys! Why, poor Jeff out on the line completely wore the skin off his right hand slapping monkeys! He has to slap them left-handed now! LEFT-HANDED!

Bargaining
“Y’know,” Marsha said. “For the same, low, low price, we can offer Ape Pinching as well. Heck, just for you, I’ll throw in the whole Primate Agitation Package! That’s a $300 value! You get Monkey Slapping, Ape Pinching, and Lemur Strangling! You can’t go wrong!”

Depression
“Fine. Go ahead. They’re already warming up Battle Beyond the Stars again. No, no, don’t worry about me. I’ve already seen it 38 times. That’s not so bad. I mean, the nightmares have finally stopped, but its okay. I guess I don’t need to sleep for the next year or so.”

Acceptance
“You’re account has been cancelled and there will be no further charges. Please think of us for any future Monkey Slapping needs. Thank you and have a nice day .

Ultimately, the service was cancelled and I felt that I had achieved a minor victory. Sure, Marsha was now watching a desperately bad sci-fi flick and possibly screaming and / or being prevented from clawing her eyes out, but I felt okay with that. Weirdly enough, I kinda felt like finding a monkey and slapping it.

Cheers,
-Jason

Combat Chef

Whilst enjoying a slice of birthday cake at work, the discussion turned towards celebrity chefs and the various things they do and eat. It then occurred to me that TV chefs were a lot like nature show hosts, in that they go places, show you things, and then eat them. Well, obviously nature show hosts don’t eat the animals they show you, as that would be far too interesting. It was then that I had yet another fantastic idea for a TV show: Combat Chef.

What are the four most popular types of show on television? Nature shows, food shows, survival shows, and military shows. What if you could combine all four?

NOTE: I have no idea if those are actually the most popular shows. They probably aren’t. However, for the purposes of this blog, let’s pretend.

Combat Chef would go a little something like this:

The host takes us to an exotic location smack dab in the middle of nowhere - Nature show.

The host explains the environment and the local flora and fauna, specifically, which bits are the tastiest – Survival show.

Having done so, the host then hunts down a critter with a spear or similar instrument and fights it to the death. In all fairness, if the critter wins, it gets to eat the host - Military show.

The host then shows you how to prepare the now deceased critter and then eats it (or vice-versa if the critter wins) – Food show.

Combat Chef has something for everyone. There’d be gorgeous vistas, cuddly creatures, horrific violence, and then, a quick lesson on how to prepare a delicious Hollandaise sauce while in the middle of the Sahara desert.

It would combine the thrill of Deadliest Catch, with the kitchen expertise of Rachel Ray, the wilderness skills of Survivorman, and the psychotic killing of any Rambo movie. I cannot see how any network could pass this up.

Granted, they’ve passed on all my other shows, including Clownivore, where clowns are fed to a variety of dangerous animals, but Combat Chef is different: it’s educational.

Cheers,
-Jason

ECC 2010: An After-Action Report

0700
The day began like most others, with a startled gasp followed by a throat-searing scream. At some point, I’ll need to take the stuffed porcupine out of the bed, but that can wait. I showered, shaved, breakfasted, nodded off, and then breakfasted, showered and shaved again. Needless to say, I was full, my face was bleeding, and I was out of shampoo.

0830
I arrived at Leigh’s house and rang the doorbell. He opened the door and hit me with a shovel, as was customary. We then packed his car with all the necessary con goods, which included a tablecloth, three boxes of books, a dolly, three sharpened wooden stakes, a zombie survival kit, 11.5 donuts, and a sock full of quarters. We departed, stopped, came back, Leigh put his pants on, and then we left again.

0915
We arrived at the Seattle Convention Center. I stood watch as Leigh unloaded and we then proceeded into the convention hall. We quickly became lost and were forced to eat some of the donuts to survive. Several nerds, catching the scent of donuts, attempted to make off with them, forcing me to sing ‘My Sharona,’ the Knack’s 1979 #1 hit. It worked and they retreated. Leigh’s now deaf in his right ear, though. A small price to pay for donuts.

0930
We assembled our table fort with a quantity of large couch pillows and then hid inside. To our left was Brittany Lee, an excellent artist and snappy dresser. To our right was Jason Martin of Super Real Graphics. Also in attendance were artists Jason Metcalf, Pepe Melan, Randy Kintz, Quenton Shaw of Creator's Edge Press, and the team from Alaska Robotics, Beth and Maria from ZB Publications, the brother and sister duo of Inanimate Sloth Bear Press, and writer Bill Harms. They formed an impenetrable wall of steel that protected us from the zombie warlord and his horde of undead. At least, we assume they did, as said horde never materialized.

0945-1800
It was all-out battle. Our foamy fort proved inadequate to stave off the legions of comic fans and we were eventually forced to interact with them. Leah, our colorist and medic, arrived mid-morning, providing us with much needed reinforcements. We formed a ragged line, with Leah and myself at the fore, where we fended off the frontal attacks. Leigh guarded our rear, furiously drawing pictures of voluptuous super heroines. Lunch was eaten. Blood was spilled. I sneezed. Twice. We survived, broken and bloody, nearly donutless, the detritus of battle strewn around us like so many empty water bottles.

1800-?
We retreated to the safety of a restaurant with what remained of our stalwart companions. Ale flowed like some sort of liquid, as we recounted the deeds of the day. We drank. We feasted. We were locked out of the parking garage and had to figure out how to get to our cars. It was a good evening.

Sunday came. It was just like Saturday, so reread up to this line and then skip it. Otherwise, you’ll be locked in an eternal loop, never to emerge.

In the end, despite the blood, the singing, and the inarticulate screams of pain, it was all worth it. We forged bonds that weekend. Bonds of friendship. Bonds of blood. Bonds that smelled faintly of athletes foot spray. Bonds that will never be broken. Unless of course, sufficient money is offered, in which case, all bets are off.

We will return to those Emerald Halls. We must. We owe it to those who came before us and to those that never left, possibly because they’re still locked out of the garage. It is our destiny.

Cheers,
-Jason

Another Friday!

Once again, it is that time of the week. The weekend approaches and as much as I love my job, I'm always happy to get a couple days off, though I will be at the Emerald City ComiCon all weekend, working booth B-19 with Leigh and Leah. Their names are just a weird coincidence, trust me.

It has been a busy, busy week for us here at Single Edge Studios. We've been getting ready for Con season, writing scripts, and getting our first trade paperback together. It'll contain our first six issues as well as . . . drum roll please . . . additional content! Yes, we've been at forges, hammering out new, exclusive content for our first trade. We hope you'll like it when it finally comes out (hopefully, for the San Diego Comic Con).

Anyway, have a good weekend and if you can, come see us at Emerald City!

Cheers,
-Jason

Manly Affection: Part 2

My brothers were my rough introduction to the world of manly etiquette. They, along with my older sister, continually teased, mocked, abused, and tortured me. As I grew up, I realized that their constant, often savage cruelties were really a primer on the multi-faceted, almost labyrinthine world of manly affection.

My sister, though, was just being mean.

NOTE: I was asked how come I needed therapy to get over the ‘pillow’ incident and yet I saw verbal abuse as affectionate. The answer is simple: I did not get the therapy because of the pillow throwing, but because I developed a deep, almost paralyzing fear of couches.

We men are complex creatures. To the casual observer, we might be considered simple or even bestial, as we’re often unable to dress ourselves and insist on clubbing our food before we eat it, even the TV dinners. Yet this uncouth, barbaric exterior belies a delicate, sensitive inner world full of rainbows, puppies, bacon, and poetry about boobs. This dichotomy is central to our manly persona, as we are taught that the world is a rough, terrible place full of snakes and couches and that we must present a tough exterior and keep our feelings buried deep, deep inside ourselves, like little emotional miners trapped in a cave in with no hope of rescue.

Thus, the only way to show affection to another male is to invert it and replace it with base insults. Here’s a typical exchange:

Bob: “Jeez, Frank. Did something crawl up your butt and die?”

Frank: “Nah, I just figured you were more at home someplace that smelled like an outhouse.”

Bob: “Actually, I was more at home last night with your wife.”

Frank: “She’s in Florida with her sister. That was the dog.”

To the casual onlooker, it would seem like these two men were bitter enemies, when in reality, they’re the best of friends. It all becomes clear if you know what the exchange meant, rather than what was said:

Bob: “My heart is heavy, noble friend, for it seems that all the injustices of this bitter globe have been heaped upon me.”

Frank: “I weep for thee, my bosom companion. Were it in my power, I would put steel to thy ills, so they could trouble thee no more.”

Bob: “Thou art indeed a true friend and ally, good sir Frank. Merely the sound of thy voice gives me enough strength to lift the heaviest of burdens.”

Frank: “If only I could do more, my brother. Thy pain is great, but thou need’st only say one word, and to thy side I will spring, like a hart across the glen.”

Bob: “I am filled with hope, my fellow in arms. Let us away then, to the theatre, where comely lasses do gyrate upon stanchions of brass in a provocative fashion.”

Frank: “Lead on, gentle Bob. Lead on.”

As you can clearly see, on the surface, Bob and Frank are openly hostile, yet this masks an inner respect and deep, abiding friendship. The exchange of insults is not a crude display of dominance or the remnants of a pack mentality, but a delicate dance of feeling and empathy, masked in fart jokes and gutter humor.

So, next time you hear two men calling each other names, listen past the jibes and insults and instead, appreciate the subtle nuances of emotional attachment that are being woven between them. Unless, of course, it comes to blows, in which case yeah, it was just a pissing contest.

Cheers,
-Jason

I'm a Jerk

I said that the next installment of Manly Affections would be ready tonight, but I lied. I had a very long day at work and after sitting in front of the computer for 30 minutes with my mouth open and not a thought in my head, I decided to call the game on account of vapidity.

I'll get the second part up tomorrow, with another brand-new, hitherto unseen blog following the day after. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to vomit very small, yet weighty cast-iron sculptures of cacti. Research has revealed that death would be preferable, so you can tell I’m serious.

So, until then,

Cheers,
-Jason

My Computer Hates Me

My computer at work has decided, for no readily apparent reason, that it won't do something I need it to do. It runs 99% of the things I ask it to do fine, but the 1% I absolutely needed today, it refused to do. I had four people at one point poking it and trying to figure out why it wouldn't run that 1%, but so far no dice.

Tomorrow, I may just have to bring in the pitchforks and torches and go medieval mob on its silicone butt. Of course, it'll probabaly work fine, for the same unfathomable reason it didn't work today.

At any rate: here is the second to last reminder to come see us at the Emerald City Comicon! We're at booth B-19, just look for the two nerds with the comics.

Yes, I've used the 'two nerds with the comics' line before. It amuses me.

Cheers,
-Jason

Manly Affection: Part 1

I was over at a friend’s house the other night, watching some movies. There was a couple in attendance as well, making it a total of three guys and a girl. As the evening continued, the men began to insult each other with increasing vehemence. And then we’d laugh.

NOTE: This is actually a lie. We pretty much insulted each other from the get-go.
The woman eventually raised her hand during a lull in the torrent of abuse and said “Why are you guys so mean to each other?”

The three of us blinked and we looked from one to the other. “’cause we’re guys?” one of us eventually said.

“But you’re all friends,” she protested. “Why do you always insult each other?”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly understanding her point. “That’s how we demonstrate friendship!”

“Huh?” was her response.

I then realized that some women, especially those who haven’t grown up with brothers, may not understand the complex and elegant patterns of male bonding. Every ‘butthead’ is an affirmation of brotherhood. Every ‘ugly hooker’ joke is a ritual designed to weave a delicate web of understanding.

However, every ‘you’re hung like a Chihuahua’ is just us being crude.
Here then is a guide.

In a nutshell: Guys insult each other because that’s how we show affection.

Seriously.

For whatever reason, be it testosterone, primitive hunting rituals, or simply the fact that we’re emotionally stunted man-children, men can’t express affection or friendship the way women do. So we substitute abuse for affection.

For example, I have two older brothers. I haven’t said a civil word to either of them since I was five. This, coincidentally, coincided with the time when they decided to tie me to the couch with a length of rope and then threw pillows at me as I ran in circles, crying.

They maintain that I enjoyed it. Many years of therapy suggest I didn’t, but I digress.

Next Wednesday: Part 2

Getting Old Ungracefully

Last Saturday, I had what could euphemistically be called a ‘senior moment.’ I was in a local retailer, picking up a prescription and a bag of butterscotch hard candies. I went up front to the cashier, ‘Susan’ according to her nametag and all of maybe twenty-years-old, and produced my credit card. She gestured towards a little blue machine on the edge of the counter.

I smiled, in what I hoped was a good-natured fashion. “I’m used to just handing my card to the cashier.”

Susan nodded. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

I swiped the card, no problem. However, when the menu came up, I was at a complete loss. I stood there for a moment, staring at the screen, wondering which button I was supposed to push. The text could have been hieroglyphics for all I could tell. This must have taken a few seconds, as Susan suddenly spoke.

“Push the ‘Enter’ button,” she said.

I did so. Strange symbols flashed across the screen. I realized I was growing increasingly anxious. My world had focused on this one particular thing and I was at a loss to understand what was going on. I fought the urge to say ‘stupid machine!’ while waving a cane.

“Push the ‘Okay’ button,” Susan suggested.

I pushed it. There was a beep and a receipt started to spit out.

I smiled weakly at her. “I’m not familiar with this model,” I said, hoping to suggest that there were other models that I could use efficiently, like some sort of credit-card automaton.

She nodded. “Some of our older customers have a problem with those.”

I started to nod in agreement, but then realized that to her, I was one of those ‘older customers.’ I was, quite literally, old enough to be her father. I decided, right then and there, that this would not do. I was not old. I was young, hip, and quite possibly, cool.

And then I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, Susan was asking if I was okay and I was drooling. I assured her that I was fine and set out. I was not old. I would not go gently into that good night. And I would prove it. All I needed were some parachute pants and a piece of cardboard to do some break dancing.

Cheers,
-Jason