Single Edge Studios Blog

The Best Side: Part 4

2012-01-31T21:39:00.000-08:00

It was my turn to pause. “No,” I finally said. “I honestly never thought about it.”

“And back to stupid,” the Dame said, letting go of my arm. “I have information. You have a strange, almost Buster Keaton-ish ability to survive. If you can protect me until the war ends, I’ll tell you why the ninjas have been after you all these years.

I eased back down into the chair, keeping my left leg out straight to the side. “Give me a hint.”

She nodded and after a quick glance around, leaned forward. “Fresno,” she said quietly, barely above a whisper.

“Fresno,” I said, in one long breath. The world slowed and faded. A petite girl in black was looking over her shoulder at me. There was a hat made of paper. I staggered away from a field, my vision blurring as I looked down at my red stained hands. A grape was squashed in slow motion. In the distance, a cow farted.

A sudden shock of cold brought me back to Iggy’s. The Dame had an empty water glass and I was soaking wet, ice-cubes in my lap.

“I really, really hate flashbacks,” she said.

“Well,” I said, as I flicked ice-cubes off my trousers, “at least you didn’t shoot me this time.”

“I didn’t want to cripple your other leg.”

“Oh, my leg’s fine.”

“Then why are you walking like a geriatric peanut salesman?”

“It’s a secret,” I said. “And I completely don’t get the analogy.”

She shrugged. “Lots of shells. So, do we have a deal?”

“I don’t know. Fre- that place has a lot of ghosts. And raisins,” I added. “Besides, despite my ability to survive, we may not last the next ten minutes.”

“Why is that?”

“The ninjas are finished and the mimes are pretending to sharpen knives. Once everyone goes potty, it’s going to get dangerous.”

The Dame glanced around. The lone waitress was nowhere to be seen, though a small bucket of dead flies had been left behind. The doves started to fly back out of the kitchen, then realized that they were early and flew back in.

“There’s only seven of them,” she said. “Hell, we could just let them fight it out and then shoot the winners.”

“Not a bad plan,” I replied. “Except that there’s about 30 ninjas outside hiding in the shrubbery and about the same number of mimes in a tour bus out front.”

“And how do you know this?”

I tapped my head. “Sometimes clever, remember? My dad told me to never go into a buffet without a good recon.”

The Dame took a deep breath. “So we’re boned,” she said. “Guess I could’ve kept smoking after all.”

“Not necessarily.”

She frowned at me and I tapped my left leg. There was a metallic ‘ping.’

“I’ve got a secret.”

Next: Part 5

The Best Side: Part 3

2012-01-24T21:58:00.000-08:00

The Dame tapped her fingers on the faux plastic tabletop. “Like I said, either very clever or really stupid.”

“So, what do you want?” I asked.

At the buffet, the two men paused at the pizza counter, both reaching for the last slice of Hawaiian. The taller of the two grabbed at the slice, but the shorter man deftly snaked it from him. However, before he could get it onto his plate, the other man knocked the slice into the air, intent on catching it with his other hand. Yet the shorter man ricocheted it away with a slice of vegetarian.

This strange ballet continued for several minutes, as the two men whirled and spun around the pizza bar, neither able to grab the slice for themselves as the other always countered. Neither made a sound, though their actions were scored by a light jazz ensemble that just happened by.

Unfortunately, I missed all of this, as I was intent on the Dame. She sighed. “I need your help.”

“Why? You’ve got connections with the clowns.”

“That’s just it,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “They’re losing.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “Normally, they wouldn’t have a problem with the mimes and ninjas, but there was an attempted coup. The Mountebank turned on the Harlequin and a surprising number of clowns followed him.”

“Whoa,” I said, raising a hand. “Who’s the Mountebank?”

The pizza ballet ended then, as another Hawaiian pie was added to the pizza bar. The two men, both panting, stared first at it and then at each other. Then, the shorter of the two, with a slight bow, indicated that the other should go first. The taller man slid two pieces onto a plate, then offered it to the other, who accepted with another bow. They parted, each flipping a few dollars into the jazz ensemble’s open guitar case.

“Traditionally, he’s the clown’s enforcer, but he decided he wanted the mask himself and took a shot at the top. The clowns are in chaos. They don’t know which way the pie’s pointing and as a result, the mimes and ninjas are having a field day.”

“Ah, that would explain it.”

“Explain what?”

I nodded towards the far corner. “Those are mimes and the guys on the other side are ninjas.”

The Dame froze and the barely audible click of a gun cocking was heard under the table. This was followed by a duck’s quack from the kitchen. It is unlikely the two are related. “How do you know?”

“Well, the mimes have been eating invisible food the whole time and one of the ninjas is using chopsticks on his mashed potatoes.”

“I guess you are very clever,” she finally said.

“And you led them to me,” I pointed out. “I was just beginning to unwind,” I continued. “I haven’t found a cobra in my bed in ages and the only mail bombs I get are the ones I send myself.”

“Why would you send yourself a mail bomb?”

“For the same reason I floss between my toes.”

The Dame stared at me. “I’m not going to bother asking.”

“Good.” I stood up stiffly. “So thanks for nothing. I’ll be on my way now.”

“Wait!” The Dame reached across the table and grabbed my arm.

“Do you know what happened to the last woman who touched me?”

“No.”

“Me neither. We were supposed to meet in the food court at 7, but she never showed. I’ve always wondered about that.”

The Dame rolled her eyes. “Let’s leave your hygiene out of this. I’ve got information. If you can help me, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Like what? And if it’s where my remote is, don’t worry about it.”

She shook her head. “Would you like to know why the ninjas are after you?”

Next: Part 4

The Best Side: Part 2

2012-01-17T21:48:00.000-08:00

The Dame glanced around. “I’m not familiar with John Woo movies.”

“Have you ever leapt sideways in slow-motion while firing two pistols?”

“No. Would it help if I had?”

“Actually, yes.” I took a deep breath, which was a mistake as the air tasted like bad pizza. “John Woo movies are usually about two men on opposite sides of a struggle who earn each other’s respect and friendship. Oh, and they just happen to be absolute baddasses.” I nodded towards the kitchen, where the sound of doves pooping could be heard. “Slow motion doves are one of his trademarks.”

“I see.” The Dame fished around in her pocket and took out three screwdrivers, a socket wrench and a baggie of cubed ice, before finding a crushed pack of cigarettes.

“I thought you were quitting,” I asked, as she pulled one out.

“I am.” The cigarette trembled slightly as she raised it to her lips. She sighed. “Do you have a light?”

I pulled a rather nice desk lamp from my coat and set it on the table.

“Funny.”

“Not terribly,” I said, as I reached over and plucked the cigarette away. “Now,” I began, as I tossed the cigarette over my shoulder, not noticing that it stuck in the wall. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on.”

She looked away. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not your usual self. And,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “there’s this.” I slapped the note onto the table, inadvertently flipping a spoon across the room. I didn’t notice the looks the other patrons gave me, as the spoon clattered and rattled on the tile floor.

She leaned forward and looked at the note. “A parking lot receipt from 1989?”

“Turn it around.”

“Now it looks like a pirate knitting.”

I looked down and turned the note towards me. It did look like a pirate knitting. “Wrong note,” I said, this time checking before I slammed down a pink post-it note.

“That’s the note that was on your computer monitor.”

“And what’s wrong with it?”

The Dame shrugged. One of the men from behind us got up and walked past towards the buffet. He made no noise. Simultaneously, one of the men from the other group also rose and headed towards the buffet. He also made no sound.

“There’s no harlequin picture,” I said, leaning back with a smile. “This isn’t official clown business.”

Next: Part 3

The Best Side: Part 1

2012-01-10T21:53:00.000-08:00

It began with a note.

Iggy’s Buffet was strangely empty for 1:24 in the afternoon. A couple ceiling fans spun slowly as a strangely upbeat accordion version of Chopin’s Funeral March played throughout the dining room. There were a dozen booths and twice that many tables, with three buffet bars opposite the entrance. A lone waitress leaned against the wall by the salad bar, idly killing flies with a cricket bat.

“Nice place,” I said, as I slid stiffly into the chair opposite the Dame. “Orange and pink wouldn’t be my first choice for a color scheme, but I think it works.”

“What happened to your leg?” she asked. She was dressed in a dark blue business suit with big shoulder pads, her dark haired pulled back in a bun. I was wearing a full suit with a tie because it was laundry day.

“You shot me, remember?” She shrugged. “Where’s the cigarette?”

The Dame leaned back, staring down her nose at me. “There’s no smoking in here.”

“As if that would stop you.”

She looked away. “Trying to quit.”

“That doesn’t really work with the whole film noir theme we have.”

“I could shoot you again, if you like.”

“No thanks.”

We sat in silence for a moment. There were only two other groups there. A trio of men eating in the far corner and four others eating in the opposite corner. We were smack dab in the middle of an orange and pink themed game of Tic-Tac-Toe. The Funeral March ended, only to be replaced by the Macarena done in Hebrew. It wasn’t bad.

“So,” she finally said, after taking a sip of water. “What took you so long?”

“What do you mean? The note said ‘Iggy’s at 1:20.’”

“The note was put there two days ago.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” The Dame leaned forward and poked my arm with a finger. “How the hell did you miss it?”

“Well,” I began, shifting slightly. “It’s wasn’t a very big note.”

“It was in the middle of your computer monitor!”

“Which explained why I was sucking so hard at Minesweeper.”

“I can’t decide,” she finally said. “If you’re very, very clever or just really, really stupid.”

“Can I be both?”

She glared at me and then relaxed. “You did do an amazing job of disappearing. It took almost a year to find you.”

“You didn’t notice the U-Haul truck? The one that I put all my stuff in and then drove away?”

“We thought that was a distraction.”

A small group of doves fly silently by in slow motion as the waitress dropped a glass. The plastic mug bounced twice, a drop of water spraying from the lip. The doves, stark white against the orange and pink, flew into the kitchen.

“Crap,” I said.

“What? I haven’t shot you yet.”

“No, it’s just that I think we’re in a John Woo movie.”

Next: Part 2

Peanut Butter Logs

2011-12-06T22:25:00.000-08:00

Seriously.

Okay, this one will take some back story. I don’t sleep well and getting up in the morning is a Sisyphean task. If, y’know, instead of rolling boulder up a hill, Sisyphus had to get out of bed. Maybe monkeys would throw him back in and he really has to pee or something. He could, of course, just pee in the bed, but then that would be gross and yeah.

So, bad analogy.

Anyway, I hate getting up in the morning. I put it off as long as humanely possible, which generally means that I have roughly 3.5 minutes to get ready in the morning. I can bathe and dress in 3.4 minutes, so no worries. Granted, I sometimes dress and then bathe, but if you show up at work soaking wet often enough, people stop caring.
However, in an effort to eat better, I’ve been taking my lunch. This means I only have approximately .1 minutes to make three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Yes, deep down, I’m still ten.

NOTE: Natural peanut butter and low-calorie jelly, so it’s more-or-less healthy. I do use white bread, but that’s only because wheat tastes like dirt and the 13 (whatever number)-grain breads taste like dirt with rocks in it. Honestly, I cannot stand the taste. They literally make me gag.

Anyway, there I was this morning, soaking wet and trying to get the peanut butter to spread on the bread without reducing it to ribbons in the 12-seconds I have before I have to get out the door. And I then have yet another brilliant idea.

Peanut butter logs.

It’s a square log of peanut butter just smaller than a piece of bread and wrapped like a cube of butter. You take it out of the fridge, unwrap it, cut off a slice and just drop it onto the bread. There’s no spreading, no bread mangling, and no sticking your hand in a jar to get the last bit, getting stuck and ending up going to work soaking wet and with a jar stuck on your hand.

Plus, its hell trying to shift with a jar stuck on your hand (I had to learn to shift with my teeth).

It’s an idea so simple it took an idiot or a genius to think of it. I will let you decide which one I am.

Please forget that I have shown up at work soaking wet with a jar stuck on my hand when making that estimation.

Cheers,
-Jason

Pillow Fluffing: OF DOOM!

2011-11-09T22:32:00.000-08:00

I don’t want to be a downer, but I haven’t been doing too great lately. I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m tired and listless and just don’t have any energy. It’s gotten to the point where I even dread coming home.

You see, my apartment is haunted.

No, seriously.

About twice a week, my TV will turn on when I enter the room. Sometimes, my phone will also click on when I walk by. There’s a vague, lemony smell in the kitchen (and no, I haven’t cleaned or mistaken the Lysol for juice again) and I swear the whole place has been dusted and obviously, I didn’t do that. I’m even pretty sure that at one point, the toilet paper roll was changed. And I don’t even have any.

It’s like I have an invisible, incredibly considerate roommate and it’s driving me nuts.

Now, I realize this sounds like a dream come true. Who wouldn’t want an incorporeal butler? Yet here’s the problem: I have an entire trunk full of undead fighting equipment that I can’t bring myself to use.

I’ve got Bibles, crosses, stakes, garlic, silver bullets, lead bullets, Shinto sacred rope, a recording of the tiny woman from Poltergeist saying ‘this house is clean,’ a blessed shovel, brass knuckles, a little electronic doohickey that makes ‘bleep’ noises so I can pretend I’m a Ghostbuster, three small-ish band-aids, a leg from a chair Sarah Michelle Geller once sat on, a mirror, a ten-foot pole, a magic 8-ball, and a plastic sword that screams when you push a button on the handle.

In short, I am prepared to fight anything from vampires (both regular and sparkly) to werewolves to poltergeists and I can’t do it. It would be like slugging a little old lady for making you tea. I have literally been itching to fight a ghost for as long as I can remember and when I finally find one, it turns out to be very pleasant.

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s fluffing my pillow right now.

Screaming heads in the fridge I could handle. Knick-knacks flying off shelves? No worries. Voices cursing at me in Latin? Whatever. Blood dripping down the walls and flies everywhere? Pshaw, I do that myself.

NOTE: Yes, I do sometimes realize why I’m still single.

So, yeah. I’m prepared for a battle to the death with the forces of evil and I get a consideration and not having to turn on the TV.

Sigh. I kinda miss the ninjas.

Cheers,
-Jason

Yak Herding: A Career for Everyone

2011-11-01T21:44:00.000-07:00

The other evening I was home polishing my collection of antique, woolen undergarments (yes, they’re very old) when someone knocked at my door. Now, this has happened a couple times since I moved. Usually it’s a neighbor wanting to introduce him or herself or politely ask if I could please stop putting zombie heads in the recycle bin.

NOTE: If zombies aren’t recyclable, then I don’t know what is. Seriously, the bin says ‘All recyclables except for glass.’ Ergo, zombie heads go in there. If it was a glass zombie head, obviously it would not.

I opened the door and dropped the antique woolen thong I was holding, which clanged ominously on the tile.

It was a ninja.

I thought fast. He had a sack of some kind and was raising it towards me. I didn’t know what was in it, mayhap sleeping powder or Bob Hope’s remains, but I knew it would be bad. Now, I was in a real pickle. I normally would have had my mace at hand, but it was in the shop (Bob’s Macery and Bludgetorium, tell them I sent you).

So I grabbed the nearest thing at hand: a sock filled with dried hedgehog poop (long story) and commenced to smite.

Strangely enough, the ninja screamed and started to run away. I thought this was a touch unusual, but I took advantage of the situation to chase him down the street, thwacking him as I went. The running was helping, by-the-by, as I easily kept up.
It was then that the situation got strange. The ninjas ran up to a woman and began crying. Said woman, whom I gathered to be the ninja’s mother, seemed upset which was completely understandable.

I calmed her down and showed her my official Ninja Fighting ID. I then explained to her that ninjitsu, if caught early, was perfectly curable. All she had to do was throw away all her son’s ninja gear and if she caught him with any more, just to administer several solid whacks with a rolled-up newspaper while saying ‘No!’ in a firm voice.

She kept insisting that it was just a costume, but I reiterated that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Many young men become enamored with the ninja lifestyle and seek the path of the shinobi. However, with firm guidance and a ready supply of rolled-up newspapers, her son could be turned to more socially acceptable professions, like necromancy or yak herding. I even gave her a pamphlet: Yak Herding: A Career for Everyone (yes, I always carry one).

At this point, the woman thanked me and began edging away, dragging her son along with her. It was a good moment. I had turned an impressionable young man away from the shadow arts and given him a new lease on life. I even whistled as I walked back to my apartment, passing two little girls dressed like princesses, a boy in a Captain America outfit, as well as an astronaut and a pirate.

Y’know, on reflection, it’s kind of odd that there were so many kids dressed in costumes. And all of them were carrying bags.

Oh well, at least they weren’t ninjas.

Cheers,
-Jason

Running And/Or Chasing

2011-10-19T22:22:00.001-07:00

Long story short: I’ve taken up running.

. . . .

Okay, that didn’t quite fill up the page the way I’d hoped, so long story long.

NOTE: This all happened before I moved, just in case someone actually read an earlier blog and asks an obvious question.

So, there I was chasing a ninja. The little bastard ambushed me when I was making breakfast (ie, putting cereal in a bowl) and after a brief, but brutal, Captain Crunch-filled exchange, made a run for it. I ended up chasing him through the apartment complex with a box of cereal in one hand and a bust of Scipio Africanus in the other.

Yes, I have a bust of Scipio Africanus in my kitchen.

Needless to say, after about fifty-yards, I was gasping for air and reduced to the occasional rude gesture. The ninja decided to rub it in and run circles around me, doing that weird ‘arms straight back’ run they do and laughing.

Suffice to say I had the last laugh when a car backed into him. I had a last, last laugh when I hit him with the aforementioned bust as he was trying to get up.

Ultimately though, the entire incident was a humbling experience. Not only did a ninja laugh at me, I had been making breakfast while only wearing a pair of what one might call ‘whimsically’ decorated boxers that I’m sure my neighbors appreciated.
I decided then and there that I needed to get into better shape. Not only to catch ninjas, but to at least look decent when I end up in the parking lot at 9:00 am in my underwear and carrying the bust of a celebrated Roman general.

Anyway, I’ve been running for a couple of months now on the treadmills at the gym. I bought some nice running shoes, a pair of shorts and one of those high-tech shirts that somehow eats your sweat (or something). And I can honestly say that running is really, really boring.

Granted, road running might be more interesting, but I don’t want to run in the rain, so I’m reduced to treadmills at the gym. They have little TVs in them, but no speakers, so it’s really hard to read the closed-captioning while bouncing up and down (and gasping and swearing).

The whole trick, I understand, is to learn how to detach your brain and just let your body run. This seems to be harder than it sounds, as I have no trouble detaching my brain at any other time, say in meetings, while driving, pugilism, etc. However, actually trying to detach my brain is proving difficult. If anyone has any fool-proof methods, let me know.

Anyway, I haven’t had a chance to chase any ninjas lately, but hopefully the next time it happens he’ll be eating Roman marble faster than he can say ‘Hannibal.’

Cheers,
-Jason

The Scourge of Man: Part 3

2011-10-11T23:55:00.000-07:00

It is done.

I moved. I spent the better part of last week frantically doing last minute packing. I had reached that point where I really didn’t care where things wound up, just as long as they were in a box, garbage bag, or down the front of my pants.

This necessitated me saying (more than once) ‘why yes, that is a mace in my pants.’
Of course, this is why I keep finding things like underwear in my microwave and live ammunition in a box marked ‘impale with spear.’

NOTE: I marked boxes like that so the ninjas would not hide in them. I then impaled (or sometimes bludgeoned, as per the mace comment above) any box not marked. Any box that screamed or bled was thrown away. Once the boxes were safely in the truck, I tear-gassed the whole load anyway, just to be safe.

Anyway, after a frantic day of moving things into the truck, me, my brother Rick and my best bud Sean all piled into said truck the next morning and drove five hours to my new domicile, where we then unloaded all the boxes we just put in.

And then we went to Red Robin and ate burgers. We also apologized to the waitress for the constant giggling. We were up at 5 am, drove for 5 hours, and then unloaded a 22-foot truck. We were allowed to giggle.

So, here I am, typing my very first blog in my new apartment, which still doesn’t smell or have blood stains on the ceiling. Both of these conditions will be fixed soon enough. I have also started a new job (Octopus Strangler), but more on that later.

I’ve managed to unpack about 80% of the boxes, which are now piled neatly in the middle of my kitchen. The rest of the boxes are strewn about, as I haven’t quite figured out what to do with the contents. I mean, you don’t just toss a 23-piece collection of Yeti tibias on a counter and call it good. You have to think about these sorts of things. And by consider, I mean stare at a wall with your head slightly tilted until you get a headache and decide to watch TV instead.

And now, for a serious note: a big thanks goes out to Laura aka Longhair, who helped pack the truck. Thanks also goes to my big bro Rick aka Rick and my best bud Sean aka Sir Blue Pants, who made the drive and helped pack and unpack as well.

And another thanks goes out to the crew from Redmond: Leigh, Laura, Sean, Devon, James, Leah, Ugdo, Stan, Eric, Beth, and Doug, who sent me off in style. Fair warning: I will be back.

Cheers,
-Jason

The Scourge of Man: Part 3

2011-10-11T23:48:00.000-07:00

It is done.

I moved. I spent the better part of last week frantically doing last minute packing. I had reached that point where I really didn’t care where things wound up, just as long as they were in a box, garbage bag, or down the front of my pants.

This necessitated me saying (more than once) ‘why yes, that is a mace in my pants.’

Of course, this is why I keep finding things like underwear in my microwave and live ammunition in a box marked ‘impale with spear.’

NOTE: I marked boxes like that so the ninjas would not hide in them. I then impaled (or sometimes bludgeoned, as per the mace comment above) any box not marked. Any box that screamed or bled was thrown away. Once the boxes were safely in the truck, I tear-gassed the whole load anyway, just to be safe.

Anyway, after a frantic day of moving things into the truck, me, my brother Rick and my best bud Sean all piled into said truck the next morning and drove five hours to my new domicile, where we then unloaded all the boxes we just put in.

And then we went to Red Robin and ate burgers. We also apologized to the waitress for the constant giggling. We were up at 5 am, drove for 5 hours, and then unloaded a 22-foot truck. We were allowed to giggle.

So, here I am, typing my very first blog in my new apartment, which still doesn’t smell or have blood stains on the ceiling. Both of these conditions will be fixed soon enough. I have also started a new job (Octopus Strangler), but more on that later.

I’ve managed to unpack about 80% of the boxes, which are now piled neatly in the middle of my kitchen. The rest of the boxes are strewn about, as I haven’t quite figured out what to do with the contents. I mean, you don’t just toss a 23-piece collection of Yeti tibias on a counter and call it good. You have to think about these sorts of things. And by consider, I mean stare at a wall with your head slightly tilted until you get a headache and decide to watch TV instead.

And now, for a serious note: a big thanks goes out to Laura aka Longhair, who helped pack the truck. Thanks also goes to my big bro Rick aka Rick and my best bud Sean aka Sir Blue Pants, who made the drive and helped pack and unpack as well.

And more thanks goes out to the crew from Redmond: Leigh, Laura, Sean, Devon, James, Leah, Ugdo, Stan, Eric, Beth, and Doug, who sent me off in style. Fair warning: I will be back.

Cheers,
-Jason

The Scourge of Man: Part 2

2011-09-27T23:27:00.000-07:00

I did it.

Despite the warnings, the prophecies, and the dire words of the pizza delivery man, I unsealed that which should not be opened. I’m speaking, of course, of my spare room.

It was kind of a let-down. There was no tidal wave of blood or the manic chanting of one hundred and ninety-nine inhuman mouths. Admittedly, the inside-out goat was pretty cool, but otherwise, nada.

Mostly, it was just a lot of boxes. Stacks and stacks of boxes. Think of the scene from the end of Raiders of the Lost Arc where the Arc gets put away in the massive warehouse. My spare room looks like that only much smaller, the boxes are cardboard, and there are old computer parts strewn haphazardly around.

So, I started going through the boxes and discovered that most of the ones on top were empty, which is nice because now I can put other things in them. The rest of the boxes contained either books, comic books, video games, or some of my old toys that I refuse to throw away because I insist that they may be valuable, when in fact, I just want to keep them.

NOTE: While many of my old toys may very well be junk, I do have some cool things like the Enterprise bridge set for the Star Trek Meigo (sp?) doll set from the ‘70s, a really old GI Joe (with uniforms and footlocker box), and the pride of my youth, my Great Mazinga, still in the original box with all of his swords, darts, and spaceship head intact. I also have a blue plastic bat which I once used to ambush my older brothers. In all fairness, they tried to ambush me first.

I spent the better part of a day going through my spare room, checking boxes, emptying ones I could use and restacking the remainder for better structural support. Actually, that’s pretty much a lie. I did spend a day going through my spare room, but that’s because I got distracted reading and/or playing with the various things I found in there.

This, unfortunately, has been a continuous theme in my current moving attempt. I keep finding neat stuff that I haven’t seen in years. This necessitates that I then immediately amuse myself with what I’ve just found, occasionally to the tune of an hour or so per item. At this rate, I calculate that it will take me at least three months to go through my spare room, which is problematic as I have to move in two weeks.

I have also found a few things that I didn’t know I had. I also don’t know why I have them. For example, I found a mannequin arm and what I think is a baboon skull. I don’t recall acquiring either of those at any point in my life. Also, the baboon skull screams when I pick it up.

I’m pretty sure I would recall that particular purchase.

Cheers,
-Jason

The Scourge of Man: Part 1

2011-09-20T22:33:00.000-07:00

So, not to be a downer or anything, but something has happened in my life that has affected me on a personal, political, and above all, palatable (I really wanted three ‘p’ words) scale. I am not unique. This has happened to millions of people and will certainly happen to me again at some point. I speak, of course, of the scourge of moving.

Yes, I will be moving in a couple weeks time and I’ve begun the arduous process of looking at my apartment and saying ‘damn, I gotta lotta stuff’ and thinking about putting it into boxes. No, I haven’t actually packed anything yet, this is still the preliminary stage where I just stare at the piles of crap in my apartment and wonder how many moving vans I’ll need to get it all where it needs to go.

And frankly, my apartment isn’t pretty. In fact, it looks like a warzone. There’re piles of books, broken exercise equipment, bloodstains on the walls, an operating table (now covered in comics) from when I tried to reanimate dead bugs, a sort of shapeless mound in the corner that might be clothes, but may in fact be a ninja just disguised as a pile of clothes (I’ll stab it to make sure), and the thing in the fireplace that screams when I get too near. And that’s just in the living room.

I won’t bother describing the rest of the apartment, as I do try to keep this a PG-13 blog. Let’s just say that the Marine from Doom, an individual who fought his way into Hell so he could shoot a gigantic demon in the kneecaps with a rocket launcher, would probably faint three steps into my bathroom.

And honestly, right now it’s fairly clean (for me).

Now, the actual packing and moving isn’t bad. It’s the other, seven hundred things you have to do that irritate me.

You have to:
Find another apartment
Inform your current apartment you’re leaving
Find a safe place to dump the bodies
Turn off your utilities
Have a combination farewell/bludgeoning party for the ninjas
Turn on your utilities
Get cable
Have your mail forwarded
Figure out why you have a pie plate filled with human teeth on top of your bookshelf

The hardest part is getting your friends to help. Strangely enough, all of mine leapt at the chance to come over and carry stuff. This may because I asked them individually at 4:30 am when they were asleep. I should note that I was wearing a hockey mask and carrying a weed whacker and a plastic dinosaur. Needless to say, they were very enthusiastic.

My next big task will be getting boxes and opening the door to the spare room, a realm no man has seen since 1937. I’ll let you know how that turns out.

Cheers,
-Jason

Please Help

2011-09-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

It started out innocently enough. I was at a friend’s birthday party, blithely drinking sodas and debating the merits of the new Thundercats cartoon (meh), when I noticed something. It was as if a light were suddenly switched on. It had been there all along, glaringly obvious, yet subtle and unobtrusive. I speak of a terrible condition, one that has been striking down my male brethren for years, but sadly, has been pushed aside in favor of more marketable, sexier conditions.

I speak of course, of Male Pattern Calf Baldness.

Oh, it starts innocently enough. You might realize one day that you’ve lost some hair around your ankle or mid-way up your calf. You don’t worry about it. “It’s just the socks,” you say. Maybe one or two of your friends has noticed the same thing. You’ll probably just laugh it off. After all, your dad had it and it never bothered him.

But then you realize that the bald patch is growing. It’s slowly taking over your entire calf, like some creeping, ‘taking over’ thing. And by that point, it’s too late. You’ve succumbed to MPCB and there’s no going back. You’re calves are now as smooth and shiny as a fender on a ’55 Buick.

NOTE: I’m assuming ’55 Buicks had big, shiny fenders. I realize that I could probably look it up on the internet or something, but that would take effort.

By my count, three out of seven men will someday have MPCB. I base this number on sound, scientific methodology, ie, I looked at everyone’s legs at the party. Some men were wearing pants and I couldn’t think of a clever way to check. Offering them a dollar to show me was obviously out of the question, as I didn’t have enough money.

At any rate, MPCB is a terrible, terrible scourge, but I’m sure we can conquer it. Normally, I’d suggest that the government devote massive resources so I can lead a team of scientists/super-models to figure out a cure, but we all know the government’s broke. Therefore, I propose that any available scientists/super-models simply show up at my place this Friday at about 8-ish. Bring lab equipment, bikinis, and snacks.

Anyway, I’m sure that with a few years of continuous study, MPCB can be defeated and men all over the world can proudly show their calves once again.

Oh, and just to be clear, female scientists/super-models (I do appreciate the enthusiasm, Brian).

Cheers,
-Jason

So . . .

2011-08-16T22:02:00.000-07:00

Funny story. Leigh came over to my place the other week. No, that’s not the funny part, though it is unusual. For some reason, most people only visit me once. They come in, look around, ask why there’s a baseball bat with a bloody tooth embedded in it by the door, and then suddenly remember a pressing engagement elsewhere.

Oh, they also then change their phone number and unfriend me on Facebook, but I digress.

Anyway, Leigh has come over multiple times, so I assumed he remembered the ground rules:
1. Don’t look up.
2. Before opening a door, check for tentacles.
3. If attacked by a ninja, remain calm, point at me, and say ‘No, not me. Him,’ in a forceful tone.
4. The freezer may contain things not normally found in freezers. Or this dimension.
5. If you see a sign that says ‘Caution: Eldritch Evil’ near a pit, don’t look into the pit. If the sign says ‘Naked Ninja Girls,’ then still don’t look (it’s a trap for the ninjas). If the sign simply says ‘Pit,’ feel free to look all you want.

At any rate, Leigh came over to help me move my TV, an old model that weighs around 250 pounds, as I was rearranging my living room furniture to cover over some of the more obvious blood stains.

NOTE: Yeah, I really need a steamer.

Things were progressing smoothly. The TV had been removed from its stand and put to one side, my furniture was shuffled, and we were picking the TV up again when I noticed the cobra.

“Oh,” I said. “I’ll need to grab that. You got the TV?”

Now, I’m 99.9% certain that Leigh replied. “Yes, I can hold your TV up by myself. In fact, I find it a rather pleasant.”

Leigh, however, maintains that all he managed to get out was a “Wha-?”

Needless to say, I let go of my end for a split second to toss the cobra back onto the cobra shelf, only to hear a yell from Leigh as he started to drop my TV. I selflessly leapt back to save my TV and help guide it back onto its stand.

Leigh, much to my surprise, then said some very bad words while holding his arm. It seems that while trying to maintain a grip on my TV, he injured the tendons in his right arm a touch and now has to take anti-inflammatory medication and wear a brace for a few weeks.

So, the comic updates may take a little longer than we had originally planned.

In all seriousness, Leigh did injure his arm and it will be a bit longer before we can begin to update again. I have told Leigh that it’s okay to injure his non-drawing arm or legs as much as he likes, but we really need to keep his head/drawing arm healthy.

We will let you know a hard date on the updates once we have them. In the meantime, please enjoy the blogs.

And don’t look in the pit.

Cheers,
-Jason

Rent-An-Uncle

2011-08-10T11:26:00.000-07:00

The other weekend I was invited to the park by my good friends Sean and Devon. They have a 5-year-old son, James and a 1-year-old daughter Leah. So, I spent a merry afternoon playing soccer, throwing a football, running, chasing, throwing Frisbees, playing catch, wrestling, and even occasionally doing all of the above at the same time.

Once the day was done, meaning James was sufficiently tired, we went our separate ways. It then occurred to me, as I was driving to the store to buy food for the week (soda, chips, popcorn, gum, and a banana), that I was a really good uncle.

No, scratch that. I’m a great uncle. In fact, I’m so good at it, I should do it professionally. That’s right: Rent-An-Uncle.

Now, this is not some babysitting service. I don’t care when your kid needs to nap or if they have to eat all their prunes or whatever. At Rent-An-Uncle, we do not care about that sort of thing. We’re here for three reasons:

1. To be able to play until someone vomits
2. To teach them inappropriate language
3. To subtly mess with their heads (ie, telling them boogers are their brains melting)

I am uniquely qualified, in that:

1. I watch all the cartoons (I know who Captain Rex is)
2. I can play any and all games, including all the consoles, outdoor ones, and ones made up on the spot
3. Intellectually speaking, I’m pretty much on their level

NOTE: I will not play Candy Land. This is not a game. It’s more like torture with dice. It’s the only game I’ve played with a niece where after thirty minutes she looked at me and said ‘Do we have to keep playing this?’

Now, obviously, I will respect certain ground rules. If you don’t want me throwing your child into a Pitch Back, let me know so I can do it when you’re not looking.

Also, let me know what level of violence is acceptable, ranging from Simple Roughhousing to Stairs are Indoor Slides to A Little Blood Never Hurt Anyone.

At the end of the day, I’ll hand you back what’s left of your child, you’ll hand me a wad of cash and we’ll part happily.

I think it’s a plan.

Cheers,
-Jason

Is This Thing On?

2011-08-03T21:56:00.000-07:00

Hello? Tap-tap-tap. Is this thing on?

Hi again! First things first: I’m back from my blogging hiatus. Some things happened and I just really needed to take a break. Plus, there was that whole thing about waking up in a monastery in Tibet and being tasked with saving the world from evil.

In all honesty, the world wasn’t in all that much peril (an evil organization was hoarding the world’s supply of red M&Ms), but when a couple dozen monks are begging you to save the world, can you really say ‘no?’

Well, I did, but then one of the monks said that his sister was single and he’d put in a good word, etcetera, yadda-yadda and I end up fighting a shark that’s been tied to a bear on top of a bus in Berlin. It didn’t make the papers, as apparently this is not unusual in Germany.

Anyway, long story short, the crisis was averted and the monk lied about having a sister. They did give me a gift-certificate to Borders for my troubles, but then, we know how that worked out.

And before you ask: we should have a date for updating soon. Leigh’s been working 12 and 14 hour days and just hasn’t had the time to get any pages done. It shouldn’t be too much longer and once we have a firm date, we’ll let you know.

I will be resuming my regular blogs, so check back to enjoy my semi-coherent ramblings about things that generally only happen in my head (at least, last I checked).

Anyway, Leigh and I did do the 2011 San Diego Comicon! We were joined by my brother Rick, who volunteered to come help us out. A head wound may have been involved. I did buy him pretzel dogs, so I guess we’re even.

NOTE: He did introduce me to cinnamon pretzels. I would have never guessed that combo would be so good. I literally had one every day and had to keep myself from getting more. I’m actually salivating right now, thinking about them.

We met a ton of people, sold some books, schmoozed, and pretended that we knew what we were doing. I shook Sergio Aragones’ hand and Joss Whedon walked by, but by the time I processed that it was him, he was gone. Leigh actually noticed him and pointed him out.

“Hey,” Leigh said. “There’s Joss Whedon.”

“Huh,” I said, after a moment. “I guess so.”

“You should go say ‘hi.’”

“I suppos–“ and then he was gone.

We also took a ton of pictures, many of which are up on our Facebook page.

So, to sum up: Blogs are back. Updates will be back soon. Red M&Ms now flow like water. And never trust a monk who tells you he has a hot sister.

Cheers,
Jason

Hopefully Not Brains

2011-06-13T00:20:00.000-07:00

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

Iron-On Numbers

2011-06-07T23:46:00.000-07:00

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

A Couple Things

2011-06-01T23:30:00.000-07:00

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

The Terrible, Burning Sun (aka Spokane ComiCon 2011)

2011-05-26T23:09:00.000-07:00

Well, we went down (Over? Possibly under?) to Spokane last weekend for the 2011 Spokane ComiCon. A great time was had by all and much in the way of tomfoolery was made. There were also fajitas, but I digress.

The con went along swimmingly. It’s starting to get sizeable and there was always a crowd of some sort. There were also a lot more costumes this year, of which I got some pictures (head on over to the Wayfarer’s Moon Facebook page to check them out).
There was one disturbing incident, though, which I feel I must detail for you all.

At around 3:30, the fire alarm went off. All the attendees quickly shuffled out of the building, leaving all us exhibitors sitting there looking at one another. Those of us with large, more complicated tables wondered how we were supposed to get everything out quickly while others simply swept their wares into bags and boxes.

The following is an actual excerpt from the conversation that ensued between tables:

“Are we supposed to leave?”

“I dunno. What about our stuff?”

“I think we should just leave it.”

“Well, I’m not gonna leave if no one says to.”

This just goes to show that we are not perhaps the brightest bunch on the planet. Presently, the organizers came by and confirmed that yes, we had to leave. I grabbed our cash box, Leigh grabbed the bag of 3 Musketeers and outside we went.

Into the harsh, terrible, burning sun. Seriously, it was hot and sunny outside. We were not prepared for this. We tried to cluster near the shade of the building, but were quickly told that we had to move away. This meant that we HAD to stand in the sun, as the only shade was dozens, if not scores, of yards away. Far, far too far for any of us to walk.

So we stood in the sun for about thirty minutes, as the firefighters checked out the building and presumably snorted into their face masks when they saw the three rooms full of comics. Then after giving us the all clear, they went off and did really manly things like wrestling bears or bludgeoning Vikings with clubs made out of dinosaur bones.

Anyway, we all made it back inside safely and with, perhaps for the first time in many years, our daily allotment of Vitamin D.

NOTE: I think the whole thing was a plot by our mothers to actually get us outside.

So, despite the near death encounter with the sun, the con continued and then we went out and had fajitas.

Many of the usual comics crew were in attendance, including:

Jason Metcalf, artist extraordinaire

Jason Martin of Super Real Graphics

Eric Trautmann, a writer of many comics and all around nice guy

Brandon Jerwa, who I met for the first time and who is also a nice guy and writer

Mark Rahner from Rotten

Cari from Toilet Genie, who once again scored a primo booth spot (not that I’m bitter)

Randy Kintz, another great artist

Chuck, Shawn, & Travis from Creator’s Edge Press

To wrap up: good con, bad sun, excellent fajitas.

Cheers,
-Jason

Dramatization

2011-05-24T23:10:00.000-07:00

I was watching television the other day and a tooth paste commercial came on. During the commercial, they showed little happy bubble creatures swarming through a mouth, cheerfully scrubbing away the plaque. Two things occurred to me as I was watching this.

The first was that this commercial was almost identical to the ones for bathtub cleaning products. Think about it: both feature determined soap-like creatures scrubbing away dirt/grime/blood. Both take place somewhere you really don’t want to think about (bathrooms/your mouth). And both products are a direct result of something you did. Probably something filthy.

Seriously, you could swap the soundtracks for any two of those commercials and unless you were actually paying attention, you probably wouldn’t realize that a switch had been made.

The second thing that caught my attention about the tooth paste commercial was as the happy, bubble men were swarming through the mouth like happy, bubbly locusts, fine print appeared at the bottom of the screen that said ‘Dramatization.’
Now, I’m reasonably certain that most people are smart enough to realize that their toothpaste is not comprised of legions of sentient, paste-centered beings whose existence revolves around removing plaque and other icky things from their teeth. Obviously, the companies have to put those disclaimers to protect themselves and all that.

But wouldn’t it be so much more fun if there really were little plaque fighting men in your toothpaste?

Picture this: your mouth is the Gate of Mordor and all the plaque and bacteria and stuff are really orcs and trolls and other fell creatures. They’re there to not only rot your teeth, but to destroy the very world. Your toothpaste is full of little Gondorian soldiers and Elves and Rohirrim and Dwarves and Wizards and Ents and stuff and they’re attacking, intent on not only defeating the hosts of Mordor, but protecting the very world from the evil that is in your mouth.

Doesn’t that sound cool? You’re not just brushing your teeth, you’re fighting EVIL. The very world hangs in the balance and all that stands in the way of utter defeat is you brushing for the recommended 2 minutes twice a day.

If someone had told me this when I was a kid, it would have saved my parents a ton of money in dental bills.

Now I just need to work flossing into the analogy somehow.

Cheers,
-Jason

Diamonds

2011-05-19T22:34:00.000-07:00

It’s been yet another busy week here at Single Edge Studios and I have a few announcements.

First, we had our first known ‘shout-out.’ Yes, a very funny web-comic called The Indies included a Wayfarer’s Moon poster in the background in the May 16th update. We’d like to thank The Indies for the shout-out and appreciate being included in the comic. Your check will be arriving shortly (there is no check).

Secondly, a really great fantasy web-comic was brought to my attention: DeadHeaven. This comic well and truly rocks, though it is Not Safe For Work for violence and nudity. Unless, of course, you work at a place called Violence and Nudity, in which case, you’re probably okay.

Lastly, I would like to announce that our trade Wayfarer’s Moon: The Road From Southfield will appear in the June Diamond catalog. Diamond is the largest distributor of comics in North America, which means that any comic store in the US can order our book and stock it on their shelves, which is pretty damn cool.

It also means that any one of you (once the June catalog comes out) can go to your local comics retailer and suggest to them that they order one or more of our trades (preferably in the hundreds).

Simply walk into your local comics’ retailer and say, in a loud, clear voice: “Good book-monger, if you have not noted, a treasure has appeared in the Diamond catalog. A veritable feast of fantasy called Wayfarer’s Moon: The Road From Southfield (catalog #: JUN110991). Were I you, I would hasten to my computing device and procure as many as possible, for certainly, such a wondrous tome would add both luster and prestige to your humble storefront.”

It might help if you’re wearing a top hat though.

Anyhow, this is a big step for us and hopefully, will be the first of many graphic novels to come.

Cheers,
-Jason

Sharks in Sweaters

2011-05-17T21:58:00.000-07:00

It so happens that the other day I came across an article about the world’s population of sharks. Real swimmy swimmy sharks, not the other kind, who give you money and then break your legs when you don’t pay. Though, I suppose, swimmy sharks could do that to. I mean, the cash would get rather soggy and they’re more ‘biters’ than ‘beaters,’ so to speak, so the leg breaking would be difficult.

NOTE: Some of you got the ‘biter’ and ‘beater’ reference. Feel free to feel superior. For those who also got the ‘swimmy swimmy’ reference, feel free to don a monocle and add an ‘esquire’ after your name.

But I digress. It seems that the population of the swimmy, swimmy sharks (hereafter referred to as just ‘sharks’) is down by some 30% across the world. Human over-fishing seems to be the culprit and real, honest-to-god experts have theorized that the sudden increase in shark-fishing is due to the movie Jaws, which scared the poop out of everyone about 30-years ago.

For those of you who have not seen the movie, a shark pretty much eats everyone in a small seaside town until Roy Scheider blows it up with an air tank, a feat which was later totally disproven on an episode of Mythbusters.

Sharks became the new symbol of fear and we humans have done what we do best when confronted with something scary: we kill the crap out of it. Oh, I’m not bagging on humanity here. Killing stuff that scares you is a very important survival trait, ‘cause there’s generally a good reason to be scared of it. The cavemen that tried to pet the pretty cobra didn’t survive, whereas the cavemen who screamed and killed the cobra with a rock did.

Anyway, the problem here is that sharks eat lots of other, equally scary things and now that the shark population is so low, the other critters are multiplying. The Humbolt Squid, in particular, used to be found in one area off of Mexico. Now they’re hanging out in malls in Minnesota and trying to pick up girls.

So basically, if we want to keep things in balance, we ought to do something to help out the sharks. We could simply stop killing so many, which would work. Or, we could go totally overboard and actually start adopting them. It would be simple: you agree to raise a shark and when it’s old enough, you release it into the wild (aka: college). Not only will this help increase shark populations, but maybe, just maybe, sharks and humans would form a bond of love and friendship. Sharks would stop eating people. People would stop hunting sharks. A whole new industry of shark products would arise, including shark chow, shark leashes, and woolen shark sweaters for when they got cold.

Plus, if aliens ever messed with us, we could totally sick our sharks on them. Which would rock.

I think I’ll name my shark ‘Mr. Bitey.’

Cheers,
-Jason

The Day After the 12th

2011-05-13T11:16:00.000-07:00

Happy Friday the 13th everyone!

First off, apolopgies. Blogger has been acting weird lately and I was unable to post the last two nights. I do have a truly wonderful blog all ready to go (it's about sharks) which I will be posting next week.

As noted, today is Friday the 13th and I plan to spend it in complete and utter terror. No, not because I'm particularly superstitious, but because I had a triple meat burrito with jalapenos, bacon, and refried beans last night and at some point today, it's going to come out again. And when it does, god help us all.

In other news, my nephew James is having his fifth birthday this weekend and we're all going to a bouncy castle to celebrate. I've never actually been to a bouncy castle and though I've been assured that it's safe for adults, I'm not entirely sure it's safe for all the adults at the same time. The men in my group of friends tend to run, how shall we say, 'large' and we're all going to pile in first chance we get. So, if you hear about a 'boucy castle disaster,' you'll know what happened.

Last piece of news: Leigh and I will be at the Spokane Comicon next weekend, Saturday the 21st. The Spokane con is starting to get to a good size, so I urge all of you to come by if you have the time. People who are well-known in the comics industry will be there. Us too.

Anyway, have a safe and fun weekend and come back next week for more pages and blogs.

Cheers,
-Jason

A Little Note

2011-05-10T23:31:00.000-07:00

When I got home yesterday, I found a note from the apartment complex on my door. I considered setting it on fire, just in case, but then thought better of the idea. So, in order to avoid cooties, I went inside and donned my hazmat suit, before returning to read the letter.

It was, unsurprisingly, a form letter. My apartment has many, many form letters. I have gotten form letters to announce fire alarm inspections, advise on proper trash sorting, reminders to not park vehicles in the breezeways, and various other common topics. I would not be particularly surprised if there were also form letters on walking your zombie, post-apocalyptic etiquette, and the proper times to use a flamethrower indoors.

I read the note and promptly passed out. This was not due to the contents of the note, but the fact that I’d forgotten to hook up the oxygen tank on my hazmat suit. Luckily, I tore a hole in the suit when I fell, otherwise I’d be really smelly right about now.

NOTE: Smellier.

According to the form letter, I had ‘inappropriate articles stored on my patio.’ This seemed odd, so I double checked. I don’t actually have anything on my patio, aside from a couple rocks, a clump of dirt, and the head from a Barbie doll, which was nice because now I have a full set.

The note did list a few things, like patio furniture, that were acceptable to store on the patio. Though, in all seriousness, the fact that it’s called ‘patio furniture’ seems like a giveaway. Firewood is apparently also okay. I suppose patio furniture built out of firewood would also be allowed, but the letter didn’t specify.

So, obviously, whomever looked at my patio was either mistaken about which patio was which or really, really, really hates Barbie heads.

Other than removing the Barbie head, I haven’t altered anything on my patio, so I’m eager to see if I get another form letter. If not, I might just go ahead and start putting things on my patio, because honestly, the form letters make me feel special, much like my collection of 27 Barbie heads.

I wonder if a large inflatable dinosaur eating a caveman would do it?

Cheers,
-Jason

Not a Podiatrist

2011-05-05T23:16:00.000-07:00

Another marvelous week has ended here at Single Edge Studios. Panels were drawn. Words were written. I punched a ninja so hard, he exploded, leaving only his tabi shoes behind.

Actually, no, that last bit didn't happen. I have a very active imagination and occasionally it gets the better of me, which is why I sometimes write blogs about the mold people who live in my bathroom.

It can be a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, my mother thinks I'm a successful podiatrist who lives in Helsinki. And that I'm married to Kate Beckinsale's twin sister, Maggie.

On the other hand, I'm not.

One thing that did actually happen is that Leigh's wife Laura sent the following around:

I found it hysterical and I hope you do as well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do a foot transplant.

Or not.

Have a great weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

Bowling

2011-05-04T21:57:00.000-07:00

I went bowling last weekend. This is the first time I’ve bowled in about six years, so I was pretty sure I was going to suck at it.

I was right.

I had a strategy going in: I was going to throw the ball really, really hard down the center of the lane and just take out the pins with sheer force.

And yes, I can hear the bowlers rolling their eyes (pun intentional).

Oddly enough, my strategy of throwing the ball really, really hard didn’t pay off. Oh, the pins went flying when I hit them, but that was maybe a fifty/fifty chance. I was kind of hoping that if I hit a couple pins hard enough, they’d ricochet around more and hit more pins and thus, increase my score.

Ideally, I’d hit the pins so hard, they’d not only knock over my pins, but the concussion would knock pins in the adjacent lanes down as well. This would rock, though I have no idea how you’d score that.

NOTE: The best thing would be to throw the ball so hard the sonic boom would just knock over every pin in the building. Granted, this might actually be dangerous, but it would be cool.

Actually, I have no idea how you score in bowling anyway. There’s some sort of multiplier thing going on with strikes and spares that seems excessively complicated. If you’ve got ten frames and ten pins, the top score should be 100 and you just count up the pins you knock over. That would eliminate all that pesky math and make life easier.

And yes, I’m sure I could wiki ‘bowling’ and figure out how the scoring works. I’m just lazy (and bad at math).

Anyway, we managed to get one game in and I came in third. Leigh won handily with a couple back to back strikes, which surprised everyone, Leigh included.

Next time, I’ll go with my secondary strategy: throw the balls softer, but then use the Force to just knock the pins over regardless of where the ball went. And then Force Choke anyone that protested.

I’ll need to work on the whole ‘Force’ thing though.

Cheers,
-Jason

A Tale Long in the Making

2011-04-28T21:47:00.000-07:00

As you may have noticed, our first graphic novel: Wayfarer’s Moon: The Road from Southfield is now available. It has been a long, arduous trek getting it here, so I thought I would share with you just what exactly went into the making of this book.

It began long, long ago, when Thor, God of Lightning, wiped out the dinosaurs. He squished them all with his great hammer Mjolnir, which is why they’re now oil. No one’s sure why Thor did this, but it probably had something to do with getting drunk and having a really big hammer.

Regardless, the Earth was now safe for humanity. Fast forward a lot and eventually you come to the Egyptians. They built some pyramids and invented papyrus. Papyrus is important because it was the first form of writing surface that didn’t require a chisel. Also, it could be used as toilet paper, an oft-overlooked advantage.

Jumping ahead a bit more, we get to Guttenburg, who invented the printing press. This allowed for the mass production of reading materials and was initially used to print Bibles. I’m assuming porn was the second thing it was used to print, but I might be wrong about that (it could be the third thing after fanfics).

Lots of things happened. Stuff was built, some of it was blown up, new stuff was built on top of the old stuff, things were blown up some more, and viola, it was the Age of Information.

NOTE: Yes, I wrote ‘viola’ intentionally. I always use that instead of ‘voila .’ I think it’s funny.

This brings us to just a couple years ago, when a pair of nerds in Redmond, Washington decided to make a comic.

In short, it’s all Leigh’s fault.

One night, Leigh turned to me and said “Hey, we should make a comic.” We both laughed hearty, manly laughs and went back to felling trees with other trees. Later that night, however, I went home and began to think about what kind of comic I wanted to make. What would the characters be like? What would they do? Would making a comic get me girls?

I thought and thought and thought and eventually, came up with a comic concept. I jotted down some notes and left it at that.

A year or so later, as we were catching great whites with our bare hands, Leigh once again said “Hey, I think we should do a comic.”

At which point I said “You mean, like this?” and revealed the notes I’d jotted down.
Leigh read the notes and we had several discussions, often while doing amazingly manly things like scaling El Capitan while blindfolded and wearing scuba gear.

And now, a few years later, we have our first trade paperback.

Now, in all seriousness, that is pretty much how it happened, minus the silly parts. Leigh and I decided to make a comic. A comic we would want to read. Happily, it also turned out to be a comic that other people wanted to read as well. And hopefully, this summer, Wayfarer’s Moon: The Road from Southfield will be in comic stores across the country.

So, not too bad for “Hey, we should make a comic.”

Cheers,
-Jason

The Hygiene Fairy

2011-04-26T23:07:00.000-07:00

I happened to be at NorWesCon this weekend. For those of you not in the know, it’s a large fantasy/sci-fi/steampunk/art/fetish/gaming/costume/panel-y sort of convention. It’s more or less an ‘anything goes’ kind of affair, with the exceptions of live ammunition and public nudity.

NOTE: I’m quite sure there was a lot of private nudity. No, I didn’t actually see any, but I heard stories. Maybe next year.

On Friday afternoon at NorWesCon, I was idly standing in artist alley, looking through my schedule, when something tapped my leg. I looked down and saw a young girl of about 5 or 6 dressed in a fairy costume. She then handed me a small item and dashed off to (presumably) her mother, who was also dressed as a fairy. They then walked away.

Upon closer inspection, the item turned out to be a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash with a small sticker affixed that read ‘A Gift from the Hygiene Fairy’ on it. I thought it was rather cute until I realized that some woman had thought it necessary, nay imperative, that I use mouthwash.

I hadn’t even been breathing in her direction, so there must have been some sort of miasma of halitosis around me, a suffocating fog of vapor that forced all passersby to make a save versus breath weapon at -2.

So, despite my almost daily, semi-rigorous, bathing habits, I still managed to have breath that compared unfavorably with week-old road kill.

This leads to my next question: is it possible to die from eating too many breath mints? ‘Cause I’ve been eating them like candy since then and I’m getting a little light headed. I mean, it’s theoretically possible that I might talk to a girl at some point, so I have to be prepared. Maybe a mint every three minutes is too much.

Maybe every five?

Cheers,
-Jason

The Rescue of What's-Her-Name: The Finale

2011-04-20T22:19:00.000-07:00

“Pardon?” Melkor said, unable to take his eyes off What’s-her-name.

“That outfit, it’s ridiculous.” She turned to Coryn, who was trying not to stare too much. “You said she was kidnapped while out riding. Who’d go riding dressed like that? Do you know how much that would chafe?” She walked over and examined the prisoner more closely. “She’s the lord’s daughter, for god’s sake. I can accept that she looks like Cindy Crawford, but can’t she afford clothes?”

There was much shuffling of feet and averting of eyes. Bobbin tried to Hide and failed.

“Uhhh . .. it’s the orcs,” Coryn suddenly said.

Everyone, including What’s-her-name, turned to look at him.

“They, uh, made her dress like that.” He turned to the other men for support. “Right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rallis said. “They always do that. It’s standard procedure, really.”

“They’re a big buncha pervs,” Lars added.

“Right.” Tamra’s gaze went to each of the men in turn, her arms folded. “Whatever, let’s get her free.”

Lars and Melkor rushed forward, knocking over Bobbin in the process.

As the two eagerly untied What’s-her-name, Tamra sidled up to Coryn. “This better be standard procedure for orcs,” she muttered under her breath.

Coryn assumed his most innocent expression. “Would I lie?”

“Would you?”

There was a pause, as the cleric surreptitiously rolled a die. “According to that roll, no.” He smiled wanly down at her.

“Oh thank you!” the lord’s daughter exclaimed in a very masculine voice that was deeper than Lars’. “I was out riding when those horrid orcs ambushed us.”

“Yeah,” Bobbin interrupted. “We know.”

“But it was so frightening,” What’s-her-name continued, in a voice you’d expect on a linebacker. “They dragged me back here and, uh, made me dress like this.”

“See!” Lars said, nodding. “Told ya they’re a big buncha pervs.”

“What’s your name?” Rallis asked. “And spell it, so they can get it right when they WRITE IT DOWN.”

There was an immediate scramble for pencils and paper.

“Oh, it’s . . .”

There was a sudden crash, as half a dozen orcs smashed through a nearby wall. More orcs appeared at the entrance, their weapons held at the ready. From outside the hut, a voice rose above the tumult
“Prepare to die, outlanders!” The voice sounded strangely like What’s-her-name, as if she had a long-lost orc twin.

With a roar, the orcs sprang forward, even as the adventurers formed a circle around the lord’s daughter. Tamra needed no coaching this time. She threw up her shield and waved her sword at the oncoming horde. “C’mon, ya sexist pigs!” she said, failing to notice the look that passed between the guys. Then the orcs were upon them, a volley of spears and axes coming over the heads of the lead orcs as they ran at the party, faces twisted with bestial rage. Above it all, a deep voice began chanting in a language of venom and malice, which promised nothing but pain for the adventurers.

“Whoa, one sec,” Melkor suddenly said, as his companions readied themselves to face the onslaught. “I hate to do this, but tomorrow’s a work day. I need to get up early.”

“But it’s just getting good!” Lars said. The orcs, scant feet from the adventurers, their weapons inches from the interlopers, nodded their assent, as did What’s-her-name.

“Hey, it’s better to stop now than in the middle of combat.”

“Oh, all right,” Bobbin said. He sheathed his sword. “Let’s clean up.” He started helping the orcs tidy up the hut.

“Did you have fun?” Melkor asked Tamra, as he collected soda cans.

She smiled. “Yeah, it wasn’t what I expected.”

“Told ya,” Coryn said, as he was collecting his dice.

“I’m still not too sure about the whole chain-mail bikini thing, though.”

Rallis glanced up from putting his books back into his backpack. “Hey, what can you expect from Minions of Evil?”

The orc shaman walked by, headdress under an arm. Without it, he appeared to be little more than a balding, thirty-something guy with a paunch. “It’s a living,” he said with a shrug.

The Rescue of What's-Her-Name: Part 5

2011-04-19T22:04:00.000-07:00

The halfling slipped off towards the village, his movement silent and swift, save for the occasional thud and ensuing obscenities. The rest of the party waited patiently, munching on tortilla chips and playing with the miniatures. Eventually, with much breaking of twigs, Bobbin reappeared.

“Found her,” he said. “They got her tied up in the big hut on the far side.”

“Did she happen to have a name tag?” Rallis asked.

“I don’t remember. Should I go back and check?”

“Let’s not,” Coryn interjected, before the ranger could reply. “What about the orcs? How many, what kind of weapons, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Well, that’s the funny bit. There’s no one there.”

“So What’s-her-name is tied up, all alone, in the middle of an orc camp?” Tamra asked.

“Yep,” said the halfling.

“Trap,” the entire group said in unison.

“Well,” Melkor said cheerfully. “At least we know where we stand. Come on, let’s get it over with.”

The party strolled into the deserted orc village. A light breeze sprang up, doing little to remove the stench that hung around the huts. The trappings of everyday life lay scattered around, a half-mended blanket here, a cooking fire there, embers still glowing red. It was if the entire community had simply walked away. The adventurers wandered along, poking idly at the scattered belongings. Bobbin surreptitiously pocketed a few small items, while Lars kicked over anything in his path. Out of the whole party, only Rallis moved cautiously, pausing every now and again to inspect tracks.

“Their tracks go every which way,” he finally said, as they neared the largest hut. “They’re definitely up to something.”

“Well, duh,” Lars said.

Without any word, they gathered at the hut’s entrance, readying for battle. Lars stood at the front, with Coryn and Tamra flanking him. Melkor and Bobbin backed them up, with Rallis at the rear, bow at the ready. Lars held up three fingers, and then silently counted down: three, two, one.

At one, Lars roared his battle cry and kicked the door open, rushing in with the rest of the party on his heels. The hut was quite large, capable of easily accommodating forty or so people. Furs were rolled up and stacked against the walls, along with numerous chests and barrels, many bearing human and elven marks. Unsurprisingly, there were no orcs to be seen.

“There she is,” Bobbin said.

The lord’s daughter was gagged and tied upright to a supporting pillar in the middle of the hut. She was quite beautiful, with long black hair, a fantastic figure, and a light tan. They could tell all this at a glance because all she wearing a chain-mail bikini that was a good two sizes two small, along with strappy 4" heels, and a few silk ribbons.

Lars let out a whoop. “Now that’s what I call an outfit!”

There were nods from the rest of the men, as well as a “hot damn!”

“Why is she wearing that?” Tamra suddenly asked.

Nails & Stumptown

2011-04-14T23:35:00.000-07:00

My nails were getting rather long and seeing as how I didn't want to injure myself the next time I went to pi . . . scratch my nose, I trimmed them.

This is obviously nothing special. I sit down with a pair of clippers and cut them, making a neat little pile. It's just that I always end up with one less nail than finger. I have ten fingers (very nearly nine, due to an accident as a kid), so one would think that I'd have ten freshly cut fingernails.

But no. Everytime I cut them, I always have nine fingernails. And it's not like I find them later, stuck in a wall or in my soup. They just disappear. I figure that at some point a gigantic fingernail golem will suddenly rise up from behind the recliner and attack me with his giant, scratchy hands.

And in all honesty, I don't have clippers big enough for that.

Anyway, this weekend is the Stumptown Comics Fest! Leigh and I will be there both days, so please come by and say 'hello.' And remember, if you ask me what 'M'Kott' means, I'll actually tell you. And I might give you a piece of candy (Reese's Miniature Peanut Buttercups).

Have a safe and pleasant weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

The Rescue of What's-Her-Name: Part 4

2011-04-13T22:48:00.000-07:00

Coryn quickly ran to Bobbin’s side, dropping to his knees beside the prostrate halfling. Gripping his holy symbol with his left hand and laying his right on his friend’s chest, he began chanting a prayer of healing, which sounded suspiciously like “Woolly Bully.” As his chant neared its end, he pulled a die from his pouch and rolled it.

“A six, you got lucky,” he said, as the halfling’s eyes fluttered open. “How many HPs does everyone have left?” he asked the group.

“Twenty-one,” Lars said, as he began rifling through the dead orcs’ pouches.

“Seven of twenty three,” Rallis said.

“Two,” Bobbin groaned.

“I’m good,” Melkor said, stepping out from where he’d been hiding.

“Pansy,” Lars said. “You always run and hide.”

“Hey, you try living with fourteen hit points and see how much melee you get into,” said the mage.

Tamra was looking at a piece of paper she’d pulled from her backpack. “Where’re hit points written again?”

“I’ll show her,” Melkor volunteered.

Rallis glanced up from where he was sitting. “Why don’t you two help Lars search the bodies while everyone else gets healed.”

“Roger.”

Tamra made a face. “Ewww.”

“It’s easy,” Melkor said. “Just grab any nice jewelry or weapons and go through their pouches.”

“Dibs on any magic weapons,” Lars said.

“Oh, shut up,” Coryn said, as he launched into “Woolly Bully” again.

So, in short order, bodies were searched, party members were healed, spells were memorized, Lars got a soda, and Bobbin went to the bathroom. Once he returned, everyone got back up and shouldered their packs.

“They ran off that way,” Rallis said, pointing to the south. “Their village is probably over there. Let’s cut through the forest.”

“Good idea,” Melkor said. “By-the-by, did the shaman do anything during the fight?”

Everyone glanced at each other.

“Don’t think so,” Bobbin said.

“Hmmm, he’s probably setting a trap at the village. We should be careful.”

“Right, everyone keep their eyes open,” Rallis said. “Put the magazine down, Bobbin.”

After getting everyone into marching order, the ranger led the way through the forest, pausing every so often to check for tracks. Each party member crept carefully along, eyes intent on the surrounding woods. No orcs were seen, though Lars had to be prevented from attacking a squirrel, which he claimed was ‘eyeing’ him. Oddly enough, after that, no more squirrels or wildlife of any kind were seen.

After a good twenty minutes, Rallis rolled well enough to notice a thin thread of smoke in the distance. They advanced even more cautiously now, ready to pounce on any bush large enough to hide an orc. They soon found signs of habitation, broken twigs, trees that had been felled for firewood, obvious tracks, and the occasional candy wrapper.

Everyone could now easily see the tops of huts only a couple dozen yards away, just outside the tree line, but there was no movement at all.

“I don’t like it,” Coryn whispered. “This is definitely a trap.”

The ranger nodded. “Agreed. What does everyone want to do? No, Lars,” he quickly added. “We’re not just rushing in there.”

Lars said something under his breath.

“Lemme scout a bit,” Bobbin said. “Maybe I can find where they’re keeping what’s-her-name.”

“What is her name?” Tamra asked.

All the men looked at one another.

“I don’t remember,” Coryn said.

“Me neither,” Melkor and Bobbin said simultaneously.

“Who cares?” said Lars.

“Jeez, guys,” Rallis said. “Didn’t anybody write it down?”

There was a great deal of paper shuffling and digging into backpacks.

“Uhh . . . I got the magic word that activates that elevator thingy in that undead guy’s tower,” Bobbin said.

The ranger rubbed his temples. “Great, thanks. Did anybody write down her name?”

“Why didn’t you?” Lars said.

Rallis held up a piece of graph paper. “I map, remember?”

Eventually, it was determined that no one knew the name of the lord’s daughter they were hired to rescue on the promise of five hundred gold pieces, but they had written down several other helpful things, including the phone number of the pizza place that delivered.

“Fine,” Melkor finally said. “We’ll just call her ‘What’s-her-name’ for now. She can tell us when we’ve rescued her.”

“Whatever. Yes, Bobbin, go scout,” Rallis said.

The Rescue of What's-Her-Name: Part 3

2011-04-12T20:51:00.000-07:00

The orcs came on, in a frenzy of bloodlust. The ranger dropped several more with his bow, but was forced to draw his long sword as the orcs looped around the group. He parried the first orc’s thrust, and then ran him through with an expert riposte. Even as the orc dropped, another leaped over him, hacking with an axe. The elf was slashed across the left arm and staggered back, wildly parrying. “I need some help!” he shouted.

The halfling looked up from petting the cat. “Oh, we’re going again.” He shoved the cat off his lap, and then ran back to the battle. Drawing his short sword, he darted from tree to tree, before spotting the beleaguered ranger. He stepped out, moving noiselessly towards the orc that was hammering away at the ranger’s defenses. As the halfling neared, he stepped on a twig, which cracked loudly. Freezing, he waited for the orc to turn, but it failed to notice. “Damn, I blew that roll!” the thief muttered, then continued his cautious advance. Rallis took another blow, which knocked him to the turf. The orc, with a cry of victory, swept his axe down in tremendous two-handed blow, even as the halfling leapt at his back, short sword raised.

“Hey?” the halfling suddenly asked, poised in mid-air. “Is this a simultaneous attack or should we roll Dex?” He looked at the orc in front of him, who’d turned around. “I think it’d be a Dex roll.” The orc shrugged. Bobbin looked over at the orc shaman, who gave a thumbs-up. “Okay, Dex it is.” He pulled out a 20-sided die and rolled. “A seven, I made it.” Lowering his axe, the orc waited, rolling his eyes and checking his wristwatch. He got back into position, though he did not begin his swing. Bobbin dropped to the ground, backed up several feet, and then ran once again at the orc, who was waiting patiently. The halfling jumped again, short sword held high, aiming a terrific blow at the orc’s back. With a ‘thunk,’ the short sword sunk into the orc’s garish leather armor, though only a small trickle of blood could be seen running down.

“A one!” said the halfling, pulling at his hair. “I can’t believe it! I’m dead. I am completely and utterly dead!” He turned back to the orc, who was calmly waiting for him to finish. “Fine, just make it quick!” Ripping open his shirt, he bared his chest, face screwed up. “Go ahead, do it!”

With a shrug, the orc slashed Bobbin across the chest with his axe. The halfling fell, though he managed to make a rude gesture as he did. The battle resumed. Lars, now covered head to toe in blood, killed another orc, decapitating it with a single mighty stroke, though another orc sank a spear deep into his thigh. Rallis had regained his feet, but it was obvious that another hit would probably finish him. The cleric, Coryn, hard pressed by several orcs, had his back to a tree and was grimly fighting on. Of all the fighters, only Tamra appeared unhurt, as she slew orcs left and right, shouting “Hi-yaaaa!” at every stroke. The mage, Melkor, stood calmly in the center of the chaos, unperturbed by the spears that flew by, barely missing, as he chanted softly to himself. As he raised his right hand with a flourish, three balls of bluish energy appeared, each leaping away to unerringly strike an orc. “That’s it for me, guys!” he said. “I’m all tapped out!” He then promptly disappeared.

Even as the mage vanished, Tamra slew the last orc opposing her. She glanced around. “Uh, who should I help?”

“Me!” bellowed Lars, even as he slew another orc.

“Shut up, Lars,” Bobbin managed to say, even though he was unconscious. “You’re only down half.”

“Help Coryn,” Rallis said, as he blocked a barbed spear that almost found his head. “He can heal.”

“Pretty please!” said the cleric. He landed a mighty blow with his mace, striking an opponent flat across the shoulder. Despite the resounding ‘thud,’ the orc hardly appeared to notice. “Dammit!” Coryn said. “How come maces do such crappy damage?” He held the weapon up, letting the sunlight glisten off the flanges. “Look at this thing! I should be able to crush skulls with this. Shouldn’t this do more damage?” he demanded, brandishing it at the nearest orc, who glanced around sheepishly, then shrugged. “Jeez, I’d give my left arm to be able to use a decent edged weapon.” He got back into his fighting stance. “Sorry,” he said to the orc. “Just had to vent for a second.”

The fight continued. Tamra, oblivious to the entreaties of the embattled Lars, sped to her love’s aid. With a yell, she cut down the nearest orc, even as the cleric finally dropped one. The sole remaining orc attacking Coryn glanced around, did some quick math, rolled a die, and then promptly fled. At that, the rest of the orcs also turned tail, leaving the party victorious.

A Whirlwind

2011-04-07T21:24:00.001-07:00

So much stuff is going on right now, I can hardly keep my head on straight. I'm working on two other comic projects, plus my usual writing, blogging, working out, and ninja fighting. I'm looking forward to this weekend, when my buddy Sean will be DMing a D&D game and I'll get to sit back and try to kill things with dice.

By rolling them, obviously. Though, I imagine if you had enough dice, you could theoretically beat someone to death with them. Or if you just had one, really large, heavy die, you could do it as well. Maybe a D20-Flail . . .

Dang it, now I want one.

In other news, several people have asked about Art the Wanderer. Currently, I'm still submitting the manuscript to agents. It is, unfortunately, a long process, but I will keep trying. Needless to say, if any of you happen to be a literary agent or have one in your family or have serious dirt on one and want to do me a favor, please, shoot me an email.

I do appreciate the inquiries. It's great to know that so many of you enjoyed Art and want to see more of him. I am honestly touched, metaphorically speaking.

And with that, please have a fun and safe weekend. I'll be killin' orcs and stuff :)

Cheers,
-Jason

The Rescue of What's-Her-Name: Part 2

2011-04-06T21:52:00.000-07:00

Rallis fired twice more, missing once, but wounding another orc. From behind him, Melkor, who’d been chanting softly, suddenly raised his arms, eldritch energy playing around his hands. A ball of fire formed in front of him, and with a shout, he hurled it forward into the oncoming orcs. Just before detonation, Melkor glanced around. “Uh, did we ever come to an agreement on spell components? Just so we’re working on the same page?”

With a groan, the orcs slowed and stopped. A few orcs accidentally knocked their fellows over, and others took nasty cuts from being poked with weapons. The fireball sat in the midst of several orcs, who stared at it nervously as it hissed and sputtered in mid-air. The orc shaman elbowed his way to the front and began a conversation with the mage.

Everybody waited as Melkor and the orc shaman continued their talk. Lars glanced around and then started inching forward.

“Lars! Get back where you were!” Rallis shouted, pointing a nocked arrow at him. Lars grumbled, but went back. The orcs jeered at him, with many a rude gesture and raspberries.

“Oh yeah?” Lars said. “Just come on over here.” He dropped his axe and began making rude gestures back.

“Okay,” finished Melkor, as he and the shaman walked back to their places. “If that’s the way you want to play it. I guess I better stock up on guano.”

The fireball exploded, incinerating the nearest orcs, though several more were set afire to die more slowly, smoldering on the green grass. The remaining orcs came on, heedless of their losses. A sling bullet stretched another orc senseless, to be trampled by his brethren. The front ranks reached the adventurers as the ranger pulled back, firing arrows with amazing speed. A massive orc, its arms and chest covered in the scars of dozens of battles, ran straight at Tamra, his scimitar in a two-handed grip, screaming a guttural war-cry. Just as he was about to swing, the orc skidded to a stop. The orc and half-elf stared at one another for a second, and then the young half-elven woman glanced over at Coryn.

“Do I go now?”

“Yep.”

She looked back at the orc, who was waiting patiently. She shrugged, smiling. “I’ve never done this before. Eri . . . Coryn’s my boyfriend and he really wanted me to play.” Tamra brought her shield up, and then peering over the rim, jabbed tentatively at the orc with her long sword. The orc shook his head. He walked over to stand beside her, then mimed holding up a shield with his left hand, while pulling back with his scimitar. He stamped forward, bellowing, swinging the scimitar in a vicious arc. Then he motioned to her. Tamra imitated his pose, and then swung her sword. He nodded, and then moved back to his original position.

With a scream, he resumed his charge, scimitar above his head. Tamra raised her weapon, waited until the orc was almost upon her, and then shouted “Hi-yaaaaa!” and slashed downwards. The sword caught the orc warrior in the shoulder, cleaving downwards into his chest. Blood sprayed as he staggered and fell, almost twisting the weapon from her hand. The orc hit the ground, his weapon skittering away. As the feral light left his eyes, he managed to raise his right hand in a thumbs up, and then died.

“Hot damn! A 20!” shouted Coryn, as he ran over to kiss her. “Nice shot!” The rest of the orcs politely applauded, and then readied themselves as Coryn jogged back into place.

“Come on ya gutless wonders!” shouted Lars, as the orcs closed upon him. “I’ll give ya what for!” The first orc leapt at him, spear aimed at his throat. With a speed that belied his size, Lars sidestepped, his massive axe cutting the orc in half with one swipe. A thrown spear also missed, but a wiry orc with a saw-toothed short sword darted in, slashing the barbarian across the side. “Ow!” roared the northerner. “Hey, how could he hit me? Orcs ain’t that tough!”

Coryn, locked in mortal combat with an orc, their faces inches apart, each straining to push the other over and deliver the finishing blow, looked over. “Not again!” He turned back to the orc. “I can’t believe this; he does this every single time he takes damage.” The orc rolled his eyes and nodded. The orc shaman, obviously flustered, shouldered his way forward through his followers and began talking with the barbarian.

“Hey, what’s up?” asked the halfling, as he peeked out from behind a tree.

“Lars is whining again,” said Melkor.

“Oh, yeah!” Lars half-yelled at the shaman. “We’ll just see!” He dropped his axe and yanked off his backpack, then began rummaging through it. Pulling out a battered rulebook, he began flipping through the pages.

“Well, this’ll take a while.” Melkor pulled a pizza box out of nowhere and flipped it open. “I’m gonna eat the last Hawaiian.” Bobbin began playing with the cat, while Coryn wandered over to Tamra and they shared a Coke as he explained what goblins were. Rallis pulled out a hackeysack and he and several orcs formed a circle. After about ten minutes of intense conversation with the shaman, Lars finally shoved the manual back into his pack and picked up his axe.

“And?” asked Rallis.

“He said that all rules are only suggestions and that if he wanted to beef up the orcs then he could.” Lars kicked the pack out of the way and got back into a fighting stance as the orc shaman once again took up his position at the back of the horde. The orcs quickly reformed their charge, with much jostling and changing of places. The adventurers got back into their positions, and then the fight started again.

The Rescue of What's-Her-Name: Part 1

2011-04-05T21:54:00.000-07:00

This is a piece I wrote an embarrassingly long time ago. I recently ‘refound’ it in a corner of my hard drive and decided to share. So, for the next week or so, please enjoy ‘The Rescue of What’s-Her-Name.’

-Jason

****

The sun was just reaching its zenith when the party found the edge of a large clearing. The group paused, as the wood-elven ranger knelt on the soft grass, studying the tracks before him. The others, all seasoned adventurers, fanned out in a defensive perimeter, save for a young half-elven woman who stood idly, twiddling with the hilt of her obviously brand-new sword.

“Tamra,” said a human, whose holy symbol marked him as a cleric. “Stand over there.” He gestured to a small clump of trees.

“Why?”

“Because there might be orcs about.”

“What’s an orc?”

To the left of the cleric, a colossal barbarian wrapped head to toe in furs and carrying an immense battle-axe sniggered. “She doesn’t know what an orc is!”

“Give her a break, Lars,” said a halfling from behind a bush. “It’s her first time.”

“Maybe I should give you a break, Bobbin? Like maybe your head?”

Everyone turned to glare at Lars.

“Calm down, Lars,” said another human, dressed in the robes of a wizard and spinning a wand between his fingers. “You were a noob once too.”

Lars looked around at his companions, and then folded his arms and began pouting. The cleric motioned Tamra over. “Okay,” he said. “Orcs are these big, dumb, ugly brutes with bad hygiene, not unlike Lars. There are generally lots of them, but they’re no real problem. Just follow everybody else’s lead and it’ll be fine.” He slipped his arm around her waist. “Having fun, honey?”

She shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“Are we ready?” asked the ranger, who was waiting by the edge of the clearing.

“Sure, Rallis. Sorry.” The cleric gave the half-elf a peck on the cheek and then everyone gathered around Rallis.

“Okay,” said the wood elf as he knelt and indicated the tracks before him. “Definitely orcs, a few days old, maybe twenty of them. They brought a cart through here, lightly loaded. These are probably the ones we’re looking for. Let’s skirt the west edge of the wood and see if we can find their village.”

“Sorry, but why are we out here again?” Tamra asked.

“Orcs ambushed and kidnapped the local lord’s daughter,” Rallis explained. “We’re supposed to get her back.”

Lars groaned. “I don’t wanna sneak around all day. Let’s just find them and kick their butts!”

“If it’s a whole village,” said the mage. “An entirely different set of butts is going to get kicked.”

“Maybe me an’ Rallis should scout or something?” said Bobbin.

“Eric - er, I mean Coryn,” Tamra said, tapping the cleric on the shoulder.

“Yes, dear?”

“Are those orcs?” she asked, pointing off into the clearing.

Everyone turned to see some thirty-odd orcs emerging from the opposite side of the clearing. The leader wore a resplendent headdress of gold and red feathers and carried a long, intricately carved staff with what looked like skulls dangling from it. He gestured and with a shout, the warriors began sprinting across the glade, their barbed spears and cruel, hooked swords glinting in the afternoon sun.

“Cool!” said Lars, as he threw off his fur cloak.

“Oh man!” the halfling said. “They’ve got a shaman.”

“All right,” said Rallis, as he nocked an arrow. “Defensive postures!” Lars immediately rushed to the front, almost knocking the elf over, just as the halfling rushed to the rear. “Hold it!” Rallis said. He stepped into the clearing. “Hey, give us a minute to get arranged!” he shouted to the orcs, who obligingly stopped about a third of the way across.

“Okay,” he said. “Lars, stand right there.” The barbarian stepped to the front of the path and began flexing his muscles at the waiting horde. “Tamra, over there on the left. Coryn, hold the right. Melkor, stick behind Lars.”

“Sure,” said the mage. “But if they get around him, I’m pulling a tactical retreat over to those trees.” He pointed to a copse about twenty yards away.

“Me too!” chimed in Bobbin.

Rallis sighed. “Fine, just as long as you make yourselves useful.” The elf went to stand beside Lars. “Once they get close, I’m gonna pull back and keep them from coming flanking us.” He took one more glance around, and then shouted back to the orcs. “Okay, we’re ready!”

Coryn looked over at Tamra. “You might want to draw your sword, honey.”

“Oh, yeah.” She drew her weapon, taking a few practice swipes in the air.

The orcs closed, their feet stamping a staccato rhythm that the entire party could feel through their ground. Rallis fired once, and then even before the first arrow could land, fired again. One of the lead orcs caught the first arrow in the throat, his coarse war cry cut off as he spun and thudded into the ground, his fellows leaping over him. The second arrow landed in a shoulder, though the orc did not fall. Rallis nocked another arrow, but paused. “Oh, hey, I forgot to add in my bonuses for the second shot.” The entire horde slowed, everyone looking at the orc that had taken the shoulder wound. After a second, the arrow disappeared, rematerializing in the orc’s chest. The orc gave a gurgling cry, frothy blood spewing from his mouth, and fell.

“Are we on inits yet?” asked the halfling.

“Yeah, Bobbin,” said Melkor, the wizard. “Quit playing with the dice and pay attention.”

Addicted

2011-03-31T23:13:00.000-07:00

I’ll admit it. I’m addicted to YouTube.

A couple of weeks ago, I heard a song from the ‘80s that was stuck in my head, so on a whim I looked it up on YouTube. Now, I spend inordinate amounts of time looking up artists and watching/listening to the videos. I’ll find a video, watch it, notice a link to another video, click on that, and suddenly realize I’ve been watching videos for an hour and a half and I’m on fire.

Right now, I’m listening to ‘Space Age Love Song’ by Flock of Seagulls. I remember when the song first came out (sigh, old) and for reasons too complicated to explain, was reminded of it. So, of course, I looked it up and can now re-experience my youth, where I sat for hours watching MTV whenever my parents would let me.

And for my younger readers, yes, MTV used to play music videos.

It’s kinda fun and nostalgic. I’m not so much of a snob to insist that it was all ‘real music,’ but some of it was pretty good. And yes, some of it was really, really bad.

NOTE: The first video I ever saw was the Steve Miller Band’s Abracadabra. I had no idea what it was, but was completely mesmerized. Yes, I just watched it.

In other news, it’s been yet another productive week here at Single Edge Studios. Pages were penciled. Sentences were written. Ninjas were fought. Dog poop was stepped in. Those last two aren’t related, but I thought I’d share.

Have a fun and safe weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

Problems

2011-03-30T22:48:00.000-07:00

Now, it may come as a shock to my regular readers, but I do have my share of problems.

Oh, on the outside, my life looks pretty much perfect.

I’m a single, -something, who is a tiny bit internet famous, has an entry on IMDB (which is completely true), writes blogs, comics, games, and novels, drives a ’93 Toyota truck, and possesses the sheer animal magnetism (and back hair) of a Kodiak bear, but that’s just the shiny parts.

In reality, my life is as complicated and stressful as the next guy’s. I never quite have enough money, ninjas keep booby-trapping my toilet, I accidently dismantled my washing machine with a hammer. You know, all the little things that vex us in life.

It’s just that I’m tired of my problems. Sure, fighting hyper-intelligent bathtub mold with a crowbar is fun, but once you’ve done it eight or nine times, it gets kinda old.

What I want. What I really, really want, is to have someone else’s problems. Preferably someone who’s incredibly, wonderfully, amazingly rich.

I’m talking the kind of rich where I could drive up to a McDonald’s drive through, buy the entire restaurant, then go across the street and buy the Burger King as well. And then order the employees to fight to the death. The winning side gets to make me a burger. And then fight the Taco Bell crew.

I want to play an RTS with real tanks. I want to have two jumbo jets full of confetti and marshmallow peeps smash into each other at 50,000 feet, just to see what it looks like. I want a trebuchet made out of chocolate. Just ‘cause.

So, if you’re stupidly rich and would like to help me out by giving me access to your fortune for a couple months, please give me a call. I will totally give whatever’s left back to you when I’m done.

I promise.

Cheers,
-Jason

Good News, Everyone!

2011-03-29T23:14:00.000-07:00

Forum registration is now functional again. I know this because I had three registrations in my inbox today, two of which were bots or spammers (or spambots). Oh, how I had missed the subtle dance of checking anti-bot sites, Googling names, and otherwise figuring out if a registration was real or not.

I am, in fact, being sarcastic. If you’re a real-human being who would like to contribute to our forums, please, register and I will happily let you in. If you’re a spammer, please smash your head into your monitor repeatedly. I’ll wait.

But, strangely enough, today’s blog is not about spammers or registration. It’s about ghosts.

I have complained before about the plethora of ghost hunter shows on cable now (and how I should have my own show, Ghost Fighter). Things, however, have sunk to a new low. There is now a ghost-show on Animal Planet.

I actually watched a couple, as I was curious how they’d incorporate the whole ‘animal’ angle into the show. Would there be ghost pets? Would psychics channel the spirits of animals? Would they somehow use animals to try and sniff out spirits?

The truth is even better: In the two episodes I saw, there was a passing reference to a family pet and then the animal was completely forgotten for the rest of the episode. It was literally “. . . and then Rover got really upset and I looked outside . . . “ with a quick cut of a dog looking at the camera. Needless to say, the dog didn’t look particularly agitated.

Now, maybe it’s just me, but if your channel is called Animal Planet and the show you’re running has absolutely nothing to do with animals, mayhap you shouldn’t run it? Or perhaps, change it to include animals?

Now, I’m not advocating throwing hamsters into haunted buildings to see what would happen (confused hamsters), but why not just have a show where the ghost hunters use dogs?

Just get a couple of high-strung dogs and have their handlers lead them through scary buildings. The dogs, being nervous by nature, will occasionally freak out. You then edit the whole thing together with the proper voice over and bingo, instant Animal Planet exclusive.

It would go something like this:

Narrator: “As the ghost hunters wound their way through the abandoned mental hospital which was built over an Indian burial ground and also happened to be the sight of several Civil-War battles, Mr. Jingles became nervous.”

Cut to Mr. Jingles licking himself.

Narrator: “That means he’s sensing something! But what?”

Mr. Jingles looks at a wall. And then the floor. And then the wall again. He resumes licking himself.

Narrator: “The spirit must be close! What will Mr. Jingles do now?!!!”

Mr. Jingles is now humping the camera man’s leg.

Cut to commercial.

Cheers,
-Jason

I Know Something You Don't . . .

2011-03-24T23:07:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s been a busy week as usual over here at Single Edge Studios. Words were written. Pages were drawn. Long, contentious conversations were had over exactly how one pronounces ‘M’Kott.’

Ultimately, because I made up the word, I get to dictate its pronunciation. It’s pronounced ‘Mangrove Throat Wobbler.’ Some of you will get that.

In all seriousness, it’s pronounced ‘M’KaughT.’ Think Mr. Garrison saying ‘M’kay,’ remove the ‘kay,’ and add ‘caught’ with a hard T.

The really interesting part is what the word actually means . . .

NOTE: Leigh doesn’t even know. In fact, no one knows. Just me. MWHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Speaking of which, we’ll be at the Stumptown Comics Fest in about two weeks. If you happen to be in the Portland area, come on by and say ‘hello.’ And if you ask, I’ll tell you what ‘M’Kott’ means.

And then, you’ll be one of a very small, very exclusive club who know. You’ll be able to drop hints to your friends that you know and they’ll be quite jealous, ‘cause they don’t know what a made-up word in a fantasy comic means.

Maybe.

Okay, probably not.

Have a pleasant and safe weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

Technically Incompetent

2011-03-23T22:46:00.000-07:00

Say for example that you were a regular reader of Wayfarer’s Moon and decided, hypothetically speaking, that you wanted to visit the forums and read what was being said there. You, theoretically, would go to the forums and be amazed at the profound and often hilarious insights provided about the comic. You would then, perhaps, wish to register for the forums and participate in said discussion.

You would probably expect that the process of registering would be quick, easy and above all, painless.

Unfortunately that would not be the case, seeing as how one cannot currently register, as our forum software is somehow broken.

Let me explain: Leigh and I are technically incompetent. Oh, we’ve worked with computers for over thirty-years combined and we are masters of our particular fields. However, we don’t really know how computers work and we know just enough to know that if we do something wrong, we could potentially set the computer on fire.

NOTE: No, I’ve never actually set a computer on fire. I did delete the entire Wayfarer’s Moon page once, which is why I’m not allowed to touch the web-stuff ever again.

So, if you need a comic page written, penciled, inked, colored, and lettered. Call us. We’re like elite comic commandos. Okay, slow, out-of-shape commandos who get winded if they stand up to fast, but commandos none-the-less.

Web-pagey programming types, not so much.

To sum up: if you’ve tried to register for the forums and couldn’t, we know and are having our guy look into the issue. Please be patient until we get this fixed. We’ll let you know once the issues have been resolved.

Cheers,
-Jason

Robadillo

2011-03-22T23:36:00.000-07:00

I recently received a grim warning from the future. This has happened twice before. The first time, I was ten and warned not to glue my nostrils shut with paste, regardless of how much money my best friend Chuck offered me.

I got my other friend Danny to do it instead and was glad I did, ‘cause when the school nurse pulled the hardened plug out, it was like the inside of his nose had been waxed. They say you could hear the scream ten miles away.

The second warning was about not starting a sci-fi web-comic. I dodged that one by starting a fantasy web-comic instead.

This latest warning was a simple, one-sentence email I received from an anonymous source. It read ‘Warning from the Future: Do not create robot armadillos or ‘robadillos.’

NOTE: The warnings always come in a ‘time-period’ acceptable way. The one about the nostrils was on a 3x5 card I found inside my Trapper Keeper. The second one was a rather (perhaps) ill-conceived tattoo. A word of caution: don’t get a ‘spur-of-the-moment’ tattoo from someone you don’t share a language with. That goes doubly if either party is drunk.

This latest warning brings up a couple questions: Why would I want to create a robadillo? What would I use a robadillo for? And thirdly, seeing as how I can barely balance my checkbook, how would I create a robadillo in the first place?

The first two answers are obvious: who wouldn’t want to create a robadillo? Honestly, the name is just cool. Secondly, I’d obviously use my army of robadillos to take over the world. Oh, sure, I’d start out with some sort of noble goal, like eliminating the scourge of gingivitis, but once I had a sixty-foot, fire-breathing armadillo with laser eyes and enough armor to stop a Tomahawk missile, I’d go a bit nuts.

Obviously though, the chance of me successfully creating an army of robadillos is slim to none, which is why this particular warning from the future is so puzzling. If I can’t create a robadillo in the first place, why warn me not to?

Unless, I’m SUPPOSED to create an army of robadillos, perhaps to fight off an alien invasion or something, and this warning is really from the aliens in a Terminator-esque ploy to get me not to.

Hmmmm, it’s a quandary. Maybe I should dust off my plans for a zombot army (half-zombie, half-robot), just in case.

Unless, that’s what the aliens really want!

Indecisively,
-Jason

Hand™ and Butt

2011-03-17T22:49:00.000-07:00

Let’s get things started quickly: I have a cold and I pulled a muscle in my butt.

I’m not sure where I got the cold from. I think it might have been at Emerald City Comicon, as I shook hands with roughly fifty-thousand people, give or take the odd-ten thousand. In the words of Jerry Lee Lewis, there was a whole lotta shakin’ going on.

NOTE: For my younger readers, Jerry Lee Lewis is a rock-n-roll legend. He has a number of classic rock hits, including ‘A Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On’ and ‘Great Balls of Fire.’ He also invented the spear gun and a method of extracting yeast from moldy newspapers.

This is not the first time I’ve gotten sick after a con and I’ve come up with a solution. I call it The Hand™. It’s basically a mannequin hand and forearm with an internal anti-bacterial dispenser. When someone wants to shake your hand, you instead extend The Hand™ and shake with that. Sensors detect the shake and a few seconds after the Hand™ is released, The Hand™ sprays itself with the anti-bacterial, guaranteeing a fresh, clean Hand™ for the next shake.

And, if someone happens to offend you, you can use the companion product: The Finger™.

I am, however, pretty sure how I pulled the muscle in my butt.

I stood up.

Yeah, I somehow messed up a procedure that I’ve done probably a million times since I learned to walk. I wasn’t fighting ninjas, ripping cabinet doors off, or even saving a bus-load of orphans and nuns from a fiery death after they hit a giant robotic goose sent from the future to warn us about the penguins.

So, yeah. Sore nose, sore butt, same imagination.

But I still think The Hand™ is a great idea.

Have a good and safe weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

An Epiphany

2011-03-16T00:03:00.000-07:00

I had an epiphany of sorts the other day. I was opening mail with a letter opener (shaped like a sword) and was so intent on the offer of term life insurance, I accidentally kinda ‘let go.’ The letter opener flew across my living room, ricocheted off the edge of the TV, and then knocked out a ninja who was disguised as a houseplant before falling to the ground.

Luckily, the TV wasn’t damaged.

As I was dragging the ninja out to the recycling bins, I reflected on my good luck. At that point, I tripped on something, possibly a rock, and fell heavily. Luckily, I landed on the ninja who was relatively soft, all things considered.

NOTE: I should have noticed the ninja disguised as a houseplant sooner. I don’t have any houseplants, as I feel it’s cruel to cage a wild creature. Also, they tend to die if you don’t water them at least once a year or so.

It was as I was sitting there on the ninja that I had my epiphany. It was entirely possible that I was a klutz.

The thing is that I don’t really think I’m clumsy. It’s more that when my mind is occupied, my body tends to do things on its own. Oh, it has the best of intentions, but sometimes it lacks . . . finesse. Coupled with what Leigh refers to as my ‘monkey strength,’ my body occasionally, accidentally, manipulates objects in a fashion that was not intended. IE, like the time I unintentionally removed a cabinet door from its hinges.

In my defense, allow me to point out that I gave my right arm a good talking-to and it hasn’t happened since.

So, on the one hand, I tend to break things. On the other, if someone is ever trapped in a kitchen cabinet, the door will be no obstacle.

No, I don’t know why someone would be trapped in a kitchen cabinet. Maybe they were playing hide-and-seek and hid in a cabinet and then developed a terrible cramp and couldn’t get out.

And yes, I suppose I could just open the door.

Okay, I admit that was a bad example. What if a race of evil, alien kitchen cabinets attacked the Earth and the only way they could be defeated was if their doors were ripped off? And they were somehow immune to bullets. And fire. And . . . uh . . . gravity.

So, yeah. Just let me know if you ever need something accidentally destroyed. My rates are quite reasonable.

Cheers,
-Jason

Rather Tired

2011-03-10T21:43:00.000-08:00

Hey all,

It's been a long week here at Single Edge Studios. Emerald City was a blast, but it's an exhausting three days. I'm looking forward to sleeping in this weekend and playing some old-school pen and paper D&D.

Of course, I just remembered that Dayight Savings Time kicks in this weekend, so I'll have to get up an hour early on Monday. Curse you, Daylight Savings Time!

Seriously, why do we even do this anymore? I know that originally it was so farmers had more light, but now we have, well, lights and stuff, so it's not particularly relevant. Besides, I'm a computer nerd. I shun the sun and it's evil rays.

Anyway, have a great and safe weekend. And if you happen to be in Portland in about a month, look us up at the 2011 Stumptown Comic Fest!

Cheers,
-Jason

Don’t Push the Button

2011-03-09T22:35:00.000-08:00

I was just settling in to start tomorrow’s blog when I noticed something. At the top of my keyboard is a button labeled ‘My Favorites.’

Now, I’ve had this keyboard for quite some time and to be perfectly honest, I’ve never, ever pushed that button. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever really noticed it before. And now, staring down at the keyboard, I’m realizing that there are actually fourteen buttons up there.

I counted. Twice.

The really silly thing is that they’re all silver and black, as opposed to the rest of the keys, which are black and silver, so you’d think I would’ve noticed them earlier. It’s like when I realized all the other kids had five toes on each foot.

Many of the buttons are labeled, such as ‘Calculator,’ ‘Search’ and ‘Mail.’ I pressed several of them, just to see what they’d do. Strangely enough, the Calculator button brought up the calculator. This is incredibly useful. I will no longer have to click on the Start Menu, go to All Programs, Accessories, and then click on Calculator. I can just push this one button.

Obviously, I will completely forget about this the next time I need a calculator, because honestly, I never look at my keyboard (obviously). My hands just type and words appear on the screen. Sometimes the words tell me to do strange things, like garden naked. This is ludicrous, seeing as I don’t have a garden and I just end up standing on my balcony with a trowel, hoping passerby’s realize that I’m really, really cold.

Which brings us back to the ‘My Favorites’ button. What would happen when I press it? Would a super-model holding a hot fudge sundae appear? Would a literary agent with a 7-figure contract call my cell? Would a super-model literary agent with a 7-figure contract and life-time supply of hot fudge sundaes knock on my door?

Sadly, none of the above. It brought up a menu with a bunch of blank cells and instructions on how to link web sites. So, no, no super-models. However, as noted, I’ll completely forget about these extra buttons soon, so someday I’ll rediscover them and be disappointed once again. And I’ll eventually do it again.

Sisyphus has his boulder. I have a ‘Favorites’ button.

Cheers,
-Jason

Emerald City Comicon 2011: After-Action Report

2011-03-08T23:00:00.000-08:00

ECC began with a bang, as the first thing I did upon reaching our booth was knock over a chair. This set a general precedent, as I continually knocked down displays, backdrops, and tripped on boxes. Eventually, Leigh and my brother Rick simply removed anything within arm’s reach that could be knocked over. Unfortunately, they could not me-proof the entire convention, though a general warning was issued over the loudspeakers.

I kid.

About the loudspeakers.

So, yes. ECC was a great success for Wayfarer’s Moon. It featured the introduction of our brand-new TRADE PAPERBACK which features the first six issues, an illustrated short story, six pages of guest art, some race descriptions, and maps of the world of Lachryn. It is, I can assure you, 160 pages of pure, Wayfarer’s Moon goodness.
It is not yet available online, but don’t worry, I will announce when our publisher, Creator’s Edge Press, gets it set up.

We had a great time as usual. A few of our regulars, including Diane our Superfan, Ken (the first person to ever buy an issue of Wayfarer’s Moon who was not a friend or relative), and Blue Sun, a regular blog reader, all showed up. We made a lot of new friends, fought evil, and drank a lot of water.

NOTE: There’s something about big convention centers that dry me out like a llama in a shoe store (I have no idea what this means). Despite guzzling water the entire time, my lips were so dry that I could have sanded a deck with them. This prompted my brother to invite me to his house, as his deck needs refinishing. I declined.

Our usual gang of con-buddies were there as well. In no particular order:

Jason Metcalf, artist extraordinaire

Randy Kintz, another great artist

Jason Martin of Super Real Graphics

Michael Oeming of Mice Templars and other projects

Mike Maihack of Cleopatra in Space
Beth and Maria of Famine Lands, among other things

Drew of Pokeweed had the great misfortune of sitting next to us

Chuck, Bile, Travis and the rest of the gang from Creator’s Edge Press

Cody Vrosh and his lovely wife Sheatiel Sarao from BinaryWinter

A new friend, Jeff from Jefbot

And last, but not least, Cari from Toilet Genie, who was kind enough to give me some water after I polished off the entire case I brought with me

All in all, it was a great, yet exhausting time. Special thanks go out to my brother Rick, who left sunny California to help out his little brother.

Cheers,
-Jason

ECC Is Upon Us

2011-03-03T23:41:00.001-08:00

Greetings!

The Emerald City Comicon is now upon us! Leigh, myself, and our band of stalwarts have been preparing for weeks now and it's time to expose ourselves to the public!

Wow, that sorta sounds wrong. Ummm . . . reveal ourselves? No. Er. Display? Bare? Unveil?

Ah, forget it. We're just going to show what we've got.

Crap.

How about: we'll be there and you may, if you so desire, look at us in a not weird way.

Yeah, that degree in English was worth it.

Anyway, we hope you'll come by and say 'hi.' We promise we won't do anything strange. For us.

Cheers,
-Jason

Yet Another Great Idea

2011-03-01T23:25:00.000-08:00

I have yet another great idea. It’s so simple it’s brilliant. And so brilliant it just might be insane. And so insane, it might actually wrap back around to simple again. It’s like the Circle of Life, only it involves a lot more hysterical laughter.
Shouting ‘you fools!’ is optional.

And here it is: self-cleaning bathrooms.

‘What?’ you may say, followed quickly by ‘madness!’ But let me assure you, it’s brilliant. See the first paragraph for an affirmation of this.

So, here’s what you do. You tile your entire bathroom (you may use linoleum if you prefer) and install a drain. Next, remove the whirly arm thingies and the soap dispensers from multiple dish washers and install them in the ceilings and walls, hooking them up to the water system and a big button just outside the bathroom that says ‘CLEAN.’

Then, when you want to clean your bathroom, you simply add soap, shut the door, and press the button. Your bathroom will then go through an entire wash cycle, spraying high-pressure water and soap all over every surface, rinsing it off, and then drying the whole place.

It would save time, money, and effort. As an additional bonus, you could put children, pets, patio furniture, appliances, and if your bathroom is big enough, motorcycles. And yes, you could even put the dishes in there.

Like I said, brilliant.

Strangely enough, I had this idea while cleaning my bathroom last weekend. My brother is coming for a visit, so I figured I should at least get rid of anything that can actually move. Everything else is negligible.

He’s my brother. He’s not particularly squeamish.

On the plus side, I found my Swiffer, so I swiffered the hell out of my kitchen floor. I then discovered that you can swiffer a wall too. Now everything smells like lemons and rotting flesh.

NOTE: There’s a zombie in the closet. No, I don’t know how or why, but he had my Swiffer, which explains both the smells.

Anyway, feel free to install a self-cleaning bathroom. However, I make no guarantees as to the safety, efficiency, or sanity of such a project.

And I’m not sure if ‘swiffer’ is really a word. I’m just sayin’.

Cheers,
-Jason

Stupid Snow

2011-02-24T22:59:00.000-08:00

Well, if you live in the northwest, you're probably under a foot or so of snow right now. I realize all of you from back east are snickering, as you routinely deal with six and eight feet of snow, not to mention rampaging hordes of Yeti, but it's a big deal for us.

I just want it to stop snowing for the Emerald City Comicon, which is only a week away. I don't even want sunny or warm, just no snow. I would even prefer zombies to snow, as I can't beat the snow to death with a baseball bat.

NOTE: I realize that zombies are already dead. I guess I would be making them redead. Deader? Non-ambulatory?

Anyway, regardless of where you live, have a safe weekend and watch out for the yetis.

Cheers,
-Jason

The Ghost of Processors Past: Part 2

2011-02-23T23:07:00.000-08:00

Why would computers fear Leigh’s house? I don’t know. I doubt any man of flesh can truly understand the inner workings, the very thoughts of a computer.

NOTE: Actually, the engineers that made them probably have a pretty good idea. And some programmers. And that one guy at the Best Buy sounded like he knew what was going on. So yeah, plenty of people.

But let me posit this: what would a computer, a processor, fear?

The answer is simple: the vengeful spirit of a dead computer.

Imagine a computer pushed to the very limit. A computer forced to process something truly horrific, like a video of a drunk guy singing a Lady Gaga song and trying to dance. And what if that was all it did, hour after hour, day after day? That same video, on an endless loop, until it burned out.

Would that computer not go mad in a Poe, ‘hears a heart through the floorboards’ kind of way?

I think that’s what happened. Some poor computer was tortured to death by bad YouTube videos and died. And now, its ghost lingers in Leigh’s spare room. Other computers sense it, of course. The strong ones survive, but the weak ones . . . well, they don’t make it.

They are consumed by a tide of pure, binary fear.

Wow. That made no sense, but man it sounds good.

So, to sum up: Leigh has ongoing computer troubles. I hypothesized that his house is haunted by the spirit of an insane computer. Realistically, Leigh probably has just had a run of bad luck with hardware.

I like my explanation better, though.

Cheers,
-Jason

The Ghost of Processors Past: Part 1

2011-02-22T23:30:00.000-08:00

As you may have noticed, there will be no updates this week as Leigh is experiencing technical difficulties. Actually, Leigh himself is not experiencing difficulties, it’s his computer. I honestly don’t know if Leigh is personally having technical difficulties. I’m not exactly sure what kind of technical difficulties he would have.

Actually, that made me think about it and now I’m weirded/grossed out. Yet another mental image I really didn’t want and yet will remember forever.

If only I could use this power for good.

So, back to Leigh’s computer. He bought some RAM and a new video card and now his computer is a partially melted, smoking heap. And that was before he even put them in.

I kid. He installed everything, but now it won’t boot. He’s mystified. I’m mystified. Our actual, computer-literate friends are mystified. Computer hardware professionals are mystified. The FBI, CIA, the French Foreign Legion, and the State Department have been notified. We’re still waiting for a response.

In all honesty, I’m not surprised. Leigh has fairly frequent hardware problems. Weird hardware problems, like the strange, warbling scream that occurred whenever he booted up his last computer.

It’s like computers just commit suicide when he brings them home. This has led me to one inescapable conclusion: computers fear his house.

Tomorrow: Part 2

Guess What?

2011-02-17T22:37:00.000-08:00

The Emerald City Comicon is in two weeks!

We've been busily preparing for the show and we'll have some new things at the booth for those of you who've been by before. These new things include:

A new tablecloth
A new backdrop
An invisible dragon
A brother
The remains of a sandwich of uncertain origin

The brother isn't really new, he's just coming up to help out for the con. And never fear, the sandwich will be properly secured before the show starts, just in case.

Anyway, it's a three-day weekend (huzzah for Presidents), so have a safe and happy 72 hours.

Cheers,
-Jason

Blood in the Parking Lot

2011-02-16T23:20:00.000-08:00

I was at work the other day, busily sawing a monitor in half with a spork. I’m not entirely sure why I was doing this, but seeing as how I was almost halfway done, I figured I should just finish. ‘If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing to a psychotic extreme’ as my dad used to say. And then he’d hit me with a fish.

NOTE: I have no idea where he got or even kept the fish. In fact, I have no idea what kind of fish it was or even if it was the same fish. Was it a magic fish? Was there some sort of blood-debt involved? Had my father saved a Fish Prince and his reward was to always have a fresh fish at hand? That would explain a few things, except for why the fish were wearing little hats.

So, as I was sawing, a few coworkers passed by and I distinctly heard the phrase ‘taking blood in the parking lot’ pass between them. I dropped my spork, having instantly arrived at the obvious conclusion: there were vampires outside and they were ambushing people and drinking their blood.

Seeing as it was 2 in the afternoon and sunny out, I probably should have really thought things through, but I was busily trying to find something I could turn into a stake. A modern office, if you’ve never noticed, is remarkably lacking in wood.

Oh, there’s plastic, metal, cloth, whatever ceiling tiles are made of, and an abundance of carpeting, plenty of coworkers (useful as distractions, sure), but not a lot of wood. There aren’t even any pencils.

At long last, I found a pair of slight-used take-out chopsticks and after securely taping them together, I was ready to purge our parking lot of the undead.

“If anybody asks,” I told my coworker. “I’ll be out front killing vampires.”

“Sure,” was his response. This is generally how he responds to everything I do.

Now armed, I went forth to do battle.

The first thing I noticed was that there was a large van parked right next to the entrance. It had ‘Puget Sound Blood Center’ in big letters on one side, but I assumed this was merely a ruse on the part of the vampires. I snuck up on the door, tested it, and steeled myself for a life-and-death struggle with some really good looking, but very pale people.

I yanked the door open and leapt in, chopsticks raised, only to find a short woman in a white coat with a clipboard.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you here for the 2:00?”

“No, I’m here to destroy you and your nefarious schemes!” is what I wanted to say, but instead, I said “What?”

“The 2:00 appointment to donate blood.”

“Ummm . . . no.”

“Oh. Well, we have an open spot anyway. Did you want to donate?”

“Not really. I’m afraid of needles. And fish in hats.”

“Are you sure? Donating blood is vitally important . . . “ She kept talking, but I was distracted by one of our artists sitting on a couch with a band aid on his arm, eating a cookie.

“Do I get a cookie?” I interrupted.

“Sure.”

“Sign me up.”

One form, two needles, a few tears, and about twenty minutes later, I was happily eating a lemon snickerdoodle. The techs were very nice and they laughed politely when I told them I had been planning on killing them both with a pair of slightly-used chopsticks.

Or it might have been a nervous chuckle. I’m not really sure.

Cheers,
-Jason

P.S. In all seriousness, if you can, donate blood. It helps a lot of people and they give you cookies afterwards.

Graphic Novel Panel This Saturday

2011-02-03T22:01:00.001-08:00

Hey everyone!

This Saturday will be our Graphic Novel Panel with the Seattle Branch of the Graphic Artists Guild.

Featured guests include:
Peter Bagge
Phil Foglio
Mike Grell
Michael Oeming
and, of course, us.

Additionally, I can promise that there will be neither ninjas, clowns, mimes, or nutcrackers present. At great personal risk and expense, I brokered a deal with all four factions to ensure that the event would go off without any balloons, bloodshed, or cracked nuts.

Pretty much, I just bought them all spa gift certificates that were only valid this Saturday. I realize that this means there will be a lot of very relaxed ninjas, clowns, mines, and nutcrackers fighting on Sunday, but that is the price we must pay.

I honestly have no idea how I'm going to distract them for ECC.

So, come on by if you can. There will be a talk, a Q&A session, and a portfolio review as well. Sadly, I will not be contributing to the portfolio review, as I'll just keep saying 'wow, you can draw way better than I can' for every portfolio.

Have a safe weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

Knots

2011-02-02T23:39:00.000-08:00

A buddy of mine at work brought in a book of knots the other week. No, the book was not made of knots, rather it’s an instructional guide on how to make them. Knots, not books.

So during load times or any other period when nothing else is going on (meetings, many conversations, driving, etc), I’ve been practicing knot-making on a piece of cord that used to be the cinch on an old pair of sweatpants. So far, I’ve mastered the Alpine Loop, the Bowline, the Half-Crab, the Albatross Split, the Noose, the Klingon (both Plain and Fancy), and the Reticulating Hair.

Yes, I made some of those names up. No, I won’t tell you which ones.

NOTE: I actually already knew how to make a noose. Thing is, for the life of me I can’t remember where or how I learned it. It’s not terribly complicated knot and I remember making them when I was a ten-ish. I used to hang them from the ceiling to scare the other kids in the ward. The orderlies always got mad at me and sometimes the doctors would increase the dosage on my meds, but that never really stopped me. Good ol’ ward 12. The fun we used to have.

I’m actually starting to really enjoy the knot-making. They’re really just little puzzles. Once you figure out how the knot works, you can see how the loops connect and how you could (hypothetically speaking) use it to strangle a werewolf. Or just some random hairy person.

However, knot-making is a rather useless skill for me, as I rarely venture outside and the computer game industry is not one where you have to secure things with rope on a regular basis. It would be so much cooler if it did.

You’d be at your desk, busily typing away, and suddenly your boss would run into the area and yell ‘We’ve got worm sign! Batten down the monitors and grab your harpoons!”

We’d all leap to our feet (Metaphorically. Computer gaming types don’t generally move quickly) and secure our equipment with a series of intricate knots, then don our slickers and protective eyewear while singing a rousing sea-chanty. Something like ‘yo ho ho and a bottle of Dew!’

And then we’d saddle our trusty war-yaks and go throw harpoons at the giant worms that were trying to eat our mouse pads.

That would be so cool.

And yes, the doctor said I was fine and didn’t need my meds anymore. The fact that he woke up in a room full of nooses had nothing to do with it.

Cheers,
-Jason

Alert Message.

2011-02-01T09:06:00.000-08:00

Many alert readers have let us know that they are getting a warning when visiting our site. This warning seems related specifically to one of our advertising boxes. We’ve been notified of the problem by people using Chrome, IE and Firefox, but the warning seems more common on Chrome.

We’ve let the advertiser know about the problem, and we’ll get it resolved as soon as we can.

Thanks!

Leigh Kellogg

8 Days

2011-01-27T21:55:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone,

Just a gentle reminder that in just 8 days, we will be appearing at Cornish Community College to take part in a panel on Graphic Novels for the Seattle branch of the Graphic Artists Guild.

Some of the topics we'll cover will include 'lasers: beam weapons of the future or irritating toy?' 'Who wrote the book of love?' and 'holy crap, I'm on a panel with Peter Bagge, Phil Foglio, Mike Grell and Michael Oeming!'

Actually, we'll just be talking about graphic novels. I will be thinking about those other topics though, so feel free to ask me about them afterwards.

Just in case you didn't recognize all the names I listed above, let me say that they're all quite famous and if you're at all interested in comics, graphic novels, or the letter 'r,' I would strongly suggest you attend.

And we'll be there too.

Have a great weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

Buttheads

2011-01-27T00:08:00.000-08:00

Some of you may have heard of the new fad among kids called ‘weasel snorting.’ Now, while I believe that what a person and a weasel do in the privacy of their own home (assuming, of course, that they’re both legally adults) is their own business, this is just wrong. Especially the bit with the bendy straws.

Seriously.

But enough about that. What I really want to talk about today is the growing trend of spammers registering on forums and then mass mailing to all the members. We here at Wayfarer’s Moon have fallen victim to this tactic, which is why we’ve instituted a few security measures to attempt to keep them out.

It used to be that you could just register. Now, however, we have to force people to go through a series of steps.

1. Provide a user name and email.
2. Provide at least three current references. Family does not count.
3. Find a sphinx and answer its riddle. And no, the answer is not ‘man.’
4. Send us the answer to the riddle via a WWII Enigma machine.
5. Correctly input a captcha.
6. Stab a vampire with a fork and successfully get away.
7. Watch an Uwe Boll movie. This will prove your courage.
8. Watch a second Uwe Boll movie. This is just because we’re mean.
9. Do the Time Warp (again).

Okay, fine. You really don’t have to do all that (though it would be cool if you did). You just register and then we try to establish whether or not you’re a real person via some cross-checking. It’s kind of a pain, but generally we only get one or two a day, so it’s not that big a deal.

However, for some reason, I had eight today (plus one ‘honest to goodness, real-life person’). It took me almost thirty minutes to go through them all, thirty minutes I could have spent doing something productive like playing FreeCell.

NOTE: I love FreeCell and I rock at it. I play FreeCell and keep the stats going until I lose one and then I zero them out. My personal best was 428 wins in a row. It took well over a year and then my computer tanked. And yes, I have no life.

So, forum spammers (henceforth known as ‘buttheads’), please stop. You register, we ban you. You try again, we ban you again. It’s like a very silly little war that just wastes a lot of time. Time that could be better spent on FreeCell. Or curing something.

Please, if not for me, do it for the kids. And the weasels.

Cheers,
-Jason

Blood Elf Paladin With A Bad Moon Rising

2011-01-20T23:58:00.000-08:00

You may or may not have heard, but the signs of the zodiac have been changed. I’m not really sure why this happened, but I’m sure it was done because of precise scientific calculations that were meticulously and painstakingly assembled by a team of experts that included at least three Nobel Prize winners.

Huh. I just looked it up and it turns out that it has to do with a shift in the Earth’s axis. I was all set to make a joke about a gypsy curse or a mummy’s nose or vampire hairdos and it turns out there was an actual scientific explanation.

Apparently, the astronomers are in agreement about this, but most astrologers are unconcerned and will continue to use the traditional dates and months.

Here’s my thing, though. The traditional symbols aren’t really all that relevant anymore. I’m a Leo and it doesn’t really mean anything to me. Sure, lions are cool. So are tigers, wolverines, nachos, cordless power tools, and if done right, flatulence.

My point is, people don’t relate to the signs anymore. At one point, the symbol for Aquarius was significant. It meant something. Now, it’s a guy pouring water. Probably from a Brita.

What we need are signs that people can relate to. I therefore humbly suggest that we go with the races from WoW.

There are twelve of them, they’re pretty diverse, and when you say ‘I’m a Tauren born under a Constipated Moon’ people will know what you mean. And to give you fiber.

And in all honesty, we should be able to just pick which sign we want. I know that goes against the whole astrological sign thing, but it gives you a chance to express yourself, to tell the whole world that you’re a Human and proud of it.

NOTE: I never play Humans in games. I’m a Human in real life (so it’s claimed), so I want to be something else when I’m in a fantasy world. As long as I get to hit things, I’m happy.

And why limit it to just race? Pick the class that you feel best represents you as well or even one you aspire to be like. If you feel like you need to Vanish on a regular basis, be a Rogue. If Slamming is your thing, be a Warrior. If calling down the primal force of fire and destroying all who oppose you is your thing, give me a call, we’ll work something out.

Me? Though I loved my Tauren Warrior, my Blood Elf Pallie was probably my favorite. There’s nothing quite like stabbing something and healing yourself at the same time. It used to make me giggle.

Seriously.

Cheers,
-Jason

Friday the 14th

2011-01-13T22:41:00.000-08:00

Greetings! 2011 is upon us and the con season is nearing yet again.

Our first outing of the year will be at a Graphic Novel Panel taking place at the Comish College of the Arts for the Seattle branch of the Graphic Artists Guild on February 5th.

It’s a four-hour event where you can come listen to a panel of experts talk about how to produce graphic novels, ask questions, and even get a portfolio reviewed. The best part is the experts:

NOTE: They’ve all worked on a ton of projects, these are just some highlights :)

Peter Bagge of Hate, Neat Stuff, Martini Baton and Sweatshop.

Phil Foglio of What’s New With Phil and Dixie, Girl Genius, and Buck Godot.

Mike Grell of The Warlord, Jon Sable, and runs on numerous DC titles.

Michael Oeming of The Mice Templar, Powers, and Quixote.

And us. Jason and Leigh.

Yeah.

So, if you’re at all interested in comic books or graphic arts in general, here’s your chance to talk to some very big names in the comics field and have all your graphic novel questions answered.

Have a great weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

Mother Nature is Messing With Me

2011-01-11T23:14:00.000-08:00

I don’t like snow. Well, that isn’t completely accurate. I don’t like driving in snow. I have nothing against the substance itself and in fact, was an ardent skier back in the day. It’s just that it always seems to snow at the wrong time.

For example: when I’m at work.

I drive a light, rear-wheel drive pick-up and live on a hill. The chance of me actually getting home if there’s decent snowfall is slim. In addition, there’s the whole ‘sliding backwards into oncoming traffic’ thing, which though exhilarating, is best left to professionals.

NOTE: Yes, I could put sandbags or a pile of hobos in the back of the truck to weigh it down, but I never seem to get around to it. Plus, it’s really hard to keep the hobos back there unless you tie them securely and for some reason, the police find this suspicious at best.

Now, once I’m home, everything is fine. I have several restaurants and grocery stores within walking distance and don’t mind an occasional stroll through a winter wonderland. In fact, if it snows enough, we might get a day off work, on account that they don’t want the employees to die getting there.

So, imagine my delight when I heard that it was supposed to snow last night. This meant that I could potentially get a snow day without the danger of driving and potentially wetting myself from sheer terror.

I went to the store, stocked up on movies and food (even bought ice-cream), and happily went to bed, thoughts of a pleasant day at home watching movies in my underwear racing through my head. Upon awakening, I sprang to the window (ie, shuffled grumpily) and was disappointed to find that there was no snow. Upon arriving at work, I was greeted with the news that it might snow at about 4 in the afternoon, meaning that I would get to drive in it.

Luckily, no snow materialized, so I was able to get home with only the usual minor abrasions (don’t ask). At this point, I was fine with the whole thing. No snow is better than snow. Yet as I write this, it is now snowing. There’s a good half-inch out there, with more coming down.

This is good, yes? No, as the weather report said that it won’t stick and should be gone by morning.

So, as far as I can tell, Mother Nature is just messing with me. She’s taunting me with snow and then yanking it away.

Repeatedly.

Snow or no snow, I don’t care. Just do one or the other.

Just as long as I don’t have to drive in it.

Cheers,
-Jason

Parts Are Intact

2011-01-06T23:14:00.000-08:00

Well, I’m back after a lovely vacation and Christmas with mother down in California. Food was eaten, drinks were quaffed, I gained about five pounds, and my mother refrained from shooting me, seeing as she’d just put up new wall paper.
So good news all around.

Even the ninjas, clowns, and mimes have declared a cease-fire for the season, which is nice because I’m getting tired of dodging shuriken, exploding pies, and invisible bullets. At least with the invisible bullets, I can just pretend I have an invisible shield and they don’t work. If the mimes ever think of invisible Teflon bullets, I may be in trouble.

You might think that with all this that I’m happy and carefree, skipping about as it were, whistling a jaunty tune.

NOTE: I’m not really a skipping whistler guy. I’m more a shuffling mutterer.

You’d be wrong.

It’s the nutcrackers. I have about a dozen, given to me over the years by my mother. I honestly have no idea why. She just started buying them for me. I admit, they’re an improvement over the Barbie dolls, but still.

Where was I? Oh yes.

It’s just that I’ve been finding the nutcrackers in odd places lately. There was one in the cabinet where I keep my Captain Crunch. There was one on the counter in the bathroom. There was even one under the desk when I started writing this. So either I’ve been sleep moving nutcrackers or there’s something nefarious going on. And sometimes, I can feel their wooden eyes on me. I realize this sounds nuts, but I can’t imagilasdkloaasdha

Ha ha. I am making a thing that is of amusement. The nutcrackers are best. They make all things more good. I am very fine. All of my human parts are intact and doing correct. I must go. I must order many hundreds of bags of nuts. In shells.

Delicious shells.

Cheers,
Jason the Human

We're back!

2011-01-05T19:20:00.001-08:00

And updating again! Hope everyone had a good break.

-Leigh

Almost Christmas

2010-12-16T21:45:00.000-08:00

Well, we have what, 7 days until Christmas?

I'm sure all of you have finished your shopping and are completely prepared in every way imaginable. I personally have to wait until the very, very last minute, as no one in my family can actually verbalize what they want.

There's a lot of 'oh, I don't really want anything' or 'no, you don't need to spend money on me' or 'you being here is gift enough.' This is obviously baloney and we all know it, but we say it anyway (it's a tradition).

This means that on the 23rd or so, there will be frantic flurry of phone calls, as people demand to know what the hell everyone else wants. We then, begrudgingly, tell each other and then we storm the malls to find the Deluxe Fairy Barbie with Detachable Kitten Cannon that Really Fires.

This will obviously be sold out, so we get the next best thing (Spontaneous Combustion Barbie) and hope it's the thought that counts.

Speaking of gifts, it would make Leigh and I very happy if you could take the time to vote for us. It's the gift that keeps on giving, provided you do it every day :)

Look for the usual blogs and posts next week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Tinfoil and Togas: Part 2

2010-12-15T23:24:00.000-08:00

So after the mandatory 24 hours of psychiatric observation, I was set free. I immediately went to the nearest grocery store and purchased $40 in ingredients. Once I got home, I realized I’d simply bought 10 boxes of Lucky Charms, so I went back again (10 boxes would only last about 3 days, after all).

I then bought a whole bunch of other stuff that could conceivably go into a burrito bowl. I got several different kinds of cheese, copious amounts of rice, some spices, ketchup, beans, 9mm ammo, tin foil, a tiny shovel, and several other things I probably shouldn’t have.

Oh, yeah. Chicken. Like, 5 pounds.

I got home, spread my purchases out on the counter and stared at them for a while. I would like to say I was waiting for some artistic inspiration or something like that, but in truth I didn’t really know what to do. I picked up a can of beans and placed it atop the chicken. This seemed like a start, so I quickly built a little food pyramid. It was rather impressive, if I do say so myself, but it still wasn’t turning into anything edible.

It was time to get serious.

First of all, I needed the proper attire. I don’t own an apron, so I grabbed an old sheet and made a toga. I then made and donned a tinfoil hat. This was mostly for the look, but also just in case the chicken tried to use some sort of mind-control powers on me.

NOTE: Yes, I know the chicken was already dead. That just meant it might be a Chicken Lich, hence the precautionary hat.

Now, thusly clad for battle, I got a machete, a hammer, seven feet of rope and set about opening everything and putting it into the largest pan I could find. My oven is apparently ancient, as it had no ‘make edible’ setting, so I picked a random temperature and set it to ‘Bake’ or ‘Clean’ or something. I’m not really sure which.

In went the pan, I set the timer for 87 minutes (give or take) and then wandered off to watch whatever happened to be on the Military Channel.

It was around three hours later that I noticed the smell. After a quick check to make sure the ninjas hadn’t set me on fire again, I followed my nose (it always knows) to the kitchen, where I discovered smoke pouring out of the oven. I had forgotten to actually set the timer, you see.

Which takes us back to the beginning. My magnificent pan of burrito bowl fixin’s was now a thick, black rock that tasted terrible, regardless of the amount of ketchup I put on it.

I like to think I learned a lesson that Sunday. Something meaningful about hope and charity and the boundless joy and beauty found in nature. Or something. In reality, I just learned that while I can’t cook, I look really, really good in a toga.

The tinfoil hat works too.

Cheers,
-Jason

Tinfoil and Togas: Part 1

2010-12-14T23:23:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday found me in the kitchen wearing a toga and a tinfoil hat. I was wearing the toga because I don’t own an apron. I was wearing the hat because I wanted to feel stylish. I was wearing both items because I was attempting to cook.

‘Attempt’ is the proper word, as the pan in front of me was covered in a thick, black, charred substance that at one time had been a chicken. Smoke was rising and for once I was thankful that the ninjas had replaced my smoke alarm with a fugu fish.

NOTE: I don’t quite know why they did it. I can only surmise that they assumed I wouldn’t notice it was a fugu fish when I went to change the battery and I would somehow eat one of the poisonous bits. It was a cunning plan, foiled only because I don’t like seafood. Or generally eat bits of smoke detectors.

You see, Saturday for lunch I had a ‘burrito bowl,’ which is what you get when you dump everything that normally goes inside a burrito into a bowl. As I ate, I happened to notice what my burrito bowl consisted of: namely, chicken, cheese, corn, rice, beans, and some salsa.

And then I had an idea.

I could, given the proper tools and ingredients, make this myself. The next few minutes were kind of hazy. I may have shouted ‘Eureka!’ I may also have leaped onto the table and done some sort of dance. Said dance may have involved ‘groinal gyrations.’ As I mentioned earlier, I don’t really remember. I guess I’ll just have to check the police report.

Tomorrow: Part 2

Three Things

2010-12-09T21:32:00.000-08:00

First off, I’d like to apologize to everyone within a ten-foot radius of my cubicle today. While the Triple-Beefy-Beany-Cheesy-Magnum-Burrito with extra jalapenos I had for lunch was delicious, the aftermath was not as pleasant.

Secondly, Cataclysm-itis seems to have cleared up and the studio is once again filled with happy, contended workers who seem to do nothing but talk about Cataclysm. I haven’t actually played yet, but I feel like I have. At some point, I’ll be able to rock a Tauren Paladin.

And third, please vote for us! We’ve dropped a bit in the rankings and I while I realize that many of you are visiting friends and relatives and are away from your computers, please feel free to log in on their computers and vote for us. And make us their home page.

Have a great weekend everyone. We will be back next week with our usual page updates and blogs.

Cheers,
-Jason

The ‘Flu’

2010-12-07T22:56:00.000-08:00

I walked into work this morning like normal, punched a mime, got some water, checked my email, fed the orca, y’know, all the usual things one does at one’s place of work if one happens to be a complete psycho.

After about fifteen minutes, I noticed . . . something. It took me a while to figure it out. At first, I thought maybe it was the lack of screaming, but that wasn’t it. Then I wondered if the coffee robot had broken again and everyone was asleep at their desks, but that wasn’t it either. Then I realized what it actually was: everyone was gone.

Seriously.

This had happened before. Sometimes, an emergency meeting will be called early in the morning and the whole studio will be in the big meeting room. So I wandered over and checked. Nope, no one was there either.

I passed one of the other designers. He was hurrying out the door, his hat and coat on.

“Hey, Volpar” I said.

He barely glanced at me. “Sick,” he said. “Gotta go home.”

“Ah,” I said, making a sign to ward off the evil spirits that had infected him.

And then Volpar was out the door. Leaving me alone again.

I began to wonder if I was the last man in the studio, if not the last man on the planet.

NOTE: I once saw a French movie about a man who was the last man in the world. Eventually, he met the last girl and then she died. There might have been a dog too. Needless to say, it was not a happy film.

So I did what anyone of us would do, which is why thirty minutes later, when a producer wandered by, I was building a crude shelter out of office supplies and not wearing any pants.

“Yo,” the producer said.

“Hi,” I responded.

We stared at each other in silence for a moment. He had enough wisdom not to ask why I was trying to make fire by rubbing two staplers together.

“So,” I finally said. “I kinda assumed I was the only one here.” I gestured at my crude barrier of paper boxes. “This was in case zombies attacked.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “You do know what today is, don’t you?”

“Is it my birthday?”

“I have no idea. It’s December 7th.”

I shrugged.

“Cataclysm went live today. Everyone called in sick so they could stay home and play.”

“Ah,” I said. “Why are we still here?”

“Good question.”

Cheers,
-Jason

Dresses – Seriously

2010-12-02T23:03:00.000-08:00

There have been a few questions regarding our lovely heroines getting fitted for dresses during the last few updates. They have ranged from ‘why do the dresses look like that?’ to ‘wait, what?’ to ‘WTF?’

So, here’s a quick history of dresses:

In the way olden days, nice dresses were made by hand to fit a particular (wealthy) woman. They measured, cut out the necessary shapes from the appropriate cloth, and then stitched the whole thing together. Obviously, if the woman in question gained or lost any weight, the whole thing would have to be taken in or let out as appropriate.

A bit later, (in just the olden days) the individual parts for the dresses were pre-cut and then they fitted them to the individual lady. This was much faster, but everything still had to be custom-fit. And yes, still limited to only those who could afford it.

Only in the last hundred or so years have dresses (and clothing in general) been ‘off-the-rack’ so to speak.

NOTE: If you’re an expert on clothing and are now furiously screaming at your computer for my massive generalities (or mistakes), please do not resort to violence.

So in the scenes you saw, Lily and Iri were getting the second version: pre-cut pieces were being pinned on for fitting and comparison. Those were not the finished dresses by any means. You’ll be seeing those in a bit.

In short: trust us, we’re nerds. We live for the details. Heated discussions have been had over how a helmet would buckle, what kind of hilt a sword should have, and who was the better Captain of the Enterprise.

So have a good weekend and look forward to a new page on Tuesday! And vote! Pretty please! And don’t ask how I know so much about women’s clothing!

Cheers,
-Jason

TMHLLDJYD for Short

2010-12-01T23:11:00.000-08:00

I had yet another amazing idea for a show. Hold on, this will take a bit of back story.

Last week I went to visit my mother for Thanksgiving. It was a pretty average visit, all things considered. I showed up at her door and she took a shot at me. I went to the bathroom, she took a shot at me. I reached for the remote, she took a shot. You get the idea.

And yes, mother is a terrible shot.

Anyway, on Tuesday evening she insisted on watching the finale of Dancing with the Stars. I decided to go ahead and watch it with her, owing to the fact that she was armed. In short, it was a two-hour finale with about ten minutes of actual dancing.

Now don’t get me wrong, the dancing was fun to watch. I found the majority of the show rather dull, but it did live up to the name: there were stars and they danced. A bit.

The big problem I had with the show was the fact that there were about a dozen gorgeous female dancers on hand, all of whom seemed to be at least three-quarters leg, and the show didn’t spend nearly enough time on them. I wanted to watch the pretty girls dance. A lot.

So here’s my idea: make a new show called Thirty Minutes of Hot, Long-Legged Dancers Just Y’know, Dancing. Or TMHLLDJYD for short. It would be much cheaper to produce, seeing as you wouldn’t need the judges, audience, stars, or honestly, much in the way of wardrobe.

Oh, and if you liked to watch the guys, we could have a companion show called . . . uh . . . Dancing . . . Guys. It could use the exact same set and come on right after. Everyone would get to watch the group they preferred and some would want to watch both, so bonus for them.

And ideally, the guys would distract my mother long enough for me to get away. She’s gonna get lucky one of these days and I’m a big fan of not bleeding.

Cheers,
-Jason

Blogs Sketchy

2010-11-11T21:33:00.001-08:00

Hey all,

I apologize for the lack of blog updates this week, but we're going into crunch mode at work and it's hard to think of strange and/or humorous things after 10-12 hours. This will likely continue into next week, but I'll try and get at least one blog up.

In other news: our first week of two updates appears to be a success, in so much that no one has complained that two is 'too many.' Though if you desperately want us to go back to one a week, please let us know. We value all your opinions.

Also, please take the time to vote for us. It's the little blue button just to the right of the comic. Just get in the habit of clicking on that when you're done with the comic or blog, if you wouldn't mind. Those votes help us keep the site running and a steady stream of Wayfarer's Moon coming out.

Have a great weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

Bellingham Comicon: After Action Report

2010-11-09T22:04:00.000-08:00

First of all, let me note that the actual con was not in Bellingham, but in Ferndale. Curious, I looked up the city’s website was helpfully informed that ‘post apocalyptic biker gangs are rarely seen in Ferndale.’ This, I thought, was incredibly valuable information. We have to pack so much into the car, including anti-zombie kits, anti-vampire kits, anti-lycanthrope kits, and a flamethrower (just in case), that it was nice not to have to include the anti-post apocalyptic biker gang kit.

Sadly, the webpage lied, but more on that later.

To our left was Shannon Devine of Psychedelic Circumstances and to our right was John Lustig of Last Kiss. Many of our usual con buddies were also there. Artist Jason Metcalf was there, as was Quenton Shaw of QEW Publishing. Brian Randolph was also there representing the Hero Initiative, a fantastic charity for comic veterans. And last but not least, Travis and Ash from Creator’s Edge Press were just a couple tables down

The con went pretty well. It was a smaller con, but there was a pretty good turnout, post apocalyptic bikers notwithstanding. We talked to a lot of cool folks and had a good time. Leigh even proclaimed the bbq covered hot dog he had for lunch as the ‘best bbq covered hot dog I’ve had since breakfast.’

Sadly, we should have included our anti-post apocalyptic biker gang kit, because when we left the hall, we found ourselves quickly surrounded by a group of leather-clad desert-mutants who demanded meatloaf. Normally, we would have used our anti-post apocalyptic biker gang kit on them, but instead, we just gave them the meatloaf. It just seemed simpler that way.

NOTE: The city of Ferndale does not have a problem with post apocalyptic biker gangs. I’m sure Ferndale is a lovely place, filled with hard-working, industrious, and good-looking citizens. Please feel free to visit Ferndale secure in the knowledge that you won’t be attacked by post apocalyptic biker gangs.

Just a quick note: If you haven’t noticed, Wayfarer’s Moon is now updating twice a week! We’re now posting on Tuesdays and Thursdays! And please vote for us! We have more meatloaf! I’m not kidding!

Cheers,
-Jason

Now Updating Tuesdays and Thursdays!

2010-11-07T22:16:00.000-08:00

Good news, everyone!

We will now be updating Tuesdays and Thursdays.

That's right! You will now be able to get Wayfarer's Moon twice a week!

Tune in to see Iri and Lily battle the forces of evil! There will be magic! Mayhem! Double digit body counts! And shopping!

And if you can, vote before you go! It's the little blue button just to the right of the comic. Voting helps keep us afloat, so please do it as often as you can.

Thank you all for reading!

Cheers,
-Jason and Leigh

Bellingham Comicon

2010-11-04T21:44:00.000-07:00

Greeting and salutations!

First off, just a quick reminder that we will be at the Bellingham Comicon this Saturday. I plan on wearing a dapper ensemble of a black Wayfarer's Moon t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. I might wear a black overshirt or a sweater, should the weather be incliment. I realize I'll be slightly overdressed for the occasion, but that is the price of fashion.

I don't know what Leigh will be wearing, but I'm sure it will likewise be stunning.

At any rate, there will be a cadre of talented artists, writers, inkers, colorists, letterers, madmen, and comicmongers there, so I encourage all of you to come and say 'hello.'

And regarding Single Edge Studios, look for an announcement next week that I'm sure will delight you all.

Have a safe and pleasant weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

El Payaso: Part 5

2010-11-03T23:42:00.000-07:00

The mime staggered, his hands going to his stomach. He veered first to the left, then to the right, staring at the imaginary blood on his hands. With a silent scream he slowly sunk to the floor, twitching a bit before growing still, his eyes still wide with shock and horror.

He then jumped back to his feet and charged us, shouting some sort of wordless mime battle cry. At which point the Dame shot him in the stomach and he did more or less the same thing he’d just done, save that he actually died.

I was in a corner with the Dame. I had a chair at the ready and was bludgeoning anyone who got to close, while she shot the occasional mime. All in all, it was a strangely quiet chaos.

The ninjas fought almost silently, save for the occasional yell. The mimes were true to form and made no sound, even as they took horrible injuries. The clowns were the noisiest, what with their beeping noses and air horns, but they too made relatively few sounds. If it weren’t for the fact that people were being strangled by their own intestines, you’d have thought it was a particularly strange bit of modern dance.

“All in all,” the Dame said, as she reloaded. “This isn’t too bad.”

A clown staggered by, a shuriken stuck in his forehead, but just when he managed to pull it out, a mime ran him through with an imaginary spear.

“Compared to what?” I asked, ducking as a balloon grenade exploded nearby. “We need to get out of here.”

“Why, it looks like the clowns are winning?”

It was true. The ninja reinforcements hit the mimes first and there was a great slaughter on both sides, ninja-tos and imaginary axes thudding into flesh, red blood mingling with the black and white. The clowns hit them both in a great charge of oversize shoes and dingy top hats.

“But look at the box.”

The box containing the gall bladder was imbedded in the wall from when a clown threw it through a ninja. It was starting to vibrate.

“Is that bad?”

“Relatively speaking: yes. If that gall bladder goes, it’ll take the whole building with it.”

“Then perhaps,” she said, as she took a shot at a ninja and missed. “We should leave?”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But there’s a small battle going on in front of us.”

“Then why don’t we use the exit door directly behind us?”

I turned and found that the exit door was indeed directly behind us. A spleen splattered against it as I looked. Thirty seconds later, we were well across the street. The Dame offered to get us both ice-cream, so I settled down to watch the battle.

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the double scoop of Sticky Chewy Chocolate. “The gall bladder’s going to go any minute now.”

“Probably,” she said, as she nibbled at her single scoop of strawberry.

We watched in silence for a minute, wincing at the occasionally extra savage blow or ducking when a mime cut loose with an imaginary submachine gun.

“You know,” said the Dame. “I feel like I should apologize.”

“For what? Shooting me in the leg?”

“No, for poisoning your ice-cream.”

I sighed. “Is this going to be a running theme with us?”

“Probably.”

And then I passed out.

I was home when I woke up. Nothing seemed out of place, save for the small card on my kitchen counter. It was white and had a picture of a harlequin on it. When I turned it upside down, it read ‘We’re not done yet.’

I sighed, tossed the card back onto the counter, and then went to see if any cartoons were on.

Cheers,
-Jason

El Payaso: Part 4

2010-11-02T23:46:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t think of anything to say. We sat in silence, as the mariachi version of the 1812 Overture thundered out of the speakers on the wall. A tumbleweed rolled by. Someone across the street yelled “Yahtzee!” In all likelihood, somewhere on the planet a piano exploded.

“I don’t much care for mimes,” I finally said.

“Who does?”

“No,” I continued. “I really, really don’t like mimes.” I took a deep breath. “It all started back in pre-school. A mime came to visit the class.” As I spoke, the room defocused and the 1812 Overture began to fade. “It was supposed to be a regular day. A normal day. A happy day. We were going to make macaroni ducks. Then every-“

I jumped at the gunshot. The Dame was pointing her .38 in the air, a curl of smoke rising from the barrel. “I don’t have time for a full flashback,” she said. “Just give me the quick version.”

“The mime locked me in an invisible box and I cried.”

“Good. The clowns appreciate enthusiasm.”

I shook my head. “I never said I was going to help.”

She smiled. “You think you have a choice?”

“After-school specials taught me that I always have a choice.”

The Dame leaned forward. “They lied.” She reached down to her purse and pulled it into her lap. “The clowns thought you might be reluctant,” she said, as she pulled out a small white box. “So they gave me this.” She placed the box on the table, turning the latch side towards me. There was a picture of a harlequin on the lid.

I flipped the top open. Inside was a small, grayish object. It looked kind of like a deflated sack. I flipped the top shut. “Very funny,” I said.

“No joke,” she responded. “You just assumed the gall bladder you found in the bathroom was yours. It wasn’t. This,” she said, tapping the box, “is.”

There was a noise from the kitchen, as if a can had fallen off a shelf. Neither the Dame nor I looked, as our gazes were locked on one another. Then a red balloon wafted out and over the counter. It slowly sank to the floor from a slow leak, flattening into a small red pool.

“You clowns play hard ball,” I finally said.

“Oh, I’m not a clown,” she responded. “I’m just an idiot who had an organ problem.”

“Then I’ll make you a deal,” I said.

“What could you possibly have that I’d want?”

“Well,” I began as I folded my napkin and put it on the table. “My guess is that our ninja waiter just took out a clown in the kitchen. Ninjas and clowns always travel in packs, so a fight is inevitable. On top of that, we haven’t seen a paper airplane in a few minutes, so that means the mimes are moving. And once the smell of blood hits the air, that gall bladder’s going to go ballistic. We’re about to be in the middle of a four-way ninja, clown, mime, gall bladder battle.”

The Dame froze, eyes going to the kitchen and back.

“What do you say? You want a partner for this dance or are you gonna try it solo?”

Tomorrow: The Finale!

The Little Things

2010-10-28T22:15:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I don't think we stop enough to consider the little things in life. Things like the way the sun hits my apartment window in the morning, casting a single ray of light across my room. The way my truck shudders when I'm at a stop light. And the fact that this weekend is Halloween and you can buy a ginormous bag of candy for roughly 10 bucks.

Personally, it's all about the candy corn. Sure, they're nothing but wax and sugar (and probably more sugar), but I can eat metric tons of them. I don't like them so much the next day, granted, but they're mighty fine going down.

Now if I could only come up with some sort of 'Peeps and Candy Corn' creation, all my seasonal goodies would meld into one massive, heart-stopping creation. And I literally mean 'heart-stopping.'

Be safe and enjoy the holiday.

Cheers,
-Jason

El Payaso: Part 3

2010-10-27T23:22:00.000-07:00

The Dame’s right eyebrow went up by a fraction of an inch. “Really?”

“’yep.”

“How can you be sure?”

“How many Tex-Mex-Chinese placed do you know serve sake at the correct temperature?”

“Good point.” She frowned. “This could be a problem.”

“Oh, goody,” I said, leaning back in my chair. Yet another paper airplane wafted by. This one said ‘I’m walking against the wind.’ “So, back to my original question: what does the clown mafia want?”

The Dame took a deep breath. “Let me be frank. The clown mafia is in trouble. A war’s coming and they’re not sure they can handle it.”

“How big a war, Frank?”

There was a muffled ‘bang’ from under the table. “That was a just a warning,” she said. “Any more stupid jokes and you can kiss a kneecap goodbye.”

“That wasn’t a warning,” I said. I was particularly proud of how evenly I managed to say it.

“What do you mean?”

“You winged me.”

The Dame looked under the table and then straightened up. “Perhaps a band-aid?”

I shook my head. “I just need to say a bad word and put pressure on it.” I pressed my other calf against the new flesh wound. “Crap. My dad was corpsman,” I said by way of explanation. “Anyway, Fr- nice lady, who could scare the clowns.”

She leaned close. “There’s only one group that’d scare them this bad: mimes.”

Tomorrow: Part 4

El Payaso: Part 2

2010-10-21T23:00:00.000-07:00

“It’s complicated,” she said, as she motioned to the waiter.

He shambled over, feet scraping loudly on the tile floor. He was a big man, in a Hawaiian shirt and a white apron. A Mariner’s ball cap was pulled low over his eyes and he barely looked at us.

“May I take your order?”

“Tofu and cheese enchilada for the lady. I’ll take a lunch size of the stir fry chicken fajitas.”

“Tofu and cheese enchilada and a stir fry chicken fajitas,” he repeated. “Anything to drink?”

“Water’s fine for me,” said the Dame.

“I’ll take a sake,” I said.

“Your order will be right out.” He shuffled away. Another paper airplane sailed past, embedding itself into the wall by the bathroom. ‘Help, I am in a box’ was written on the side. I ignored it.

“Well,” I said, tossing a tortilla chip into my mouth, missing, and having to fish it out of my shirt. “What do the Rubber Noses want?”

The Dame frowned. “You shouldn’t call them that. People that call them that have accidents.”

“What do they do? Beat them to death with rubber noses?”

“Actually, yes. Assuming the rubber nose is attached to a crowbar.”

The waiter shuffled over and placed my white bottle of sake down, along with a matching cup. He bowed slightly as he shuffled away.

“Big sake fan?” the Dame asked.

“Can’t stand the stuff,” I said, as I poured some out and stuck my finger in it.

“And what are you doing?”

“Checking the temperature.” I wiped my finger off. “Did you happen to bring a gun?”

“My .38 is actually pointed at you under the table.”

“Good, ‘cause our waiter’s a ninja.”

Next week: Part 3!

El Payaso: Part 1

2010-10-20T23:05:00.000-07:00

“I don’t much care for guacamole,” I said, pushing the dish away. We were the only two customers in El Payaso, a dimly-lit Tex-Mex-Chinese place that also did donuts. Behind the counter, a tall, thin man in a sombrero was standing motionless. “What’s his problem,” I asked, jerking a thumb at the man behind counter.

“That’s a skeleton,” said the Dame. “Y’know, Halloween?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” I shrugged. “So, let’s get down to business.”

We eyed each other across the table, as a mariachi version of ‘My Sharona,’ the 1979 hit from the Knack played in the background. It was, all things considered, pretty good. The Dame was dressed in a conservative dark suit that left everything to the imagination. It was so concealing it actually bent light around it. I was wearing jeans and an anime t-shirt, just to show I meant business.

“You go first,” she finally said, as she toyed with a cardboard coaster. It had a picture of a parrot with a machete on it that reminded me of the ‘parrot and machete’ stand my grandpa ran back in the old country (Chicago).

“Nah,” I replied with a shake of my head. “I’ve been to this dance before. Last time I got knocked in the head with a trophy and woke up next to a guy peeing.”

“You wanted a tango, you got a tango.”

“I don’t recall asking you to lead.”

“You seemed desperate for a partner.”

“Maybe I just wanted a waltz? A simple box step.”

She frowned and tapped her coaster on the table. A paper airplane floated by. It had a dirty word written on it. “I’m completely out of dancing metaphors,” she finally said.

“You could go with something like ‘you were in the wrong ballroom’ or something.”

“Why don’t we pretend that we had a good ten minutes of witty dancing repartee and get on with it?”

“Fine.” I cleared my throat. “I’m going to have the stir fry chicken fajitas.”

“Tofu and cheese enchilada,” she said.

“Now that we have that out of the way,” I said. “What does the clown mafia want?”

Tomorrow: Part 2

Doom!

2010-10-14T22:57:00.000-07:00

I'm going to play D&D this weekend. My very good buddy Sean is running a campaign and I'm playing an Illusionist for the first time.

NOTE: This is AD&D with lots of home brewed rules. Yeah. We're old.

You see, the thing is, I just got to 3rd level and will now be wreaking illusory DOOM on everyone and everything. I've got 10 hit points, 6 useable spells, and some major havoc on my mind.

This is, of course, a joke. I'm going to hide in the back and maybe cast a spell if I think it's safe. With 10 hit points, I roll a critical on a sneeze and I can literally kill myself. A plant hit me last adventure. Once. And I was at half health.

NOTE: it was a rather vicious plant, but still. Getting your ass kicked by a vegetable is kind of embarrassing.

I did pet a rust monster, so that was cool. I wanted to keep one and train it as a pet, but Sean wouldn’t let me.

Anyway, have a safe and fun weekend. I’m going to try really hard not to die in game.

Cheers,
-Jason

This, Not That: Part 2

2010-10-13T23:26:00.000-07:00

EDITORIAL NOTE: Several people have expressed concern that my health is poor and that I may die at any moment. I do appreciate the concern, but let me reassure you that things in my blogs are often exaggerated for comedic purposes. For example, I quote my doctor as saying ‘That’s very, very bad,’ when in truth, she only used one ‘very.’

EDITORIAL NOTE #2: Yes, I’m still exaggerating. Let me just say that I am fairly certain that I am in fact, immortal. This hypothesis has been tested on a couple of occasions and I’m still here, so there you go. I realize this is not rigorous science, but that’s why I was an English major.

EDITORIAL NOTE #3: Please do not try and test my assumed immortality. Do not try and hit me with a car, shoot me, stab me, drop things on me, poison me, set me on fire, drown me, hide a bear in my closet, duct tape a steak to me and then let loose a cheetah, or anything else that might hurt. Anvils are right out.

So, there I was at the doctor. She was showing me a printout with lots of numbers on it. Several (okay, most) of the numbers had three digits.

“Very bad,” she was saying. “Dead people have numbers like this.”

“What about that number,” I asked, pointing at a single digit. “It’s low. Isn’t that good?”

“That’s the page number.”

“Then what about that one,” I said, pointing at a number in the low 20s.

“That’s supposed to be high. Around 180.”

“Ah. So what am I supposed to do?”

“Do what you normally do,” she said. “But do the opposite. If you want to eat a hamburger, eat a salad. If you want a soda, drink water. If you want to sit down, run in circles.”

“But what if I want to exercise, should I just sit down?” I asked, somewhat smugly.

“No. Do a different exercise. Here,” she said, handing me a small stack of paper. “These are all your prescriptions. Take them all. Everyday.”

I took the stack of prescriptions. It was like a small phone book. “Wasn’t there anything,” I asked after a moment’s reflection. “That I scored well on?”

My doctor considered this. “Well,” she finally said. “You’re very hairy.”

“Is that good?”

She shrugged. “Probably won’t kill you. Maybe.”

Cheers,
-Jason

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 6

2010-10-12T23:08:00.000-07:00

I woke up.

I was in a bathtub full of ice. A bottle of gin was next to me and half a six pack of Coke. This was not the first time I’d woken up in a bathtub full of ice and alcohol and probably not the last, as this always happened when I visited my mother.

I looked around. I appeared to be in a bathroom, which made a certain amount of sense. The odd part was that it was a public bathroom and a heavyset man in overalls was peeing in a urinal a few feet away. As per male bathroom etiquette, we pretended not to see each other.

I waited until he left before I clambered out. Everything below my chest was completely numb and I discovered I was wearing a party hat. I took the hat off and looked at it. It read “Happy Anniversary!”

And then I saw something strange. Inside the hat was a folded note. As I pulled it out, I noticed a faint, rotting smell coming from one of the stalls. I took a few steps away and checked the note.

“Look at your stomach,” read the first line, so I did.

I lifted up my shirt and discovered I had a new scar. It was large and curved under my ribs. Whomever had done it had thought to make two small incisions above it, so it vaguely resembled a happy face.

“Look in the stall,” was the second line of the note, so I opened the door. On the seat was a tray. On the tray was a small, grayish organ that kind of looked like a sack. In the small, grayish organ was a switchblade, which was pinning it to the tray.

“Yes,” read the next line of the note. “That’s your gallbladder.”

I sagged against the doorframe. At long last, it was over. No more sleepless nights. No more sudden, stabbing pain. No more logging into my WoW account and deleting my gear. My gall bladder was dead.

“There are pain meds in your pocket,” was the next line of the note. “And there’s no charge,” it continued. “But, there will come a time when we’ll ask for a favor. You can choose to ignore our request and nothing will happen to you.”

“Really?” I asked.

“No,” continued the note. “We’ll do horrible things to you involving balloon animals. A very small car may be involved, as well as oversized shoes.”

I had a sudden realization. I had to pee. A minute later, I was reading the note again.

“Love and kisses,” ended the note. There was a small drawing of a harlequin mask. I looked at it upside down. “No,” it read, “this is absolutely a harlequin mask.”

I had another realization and then relaxed. My car keys were still there. I then had a third realization about the nature of humanity, but we won’t get into that. A fourth realization then followed: I now owed the clown mafia a favor.

I staggered out of the bathroom, blinking in the harsh, sudden glare of the sun. I was still at the Palm Tree Office Plaza. I ran for the Dame’s office, got lost, had to ask for directions, paused to catch my breath, and then finally made it to her office.

It was empty.

Was the Dame part of the clown mafia? Could she be the Harlequin? Or maybe she was a patsy who owed them a favor? A patsy like me?

I walked outside, threw my hands into the air, and screamed “Noooooooooooo!” to the vast, empty sky. This wasn’t because I owed the clown mafia a favor, but rather because someone had stolen the chair out of the back of my truck. And my bungie cords.

And then I went home and watched cartoons.

-Fin-

Cheers,
-Jason

This, Not That: Part 1

2010-10-05T22:46:00.000-07:00

I went to the doctor last week. It’s not something I normally do.

You see, my dad was a corpsman in the Navy (a medic, more or less) and he had a very simple approach to health care. It went like this:

• If there was no blood, you were fine.
• If there was blood, you said a bad word and then put pressure on it for a minute.
• If it was still bleeding, you doused the wound with alcohol and put a band-aid on it.
• If the miraculous duo of a band-aid and alcohol didn’t do it, you were allowed to stop work and sit down. Reapplication of the alcohol and band-aid could occur.
• If you were still bleeding, an old hand towel would be placed on the wound and then tightly bound with duct tape.
• If, by some miracle, the towel/duct tape combo didn’t work after an hour or two, then it was time to think about going to the hospital.

NOTE: My mom had the sole power of circumventing the above steps and having someone taken to the hospital. She was not a firm believer in the power of duct tape.

Now, you’re obviously thinking that I’m exaggerating for the sake of comedy, but let me assure you, the above list actually happened on more than one occasion.

This is a true story: when I was fourteen and working with my dad on a construction project, a framing hammer (32 ounces) was dropped on my head from about twenty feet up. I remember blinking and realizing I was lying on the ground. I sat up, got really dizzy, almost threw up, and the laid back down again. My dad appeared above me and said (I quote) ‘just rest there a minute, you’ll be fine.’ At some point later, he yelled at me to stop goofing off and get back to work. Which I did.

The above story was not to suggest that my dad was a horrible beast who regularly allowed his children to work with power tools while mildly-concussed. He did the same thing when he was injured as well. Three of his fingers were once smashed under a steel I-Beam. He jumped around for a minute, said multiple bad words, and then duct-taped his fingers together and continued working.

The doctor, as far as I knew, was someone you only saw if an actual limb was severed (happened – seriously, ask me to show you my finger).

So there I was, in the doctor’s office for a follow up after a physical and a blood test. My doctor is a tiny Asian woman who talks very, very fast. She showed me a printout and pointed at some numbers. “These are very bad,” she said. “See this one?” She pointed at a particularly high number. “That’s very, very bad.”

“How bad?” I asked.

“Make you dead bad,” she responded.

Yeah, my doctor rocks.

Tomorrow: Part 2

Time Off for Azeroth

2010-09-30T23:18:00.000-07:00

Honestly, if you think about everything that’s happened, it would really suck to live on Azeroth.

For the three people out there who haven’t heard, Blizzard is releasing the third World of Warcraft expansion: Cataclysm.

To sum up: things are trying to kill you. Again.

Let’s recap the last few decades of Azeroth’s history:
• Orcs invade
• Orcs invade again
• Arthas, perhaps the greatest twit in history, tries to kill everyone. Everyone fights back and Arthas runs away.
• Much like recess in the 4th grade, sides are picked and the Alliance and the Horde declare open season on each other
• A portal opens and everyone decides it would be nice to go to through and fight in a place where you can literally fall off the world
• Someone notices that there’s an entire continent full of giants, undead, and other vicious critters just to the north. Oh, and Arthas lives there. 10 million people immediately rush there to kill things and take their stuff.

And now, Deathwing, a rather pissed-off dragon who was supposed to be dead (I think), basically blows up the ocean and rips apart the continents (though honestly, the Barrens needed a bit of a touch up).

Personally, I think Azeroth needs a break. Seriously. Just a year or two where no new ultimate evil shows up, it stops raining fire, and everyone can just, y’know, chill.

The Horde and the Alliance could get together and maybe have a barbecue, listen to the Azerothian equivalent of Jimmy Buffet, knock back some margaritas, and just not be in dire peril. And rather than slaughtering giant mutated three-headed boars for their livers, the various races could just spend some time in the garden or reading a nice book. Something relaxing.

Seriously. I work a 40-hour week at a computer and I desperately need my weekends. Spending years fighting demonic invaders who want to rip your heart out with a corkscrew and a Barney hand-puppet should get you at least a fortnight off.

NOTE: A fortnight is two weeks and comes from the Old English phrase ‘fēowertēne niht’ which means ‘cow bladder.’

And frankly, the denizens of Azeroth should really take a break while they can, because once everyone gets tired of killing Deathwing, something even worse will happen.

Oh, and I might just have to roll a Tauren Paladin. That would rock :)

Cheers,
-Jason

Jet City ’10: After Action Report

2010-09-29T23:03:00.000-07:00

There was no fanfare that morn. No trumpet sounded a call. No sergeant yelled obscenities. It was a morning just like any other, save that men and women would clash in a convention center. A place that would henceforth be sanctified by their struggle.

I speak, of course, of Jet City 2010.

The morning began badly, as I overslept and had to rush to Leigh’s. We dispensed with the customary ‘shovel-to-the-face’ and instead leapt straight into his car and after a few minutes, back out again, realizing we were in the wrong automobile.

After a quick stop for coffee and some competitive arm wrestling, we arrived at the Convention Center, where hordes of nerds were already gathered, eager to gape and paw at the wares displayed inside.

To our right was Cari Corene, writer and artist of a book called Toilet Genie, a marvelous modern fairy tale about toilets and . . . er . . . genies. To our left was Randi Emberlin, a veteran of the comics wars, whose steady nerves kept our spirits up in the face of the impending horde.

Our back was guarded by our most worthy friends and artists Jason Metcalf, Randy Kintz, and Jason Martin of Super Real Graphics. Shane White manned a table by himself towards the rear and Beth Guizzetti of Famine Lands held the far right flank, while Chuck Messenger and Josh ‘Bile’ Cantrell of Creator’s Edge Press formed a salient ahead of us.

Just as our final book was put in place, the doors opened and battle was joined. There were nerds to the left of us and nerds to our right. There were cries of joy and shouts aplenty. Someone spilled a coke. A child cried. I cried. Leigh cried too, but he won’t admit it.

Just as our strength began to wan our colorist, Leah Rivera, appeared to bolster our line and I was able to range out to help our comic brethren. Keith Curtis of Crater on the Moon was there, along with Erik Thompson of Mad Atom Studios. The Indies were also represented and John Kantz was also seen amongst the throng. Brian Beardsley of Night Rail Press was also there.

A special mention of Brian Randolph, Sherpa Extraordinaire and local representative of the Hero Initiative should be made. They help comics veterans who've fallen ill or likewise in need of aid. Truly, a worthy cause.

Throughout the day, Brian Meredith of the Lynwood Comic Stop and co-creator of Jet City ranged back and forth shouting words of encouragement. The Knights of Solaris stopped by to lend their aid with mandolins and pointy things of foam. Scott Kurtz of PVP even appeared and said nice things to us, as did Phil Foglio of Girl Genius. Phil is true gentleman, as he always pretends he remembers me from the numerous times I've said 'hi' to him at cons. Blue Sun, a friend and fan showed up and chatted with us for a while, much to our delight.

At long last, the day was done. The booths were in tatters, their wares expended in the fray. The vendors, young and old alike, sank into their chairs, wiping the sweat of a hard day from their brow.

Books were packed away. Tablecloths folded. And then to a pub we went, where much beer was consumed and the phrase ‘huffin’ on the downstroke’ was used. No, I don’t know what it means, but it took three pitchers of beer to come up with, so it has to mean something.

This first Jet City is long over now, but its memory will linger on . . . oh, wait. Three pitchers of beer have pretty much blotted everything out. In fact, I’m not sure how I got home. Nor why I now have a tattoo of a fedora on my butt.

NOTE: I’m the designated driver, so yeah, I just drove us home. Still no clue about the tat though.

Cheers,
-Jason

Fiery, Smoky Death

2010-09-23T22:08:00.000-07:00

I am referring to the hard drive on my mail machine. Yes, it went bad. No, it didn't actually smoke or spew flames. Things just sort of stopped working. Like my entire Office Suite, for starters. Other programs quickly joined in and I'm now left with a squarish lump that really doesn't do much.

But not to fear, I religiously back up all my data, so nothing is permanently lost. I just have to transfer stuff to my old machine and hope it too doesn't decide to bite the dust.

So, this Sunday I get to buy a new hard drive, reinstall everything on it, including three different anti-virus programs, and then get it set up so all of its parts are working in harmony once more.

Saturday, however, will be JET CITY! Yes, the first show is this weekend and I urge you all to come out and say 'hello.' Leigh and I will be there in all our pasty glory and we're looking forward to seeing all our con-buddies and fans.

Look for the usual blogs and updates next week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 5

2010-09-22T23:09:00.000-07:00

“Come on back,” she said, padding down the hall in her bare feet. I followed and noticed a tangle of twisted, brightly-colored rubber in the corner of the hall, as if someone had made a balloon animal and then savagely murdered it. I didn’t give it much thought.

We went into one of three doors and I saw a sparse office that just contained a desk with a chair behind it, a trophy that showed a woman running from a zombie, and an empty birdcage.

She sat down in the only chair, placing the gun on the table in front of her.
I stood there for a moment, debating whether or not to just sit on the floor, and then decided to lean against the wall.

She smiled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Last guy that leaned against my wall didn’t do so well.”

“Why’s that?”

“Clown got him.”

I raised an eyebrow. “The outline downstairs?”

“Yep.”

I shifted. “Why’s a guy talking to you getting whacked by a clown in someone else’s office?”

“Ask the Harlequin.”

“No thanks, I like breathing. So, you never did say how you knew about my gall bladder.”

“I have a bug downstairs.”

“I see. The beauty mark?”

“One of several.” She picked up the Desert Eagle and idly scratched her temple with it. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, when she saw my expression. She pointed it up and pulled the trigger. A small flag popped out. It said ‘KA-BLAM!!!!’

“I thought they said ‘BANG?’

“Most do. This is a Desert Eagle. I couldn’t fit ‘OH MY GOD, THIS THING IS SO LOUD IT CAN BE HEARD IN SPACE!’”

“Good point.”

She dropped the gun into a drawer and leaned forward, her chin on her hands. “I can take out your gall bladder,” she said.

“Good. How much?” I pulled my wallet out. “I’ve got about 100 bucks, a set of floor mats, and a sweet chair.”

She shook her head. “I have something else in mind.”

“Like what?”

She rose, gesturing towards the bird cage. “Someone grabbed my bird. Left a note.”

“Really?” I looked at the cage. It was a nice model, with a swing, a mirror, a little tiny moat, and a sniper’s nest.

And then she hit me with the trophy.

Tomorrow: Part 6 – THE CONCLUSION

My Little Pacifists

2010-09-16T22:33:00.000-07:00

So, I'm playing this game called Majesty 2. It's a fantasy-sim where you build up your town and hire heroes whom you send on quests and such. Each level has a theme or particular challenge and I've been going through them and having fun, but now I'm completely stuck on this one level.

You see, there are a couple of rival lords and my town is right between them, so I'm stuck betwixt an enemy sandwich, as it were, and their heroes keep stomping the snot out of my town.

The thing is, my heroes seem really loathe to attack the enemy. In fact, they often run away (even when they're much higher level) and it's driving me nuts. They will walk right by the enemy heroes as they're busily destroying my castle and completely ignore them in order to fight a rat or something equally wimpy.

The only thing I can come up with is that my little men are all pacifists and can't bear the thought of shedding a fellow heroe's blood. This is unfortunate, as it reduces me to screaming 'No! Attack him! Him! The guy with the sword who's murdering the peasant DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF YOU!' at my computer. Strangely enough, this does nothing to motivate my little guys.

I'm also sure my upstairs neighbor really appreciates this.

Anyway, if anyone knows a good tactic for getting past this level, let me know.

Have a good and safe weekend. We will be back next week with the usual updates and blogs.

Cheers,
-Jason

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 4

2010-09-15T23:20:00.000-07:00

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “How’d you know?”

She tapped her foot on the floor. “Old building. Thin floors.”

“I doubt it,” I replied. “Otherwise I would have heard you walking around. Stiletto heels aren’t terribly quiet.”

“Good guess.”

“Not really. Women who hang around in the shadows smoking cigarettes always wear stilettos. I bet you have a little hat with a veil on it too.”

She smiled at me. Well, she showed her teeth, so I assumed it was a smile. “And I suppose you know what I eat for breakfast?”

“Lucky Charms. You say it’s just for the toy surprise.”

“Close. I’m a Captain Crunch girl.” She walked forward into the light. She was wearing a severely cut woman’s suit with stiletto heels. Dark hair framed a pale face, but the thing that drew my attention was the Desert Eagle in her right hand.

“Huh. I figured you for a snub-nosed .38.”

“It’s in the shop.” She leaned against the wall, gun held level at my midsection. “So, cowboy, you’re awfully glib for a guy with an organ trying to kill him.”

“You’re awfully well-armed for a Dame.”

She laughed. “Well, you kill a vampire in front of the Queen, it tends to leave an impression.” She waved the gun nonchalantly. “Relax. I’m not pointing it at you. I’m pointing it at your gall bladder.”

“How considerate.” I glanced around. “A chair or two would be nice.”

“I only had one left and I didn’t want you walking off with it.”

“That was a gift.”

“It was a figure of speech.”

We looked at each other for a few moments in silence. Ash from her cigarette dropped off, leaving a little clump on the otherwise immaculate floor.

“So,” I finally said. “Are we going to keep up the bad film noir parody or should we move on?”

“Oh, thank god!” she said, kicking off her heels. “Those things kill my feet.”

Next week: Part 5

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 3

2010-09-14T23:17:00.000-07:00

I turned, denting the wall with one of the chair legs. “Did you reconsider?”

He shook his head. “I was just going to validate your parking.”

“No need. I parked on the lawn.”

We stared at each other for a moment. Well, he stared at me. I was watching the beauty mark meander down the hallway.

“Look,” he finally said. “I know a Dame.”

“Congratulations. And I don’t think anyone calls them ‘dames’ anymore.”

“No, she’s a Dame. Like, when women get knighted, they’re not ‘Sirs,’ they’re Dames.”

“Like Dame Judy Dench?”

“Exactly.” He produced a pen and drew a picture of a frog slapping an elk on the side of my chair. “Turn it over,” he said, just as I was about to protest. It was an address. “You go talk to her. Tell her I sent you. And tell her I liked the gift basket, though brie gives me gas. And then, if you’ve got time, tell her about the situation in Prague.”

“What situation in Prague?”

“Exactly.” He nodded and turned to go back into the examination room.

I left the office, stepping carefully over the body outline and made my way back to my truck. I secured the chair into the bed with some bungie cords and took a look at the address. It was for an office on the third floor of the Palm Tree Office Plaza.

I turned around and looked at the sign on the wall behind me. I was at the Palm Tree Office Plaza. The office was directly upstairs from the one I just visited. I decided to just leave the chair there.

The door to the office was labeled ‘Mad Mongoose, Inc.’ There was a little drawing of an upset mongoose with a knife. I looked at it upside down, but I can’t read Chinese.

This waiting room was painted stark white and contained nothing but a small mobile hung from the ceiling featuring a walrus, a whale, and an albatross.

“So,” said a feminine voice. I looked over past the reception desk. A woman was there, mostly hidden in the shadows. A curl of smoke rose from her cigarette, the ember glowing brightly as she took a pull. “I hear you have a gall bladder you need taken care of,” she said.

Tomorrow: Part 4

Friday, Yet Again

2010-09-09T22:19:00.000-07:00

Hey all!

It's been a busy week as usual. I went to visit my surgeon for my post-op visit and he said everything went great in surgery and that I now (quote) 'can do anything I want.'

Several things I wanted to do immediately sprang to mind:
Eat an entire Meat Lover's pizza
Take my pants off
Make someone incontinent solely with the power of my mind
Teach a hot alien babe about this thing we humans call love
Go back in time and kick my 13-year-old self in the ass
Solve the world's problems via buying everybody ice-cream
Talk to a girl

Obviously, none of these things happened. Well, my pants were already off, so it kinda did.

Have a great weekend. We'll be back on next week with more blogs and pages.

Cheers,
-Jason

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 2

2010-09-08T23:30:00.000-07:00

The man shook his head, his finger going to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he wrote something on a pad of paper. “I think you have the wrong person.”

“But, Meredith-“ I began, only to stop at his glare.

He held up the paper, showing me a crude drawing of a dog, or possibly a donkey, farting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

I pointed at the drawing and shrugged. He looked at it, his eyebrow going up at what he saw. He rotated the page 180 degrees and held it up again.

The drawing was now a sentence. ‘Careful,’ it read. ‘It might be listening.’

“Oh, that’s okay.” I said. “I stunned it with a double-bean burrito with extra sour cream at lunch.”

“Good. You’re smarter than you look.” He tossed the page to one side and ran a hand through his thinning black hair. “Gall bladders are tough,” he said. “This ain’t going to be cheap.”

“I’ve got a hundred bucks, an unused lottery ticket from 1993, and this chair.”

He chuckled. “Not even close. If it goes wrong, your gall bladder’ll come after me.”

“You afraid of a gall bladder?”

He sneered and reached down to pull up his pant leg, revealing a shiny, plastic artificial leg. “Lost that fifteen years ago.” He tapped it, letting the hollow sound reverberate through the office. “I’d taken out three gall bladders, thought I knew it all. I got cocky. Didn’t take precautions. I lost my leg. Smitty lost his life.”

He fell silent. The beauty mark landed on one of the Seventeen magazines, right on the model’s cheek. Outside, a bird warbled, sounding just like the guitar solo from ‘Teen Spirit.’

“Who was Smitty?”

He looked away. “He was my second cousin, once removed. Great kisser. He drowned in a vat of salsa twenty years ago.”

“The gall bladder got him?”

“Nah. He just didn’t listen to the tour guide.”

“So his death is totally irrelevant to the story?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “It sounds better when I add that in.”

I leaned on the chair on my lap. Somewhere in the building, a clock chimed four and a half times.

“I could go one-twenty and I’ll throw in a set of floor mats for an ’87 LeBaron.”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t tussle with gall bladders anymore. You got an appendix you want bumped off, I’m your man. Tonsils? No problem. Electrolysis? Well, I know a lady, but no gall bladders. Not anymore.”

“Guess I am in the wrong place,” I said, as I slipped off the examination table. “I was looking for a professional.” I brushed past him. “Thanks for the chair,” I said, as I opened the door.

I was halfway down the hall when he called out.

“Wait!”

Next week: Part 3

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 1

2010-09-07T23:07:00.000-07:00

The address was scrawled on the back of a used envelope and it led me to a dimly lit corner of the Palm Tree Office Plaza. I found the door I was told about: flaking green paint and a burn mark that looked like a top hat, and went in.

The dark lobby smelled of cigarettes and bug spray. A clown nose was stuck to the wall with a switchblade and I’m pretty sure the red mark on the floor beneath it wasn’t grease paint. I ducked under the police tape and stepped towards the counter, trying to avoid the remains of a balloon animal on the floor.

There was a cough from the counter and I looked up, to see a woman in a faded blue dress watching me. Her brown hair was up in a tight bun and she was smoking a cigarette. There was a large beauty mark on her left cheek.

“Whaddya want?” she said, blowing a smoke triangle towards the ceiling.

“I need to see the professional.”

She blew a smoke parallelogram, causing her beauty mark leap off and buzz about the room. “He ain’t in.”

“Meredith sent me,” I said, laying a buck fifty in loose change on the counter.

The change disappeared. “Take a seat.”

I found the chair with the smallest bloodstain and picked it up. The lobby itself was done in the same faded green paint as the door, with only a few old pictures on the walls for decoration. A single magazine lay on the floor in the middle of a chalk outline. It had a bullet hole in it.

My arms started to get tired from holding the chair. “What’s his story?” I asked, nodding at the outline.

The receptionist shrugged. “I heard he got on the wrong side of the clown mafia.”

“It’s the greasepaint,” I said. “Makes ‘em crazy.”

There was a buzz and the receptionist glanced down. “He’ll see you now.” She gestured towards the back. “First door on the left.”

I walked past her, banging the chair on her desk as I went by. She didn’t appear to notice. There were three doors in back and I went into the first on one the left. The room was empty save for an examination table, a rack of power tools, a pair of Italian loafers on a shelf, a saddle, a large stack of pizza boxes, and three years worth of Seventeen magazine sorted by month. So yeah, empty.

I sat on the examination table, letting the chair rest against my thighs. After a few minutes, the door banged open and a heavyset man with slumped shoulders shuffled in. He leaned against the wall and stared at me with his good eye.

The receptionist’s beauty mark buzzed by.

“So,” he finally said. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s my gall bladder,” I said. “It’s trying to kill me.”

Tomorrow: Part 2

The Next Comic Will Be Late

2010-09-06T23:16:00.000-07:00

So, as a distraction, here's a video of a cute kitten.

Honestly, this is one of the most adorable things I've ever seen and I'm not one to use 'adorable' lightly. When my niece was seven and dressed up as Tinkerbell for Halloween, I rated it as merely 'cute.' This is also when my mother declared that I was a soul-less robot.

I may have also been cut out of the will. I'll have to check.

Anyway, the page will be up as soon as Leigh's power is restored, hopefully on Wednesday.

Cheers,
-Jason

Less of Me to Love

2010-09-02T20:42:00.000-07:00

Hey all,

I just wanted to let you all know that the blogs will be back next week. I took this week off due to having surgery on Tuesday. Some of you may recall me complaining about my gall bladder trying to kill me, but I struck first and had the little bastard 'eliminated' when it wasn't looking.

So I spent most of this week sleeping and eating several times my body weight in soup. I'm feeling pretty good, all things considered, so look for new blogs next week.

Coincidentally, the first one will probably be about my surgery and how I had to fight a tyrannosaurus while wearing one of those gowns that opens in the back.

At least, I’m pretty sure it was a tyrannosaurus. It might have been a doctor in green scrubs. Which would also explain why I woke up with a black eye.

Cheers,
-Jason

Comic Announcements!

2010-08-31T08:09:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone, this is Leigh. I usually let Jason do all the blog posting, but I have a couple of things I wanted to mention.

Some of you have probably noticed that the page dimensions for updates have changed. This is part of the website redesign we’ve been talking about. In the upcoming months we’ll be making changes to the website design as well, all hopefully for the best. We’ll keep the updates coming as they are for the next several weeks but our plan is that beginning November 1st we will be returning to our original Tuesday/Thursday update schedule.

That’s right, two updates of Wayfarer’s Moon each week! As Jason has mentioned in earlier posts we will also be adding a second set of stories in the Wayfarer’s Moon Universe. These stories will be featuring various artists and we hope you’ll like them. In order to run more than one storyline and not create huge amounts of confusion we will be making changes to the website itself.

In addition to these other announcements, I have to admit that I have been negligent. I never mentioned that Shon Burke has been helping us out by inking several pages for us, specifically Wayfarer's Moon pages 154-156, 157 and also 160-162. He’s a talented inker and we’ve been lucky to work with him. You can see more of his work here http://barquiel.deviantart.com/ where he also has links to purchase some of the original inks he did for us. I’ll also be putting links up for that this week in the links section.

We expect to be working more with Shon on some of the upcoming stories we mentioned as well as future projects that we hope to be able to tell you about soon!

Thanks Shon!

Assassinate Your Cavities: Part 2

2010-08-25T23:02:00.000-07:00

We take two of the most feared creatures in the universe and then combine them into a force for good. Like the old saying goes, two wrongs make a right. Or is it don’t make a right? I forget. This may explain why my brother was so upset when I lost one of his Matchbox cars and then hit him to make up for it.

Moving on.

Combining ninjas and dentists would give us an unstoppable, nigh-invincible, and above all, stealthy method of eradicating our cavities.

Think about it. You’re at home, eating dinner, when suddenly the world goes black. You wake up two hours later and discover that you were face down in your spaghetti. After staggering to the bathroom to wash the marinara off your face, you realize that your teeth have that ‘just scraped by a metal object feeling’ and that there appears to be a new filling in your #21 molar. The bill taped to your shirt confirms it. You were just visited by a ninja dentist, who knocked you out, drilled and filled a cavity, and then billed your insurance (the cleaning was done by a ninja hygienist).

NOTE: I decided to look it up dental numbering. I was close. According to the FDI World Dental Federation Notation, molars are labeled 18, 17, 16, 26, 27, 28, 48, 47, 46, 36, 37 & 38. I also learned that there are multiple ways of numbering teeth. Also, the World Dental Federation sounds like a league where dentists wrestle each other and have names like ‘The Masticator.’

It would be perfect. You’d never have to worry about scheduling checkups, as your checkup would come to you. And you’d never have to be worried about the pain or inconvenience, as you’d be unconscious via subtle pressure point manipulation or a good old-fashioned bludgeoning.

Once people get accustomed to ninja dentists, the demand will go through the roof. Now I just have to get the funds for my Ninja College of Dentistry and Assassination.

Cheers,
-Jason