It’s the middle of Sunday night and I’m craving . . . something. I dunno, it’s just one of those weird things you get from time to time, when you want a particular food, but can’t quite figure out what it is.
I’ve tried everything in my kitchen (mustard, cheese, 3 Musketeers bar, gum, diet root beer, and the bit of the apple that wasn’t moldy) and I still have this craving. I could go to the store and buy more food, but I know I’d just end up with a gallon of chocolate ice-cream and then I’d eat it and still probably not be satisfied.
NOTE: I originally typed a ‘galloon’ of ice-cream, which sounds like it really ought to be a measurement. Like ten gallons makes a galloon. Wait, gallons are on the Imperial system, so it couldn’t be something simple like ten. It would need to be pointlessly complicated like eleven and a half gallons and an egg makes a galloon.
This is just really irritating. I desperately want to eat something specific, but my body can’t figure out how to tell me what it is. I also have this weird sore on my calf. It’s kinda itchy. I have no idea where I got it, though I was at a park today, so it’s possible some critter ran up, bit me on the lower leg, and then scampered away without me noticing.
Okay, so no, that’s not very likely, even for me. It also looks like the sore is getting bigger. It doesn’t hurt. In fact, I wouldn’t have noticed it save for the fact that a chunk of my leg actually fell off. I duct taped it back on, but it didn’t really seem to help.
So, here I am, desperately hungry for something, bits of me falling off, and I’m just kinda shambling around the apartment, occasionally bumping into things.
Oh crap. I think I’m turning into a zombie.
It makes sense. I want to eat something, possibly brains, bits of me are falling off, and I’m slow and rather clumsy. Well, in all honesty, I’m slow and clumsy anyway.
First off, please allow me to apologize for my coming rampage of destruction. I realize that I may be responsible for the destruction of the human race and civilization as we know it, so sorry for that as well.
Though, just to be on the safe side, please don’t shoot me in the head until you’re certain I’ve turned into a zombie and I just don’t have a weird craving for broccoli or something. To do this, ask me (from a safe distance) why I hate reality shows. If I start frothing and making semi-coherent sentences, I’m fine (seriously). If I don’t respond or reply that I love reality shows and that you should come closer, feel free to open fire.
Though, please don’t do this before 11:00 am. I’m really not coherent until then.
Brai . . . errr . . . Cheers,
-Jason
Monday, June 13, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Iron-On Numbers
A quick note before I start the blog today: a reader from Europe was disappointed that we were not yet being distributed overseas. This is unfortunately true, but those of you across the pond can order the book through our publisher, Creator’s Edge Press.
Also, we would love to be distributed in Europe and Asia, so if you happen to be employed at a publishing house outside the US, let us know and we’ll happily discuss the issue. We’ll be even happier to discuss it if you fly us over for a week or two and pay for our hotel. Hint, hint.
Hope that helps.
And now, on to the blog.
I was in the mall the other day, purchasing comic books, shoe laces, and fried chicken, when I noticed a family walking by. The kids were wearing soccer uniforms, so presumably they were either on their way to or from a game. Though, granted, this is assuming a lot. I mean, I don’t know, maybe the kids hated soccer and were being forced to wear the uniforms as some sort of punishment. Or maybe they were going to some sort of soccer themed party. It’s also possible that they were part of a government assassination squad and their cleats were covered in a deadly neurotoxin made from komodo saliva and ground up Madonna LPs.
But I digress.
Anyway, the kids were wearing full, professional-style soccer uniforms. They had jerseys, those really high socks, and fancy shin guards. Even their shoes matched. I’m assuming this was not a fluke, as both of the kids were dressed identically.
They looked exactly like professional soccer players, save that they were very short and one of them was picking his nose.
NOTE: As far as I know, professional soccer players don’t pick their noses in public. I could be wrong. I am also assuming certain things about the average height of professional soccer players.
Here’s the thing. When I was but a lad, I played Youth Soccer. All the schools in the area had a team and we played each other. I assume there was some sort of trophy for the winner, but I have no idea, seeing as our team always sucked.
Anyway, our uniforms consisted of t-shirts with a number ironed onto the back. Everything else was pretty much left up to us. Half of us didn’t have cleats and the other half didn’t have shin guards, which meant that there was a lot of falling down and writhing in agony, often at the same time.
And the thing was nobody else had anything better. A game consisted of two large mobs of children lunging around the field after the ball, occasionally screaming with delight and/or pain. The ball would bounce along, two sets of kids would converge on it. There would be a frenzy of action and the ball would bounce away. The players would pursue, occasionally leaving a child or two crying on the grass behind them. This, as far as we knew, was normal.
So, half of me is jealous that kids nowadays get all this cool equipment. The other half wonders ‘they’re kids, do they really need all that equipment?’
Yeah, I’m old (and bitter).
It’s just that I think we did pretty well without. Sure, there were some minor injuries and I never did find that tooth, but it was all good. We played (badly) and then we went and had pizza and fought over the Space Invaders game. The uniforms just make it all seem so serious.
At this point, I should probably say something pithy about just letting kids have fun, but honestly, we would have wanted all that cool gear too. While I’m at it, we would have loved to have won a game occasionally as well. I, personally, would have preferred not to get kicked in the face so much (I played goalie). But pretty much, we didn’t care. Soccer would be over in a couple of months and then we’d play Youth Basketball.
And yes, our uniforms were t-shirts with iron-on numbers.
Cheers,
-Jason
Also, we would love to be distributed in Europe and Asia, so if you happen to be employed at a publishing house outside the US, let us know and we’ll happily discuss the issue. We’ll be even happier to discuss it if you fly us over for a week or two and pay for our hotel. Hint, hint.
Hope that helps.
And now, on to the blog.
I was in the mall the other day, purchasing comic books, shoe laces, and fried chicken, when I noticed a family walking by. The kids were wearing soccer uniforms, so presumably they were either on their way to or from a game. Though, granted, this is assuming a lot. I mean, I don’t know, maybe the kids hated soccer and were being forced to wear the uniforms as some sort of punishment. Or maybe they were going to some sort of soccer themed party. It’s also possible that they were part of a government assassination squad and their cleats were covered in a deadly neurotoxin made from komodo saliva and ground up Madonna LPs.
But I digress.
Anyway, the kids were wearing full, professional-style soccer uniforms. They had jerseys, those really high socks, and fancy shin guards. Even their shoes matched. I’m assuming this was not a fluke, as both of the kids were dressed identically.
They looked exactly like professional soccer players, save that they were very short and one of them was picking his nose.
NOTE: As far as I know, professional soccer players don’t pick their noses in public. I could be wrong. I am also assuming certain things about the average height of professional soccer players.
Here’s the thing. When I was but a lad, I played Youth Soccer. All the schools in the area had a team and we played each other. I assume there was some sort of trophy for the winner, but I have no idea, seeing as our team always sucked.
Anyway, our uniforms consisted of t-shirts with a number ironed onto the back. Everything else was pretty much left up to us. Half of us didn’t have cleats and the other half didn’t have shin guards, which meant that there was a lot of falling down and writhing in agony, often at the same time.
And the thing was nobody else had anything better. A game consisted of two large mobs of children lunging around the field after the ball, occasionally screaming with delight and/or pain. The ball would bounce along, two sets of kids would converge on it. There would be a frenzy of action and the ball would bounce away. The players would pursue, occasionally leaving a child or two crying on the grass behind them. This, as far as we knew, was normal.
So, half of me is jealous that kids nowadays get all this cool equipment. The other half wonders ‘they’re kids, do they really need all that equipment?’
Yeah, I’m old (and bitter).
It’s just that I think we did pretty well without. Sure, there were some minor injuries and I never did find that tooth, but it was all good. We played (badly) and then we went and had pizza and fought over the Space Invaders game. The uniforms just make it all seem so serious.
At this point, I should probably say something pithy about just letting kids have fun, but honestly, we would have wanted all that cool gear too. While I’m at it, we would have loved to have won a game occasionally as well. I, personally, would have preferred not to get kicked in the face so much (I played goalie). But pretty much, we didn’t care. Soccer would be over in a couple of months and then we’d play Youth Basketball.
And yes, our uniforms were t-shirts with iron-on numbers.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
A Couple Things
I was going to start this with ‘Good News, Everyone,’ but I’ve already done that at least once.
Heck with it.
Good news, everyone!
The June Diamond Preview Catalog is out and Wayfarer’s Moon: The Road from Southfield is on page 259! We’re also on the Diamond website!
So, now is the time to rush to your local comic book dealer and demand that they order at least 10 copies of our trade. If they refuse, start crying. Just let go, right there in the middle of the shop and keep going until they promise to order the book. Or until you get kicked out, in which case you have our permission to start picketing.
NOTE: Single Edge Studios does not condone any such actions and will not be held liable for any damages, complaints, hickeys, or any other condition that may arise from doing what we suggest.
And that’s just the first bit of good news.
We also just got a great review at Giant Fire Breathing Robot, your stop for quality reviews for anime, movies, games, and other nerdly things, as well as giant, fire-breathing robots. Though, in all honesty, I could not find the page on the site where one could order a giant, fire-breathing robot.
I would even go for a small, minty-breathed robot, but they didn’t have those either.
At any rate, we’re very excited about all of this and we expect to see news reports about people weeping in comic shops by next week, at the latest.
Cheers,
-Jason
Heck with it.
Good news, everyone!
The June Diamond Preview Catalog is out and Wayfarer’s Moon: The Road from Southfield is on page 259! We’re also on the Diamond website!
So, now is the time to rush to your local comic book dealer and demand that they order at least 10 copies of our trade. If they refuse, start crying. Just let go, right there in the middle of the shop and keep going until they promise to order the book. Or until you get kicked out, in which case you have our permission to start picketing.
NOTE: Single Edge Studios does not condone any such actions and will not be held liable for any damages, complaints, hickeys, or any other condition that may arise from doing what we suggest.
And that’s just the first bit of good news.
We also just got a great review at Giant Fire Breathing Robot, your stop for quality reviews for anime, movies, games, and other nerdly things, as well as giant, fire-breathing robots. Though, in all honesty, I could not find the page on the site where one could order a giant, fire-breathing robot.
I would even go for a small, minty-breathed robot, but they didn’t have those either.
At any rate, we’re very excited about all of this and we expect to see news reports about people weeping in comic shops by next week, at the latest.
Cheers,
-Jason
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