0700
The day began like most others, with a startled gasp followed by a throat-searing scream. At some point, I’ll need to take the stuffed porcupine out of the bed, but that can wait. I showered, shaved, breakfasted, nodded off, and then breakfasted, showered and shaved again. Needless to say, I was full, my face was bleeding, and I was out of shampoo.
0830
I arrived at Leigh’s house and rang the doorbell. He opened the door and hit me with a shovel, as was customary. We then packed his car with all the necessary con goods, which included a tablecloth, three boxes of books, a dolly, three sharpened wooden stakes, a zombie survival kit, 11.5 donuts, and a sock full of quarters. We departed, stopped, came back, Leigh put his pants on, and then we left again.
0915
We arrived at the Seattle Convention Center. I stood watch as Leigh unloaded and we then proceeded into the convention hall. We quickly became lost and were forced to eat some of the donuts to survive. Several nerds, catching the scent of donuts, attempted to make off with them, forcing me to sing ‘My Sharona,’ the Knack’s 1979 #1 hit. It worked and they retreated. Leigh’s now deaf in his right ear, though. A small price to pay for donuts.
0930
We assembled our table fort with a quantity of large couch pillows and then hid inside. To our left was Brittany Lee, an excellent artist and snappy dresser. To our right was Jason Martin of Super Real Graphics. Also in attendance were artists Jason Metcalf, Pepe Melan, Randy Kintz, Quenton Shaw of Creator's Edge Press, and the team from Alaska Robotics, Beth and Maria from ZB Publications, the brother and sister duo of Inanimate Sloth Bear Press, and writer Bill Harms. They formed an impenetrable wall of steel that protected us from the zombie warlord and his horde of undead. At least, we assume they did, as said horde never materialized.
0945-1800
It was all-out battle. Our foamy fort proved inadequate to stave off the legions of comic fans and we were eventually forced to interact with them. Leah, our colorist and medic, arrived mid-morning, providing us with much needed reinforcements. We formed a ragged line, with Leah and myself at the fore, where we fended off the frontal attacks. Leigh guarded our rear, furiously drawing pictures of voluptuous super heroines. Lunch was eaten. Blood was spilled. I sneezed. Twice. We survived, broken and bloody, nearly donutless, the detritus of battle strewn around us like so many empty water bottles.
1800-?
We retreated to the safety of a restaurant with what remained of our stalwart companions. Ale flowed like some sort of liquid, as we recounted the deeds of the day. We drank. We feasted. We were locked out of the parking garage and had to figure out how to get to our cars. It was a good evening.
Sunday came. It was just like Saturday, so reread up to this line and then skip it. Otherwise, you’ll be locked in an eternal loop, never to emerge.
In the end, despite the blood, the singing, and the inarticulate screams of pain, it was all worth it. We forged bonds that weekend. Bonds of friendship. Bonds of blood. Bonds that smelled faintly of athletes foot spray. Bonds that will never be broken. Unless of course, sufficient money is offered, in which case, all bets are off.
We will return to those Emerald Halls. We must. We owe it to those who came before us and to those that never left, possibly because they’re still locked out of the garage. It is our destiny.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Another Friday!
Once again, it is that time of the week. The weekend approaches and as much as I love my job, I'm always happy to get a couple days off, though I will be at the Emerald City ComiCon all weekend, working booth B-19 with Leigh and Leah. Their names are just a weird coincidence, trust me.
It has been a busy, busy week for us here at Single Edge Studios. We've been getting ready for Con season, writing scripts, and getting our first trade paperback together. It'll contain our first six issues as well as . . . drum roll please . . . additional content! Yes, we've been at forges, hammering out new, exclusive content for our first trade. We hope you'll like it when it finally comes out (hopefully, for the San Diego Comic Con).
Anyway, have a good weekend and if you can, come see us at Emerald City!
Cheers,
-Jason
It has been a busy, busy week for us here at Single Edge Studios. We've been getting ready for Con season, writing scripts, and getting our first trade paperback together. It'll contain our first six issues as well as . . . drum roll please . . . additional content! Yes, we've been at forges, hammering out new, exclusive content for our first trade. We hope you'll like it when it finally comes out (hopefully, for the San Diego Comic Con).
Anyway, have a good weekend and if you can, come see us at Emerald City!
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Manly Affection: Part 2
My brothers were my rough introduction to the world of manly etiquette. They, along with my older sister, continually teased, mocked, abused, and tortured me. As I grew up, I realized that their constant, often savage cruelties were really a primer on the multi-faceted, almost labyrinthine world of manly affection.
My sister, though, was just being mean.
NOTE: I was asked how come I needed therapy to get over the ‘pillow’ incident and yet I saw verbal abuse as affectionate. The answer is simple: I did not get the therapy because of the pillow throwing, but because I developed a deep, almost paralyzing fear of couches.
We men are complex creatures. To the casual observer, we might be considered simple or even bestial, as we’re often unable to dress ourselves and insist on clubbing our food before we eat it, even the TV dinners. Yet this uncouth, barbaric exterior belies a delicate, sensitive inner world full of rainbows, puppies, bacon, and poetry about boobs. This dichotomy is central to our manly persona, as we are taught that the world is a rough, terrible place full of snakes and couches and that we must present a tough exterior and keep our feelings buried deep, deep inside ourselves, like little emotional miners trapped in a cave in with no hope of rescue.
Thus, the only way to show affection to another male is to invert it and replace it with base insults. Here’s a typical exchange:
Bob: “Jeez, Frank. Did something crawl up your butt and die?”
Frank: “Nah, I just figured you were more at home someplace that smelled like an outhouse.”
Bob: “Actually, I was more at home last night with your wife.”
Frank: “She’s in Florida with her sister. That was the dog.”
To the casual onlooker, it would seem like these two men were bitter enemies, when in reality, they’re the best of friends. It all becomes clear if you know what the exchange meant, rather than what was said:
Bob: “My heart is heavy, noble friend, for it seems that all the injustices of this bitter globe have been heaped upon me.”
Frank: “I weep for thee, my bosom companion. Were it in my power, I would put steel to thy ills, so they could trouble thee no more.”
Bob: “Thou art indeed a true friend and ally, good sir Frank. Merely the sound of thy voice gives me enough strength to lift the heaviest of burdens.”
Frank: “If only I could do more, my brother. Thy pain is great, but thou need’st only say one word, and to thy side I will spring, like a hart across the glen.”
Bob: “I am filled with hope, my fellow in arms. Let us away then, to the theatre, where comely lasses do gyrate upon stanchions of brass in a provocative fashion.”
Frank: “Lead on, gentle Bob. Lead on.”
As you can clearly see, on the surface, Bob and Frank are openly hostile, yet this masks an inner respect and deep, abiding friendship. The exchange of insults is not a crude display of dominance or the remnants of a pack mentality, but a delicate dance of feeling and empathy, masked in fart jokes and gutter humor.
So, next time you hear two men calling each other names, listen past the jibes and insults and instead, appreciate the subtle nuances of emotional attachment that are being woven between them. Unless, of course, it comes to blows, in which case yeah, it was just a pissing contest.
Cheers,
-Jason
My sister, though, was just being mean.
NOTE: I was asked how come I needed therapy to get over the ‘pillow’ incident and yet I saw verbal abuse as affectionate. The answer is simple: I did not get the therapy because of the pillow throwing, but because I developed a deep, almost paralyzing fear of couches.
We men are complex creatures. To the casual observer, we might be considered simple or even bestial, as we’re often unable to dress ourselves and insist on clubbing our food before we eat it, even the TV dinners. Yet this uncouth, barbaric exterior belies a delicate, sensitive inner world full of rainbows, puppies, bacon, and poetry about boobs. This dichotomy is central to our manly persona, as we are taught that the world is a rough, terrible place full of snakes and couches and that we must present a tough exterior and keep our feelings buried deep, deep inside ourselves, like little emotional miners trapped in a cave in with no hope of rescue.
Thus, the only way to show affection to another male is to invert it and replace it with base insults. Here’s a typical exchange:
Bob: “Jeez, Frank. Did something crawl up your butt and die?”
Frank: “Nah, I just figured you were more at home someplace that smelled like an outhouse.”
Bob: “Actually, I was more at home last night with your wife.”
Frank: “She’s in Florida with her sister. That was the dog.”
To the casual onlooker, it would seem like these two men were bitter enemies, when in reality, they’re the best of friends. It all becomes clear if you know what the exchange meant, rather than what was said:
Bob: “My heart is heavy, noble friend, for it seems that all the injustices of this bitter globe have been heaped upon me.”
Frank: “I weep for thee, my bosom companion. Were it in my power, I would put steel to thy ills, so they could trouble thee no more.”
Bob: “Thou art indeed a true friend and ally, good sir Frank. Merely the sound of thy voice gives me enough strength to lift the heaviest of burdens.”
Frank: “If only I could do more, my brother. Thy pain is great, but thou need’st only say one word, and to thy side I will spring, like a hart across the glen.”
Bob: “I am filled with hope, my fellow in arms. Let us away then, to the theatre, where comely lasses do gyrate upon stanchions of brass in a provocative fashion.”
Frank: “Lead on, gentle Bob. Lead on.”
As you can clearly see, on the surface, Bob and Frank are openly hostile, yet this masks an inner respect and deep, abiding friendship. The exchange of insults is not a crude display of dominance or the remnants of a pack mentality, but a delicate dance of feeling and empathy, masked in fart jokes and gutter humor.
So, next time you hear two men calling each other names, listen past the jibes and insults and instead, appreciate the subtle nuances of emotional attachment that are being woven between them. Unless, of course, it comes to blows, in which case yeah, it was just a pissing contest.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
I'm a Jerk
I said that the next installment of Manly Affections would be ready tonight, but I lied. I had a very long day at work and after sitting in front of the computer for 30 minutes with my mouth open and not a thought in my head, I decided to call the game on account of vapidity.
I'll get the second part up tomorrow, with another brand-new, hitherto unseen blog following the day after. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to vomit very small, yet weighty cast-iron sculptures of cacti. Research has revealed that death would be preferable, so you can tell I’m serious.
So, until then,
Cheers,
-Jason
I'll get the second part up tomorrow, with another brand-new, hitherto unseen blog following the day after. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to vomit very small, yet weighty cast-iron sculptures of cacti. Research has revealed that death would be preferable, so you can tell I’m serious.
So, until then,
Cheers,
-Jason
Thursday, March 4, 2010
My Computer Hates Me
My computer at work has decided, for no readily apparent reason, that it won't do something I need it to do. It runs 99% of the things I ask it to do fine, but the 1% I absolutely needed today, it refused to do. I had four people at one point poking it and trying to figure out why it wouldn't run that 1%, but so far no dice.
Tomorrow, I may just have to bring in the pitchforks and torches and go medieval mob on its silicone butt. Of course, it'll probabaly work fine, for the same unfathomable reason it didn't work today.
At any rate: here is the second to last reminder to come see us at the Emerald City Comicon! We're at booth B-19, just look for the two nerds with the comics.
Yes, I've used the 'two nerds with the comics' line before. It amuses me.
Cheers,
-Jason
Tomorrow, I may just have to bring in the pitchforks and torches and go medieval mob on its silicone butt. Of course, it'll probabaly work fine, for the same unfathomable reason it didn't work today.
At any rate: here is the second to last reminder to come see us at the Emerald City Comicon! We're at booth B-19, just look for the two nerds with the comics.
Yes, I've used the 'two nerds with the comics' line before. It amuses me.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Manly Affection: Part 1
I was over at a friend’s house the other night, watching some movies. There was a couple in attendance as well, making it a total of three guys and a girl. As the evening continued, the men began to insult each other with increasing vehemence. And then we’d laugh.
NOTE: This is actually a lie. We pretty much insulted each other from the get-go.
The woman eventually raised her hand during a lull in the torrent of abuse and said “Why are you guys so mean to each other?”
The three of us blinked and we looked from one to the other. “’cause we’re guys?” one of us eventually said.
“But you’re all friends,” she protested. “Why do you always insult each other?”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly understanding her point. “That’s how we demonstrate friendship!”
“Huh?” was her response.
I then realized that some women, especially those who haven’t grown up with brothers, may not understand the complex and elegant patterns of male bonding. Every ‘butthead’ is an affirmation of brotherhood. Every ‘ugly hooker’ joke is a ritual designed to weave a delicate web of understanding.
However, every ‘you’re hung like a Chihuahua’ is just us being crude.
Here then is a guide.
In a nutshell: Guys insult each other because that’s how we show affection.
Seriously.
For whatever reason, be it testosterone, primitive hunting rituals, or simply the fact that we’re emotionally stunted man-children, men can’t express affection or friendship the way women do. So we substitute abuse for affection.
For example, I have two older brothers. I haven’t said a civil word to either of them since I was five. This, coincidentally, coincided with the time when they decided to tie me to the couch with a length of rope and then threw pillows at me as I ran in circles, crying.
They maintain that I enjoyed it. Many years of therapy suggest I didn’t, but I digress.
Next Wednesday: Part 2
NOTE: This is actually a lie. We pretty much insulted each other from the get-go.
The woman eventually raised her hand during a lull in the torrent of abuse and said “Why are you guys so mean to each other?”
The three of us blinked and we looked from one to the other. “’cause we’re guys?” one of us eventually said.
“But you’re all friends,” she protested. “Why do you always insult each other?”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly understanding her point. “That’s how we demonstrate friendship!”
“Huh?” was her response.
I then realized that some women, especially those who haven’t grown up with brothers, may not understand the complex and elegant patterns of male bonding. Every ‘butthead’ is an affirmation of brotherhood. Every ‘ugly hooker’ joke is a ritual designed to weave a delicate web of understanding.
However, every ‘you’re hung like a Chihuahua’ is just us being crude.
Here then is a guide.
In a nutshell: Guys insult each other because that’s how we show affection.
Seriously.
For whatever reason, be it testosterone, primitive hunting rituals, or simply the fact that we’re emotionally stunted man-children, men can’t express affection or friendship the way women do. So we substitute abuse for affection.
For example, I have two older brothers. I haven’t said a civil word to either of them since I was five. This, coincidentally, coincided with the time when they decided to tie me to the couch with a length of rope and then threw pillows at me as I ran in circles, crying.
They maintain that I enjoyed it. Many years of therapy suggest I didn’t, but I digress.
Next Wednesday: Part 2
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Getting Old Ungracefully
Last Saturday, I had what could euphemistically be called a ‘senior moment.’ I was in a local retailer, picking up a prescription and a bag of butterscotch hard candies. I went up front to the cashier, ‘Susan’ according to her nametag and all of maybe twenty-years-old, and produced my credit card. She gestured towards a little blue machine on the edge of the counter.
I smiled, in what I hoped was a good-natured fashion. “I’m used to just handing my card to the cashier.”
Susan nodded. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
I swiped the card, no problem. However, when the menu came up, I was at a complete loss. I stood there for a moment, staring at the screen, wondering which button I was supposed to push. The text could have been hieroglyphics for all I could tell. This must have taken a few seconds, as Susan suddenly spoke.
“Push the ‘Enter’ button,” she said.
I did so. Strange symbols flashed across the screen. I realized I was growing increasingly anxious. My world had focused on this one particular thing and I was at a loss to understand what was going on. I fought the urge to say ‘stupid machine!’ while waving a cane.
“Push the ‘Okay’ button,” Susan suggested.
I pushed it. There was a beep and a receipt started to spit out.
I smiled weakly at her. “I’m not familiar with this model,” I said, hoping to suggest that there were other models that I could use efficiently, like some sort of credit-card automaton.
She nodded. “Some of our older customers have a problem with those.”
I started to nod in agreement, but then realized that to her, I was one of those ‘older customers.’ I was, quite literally, old enough to be her father. I decided, right then and there, that this would not do. I was not old. I was young, hip, and quite possibly, cool.
And then I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, Susan was asking if I was okay and I was drooling. I assured her that I was fine and set out. I was not old. I would not go gently into that good night. And I would prove it. All I needed were some parachute pants and a piece of cardboard to do some break dancing.
Cheers,
-Jason
I smiled, in what I hoped was a good-natured fashion. “I’m used to just handing my card to the cashier.”
Susan nodded. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
I swiped the card, no problem. However, when the menu came up, I was at a complete loss. I stood there for a moment, staring at the screen, wondering which button I was supposed to push. The text could have been hieroglyphics for all I could tell. This must have taken a few seconds, as Susan suddenly spoke.
“Push the ‘Enter’ button,” she said.
I did so. Strange symbols flashed across the screen. I realized I was growing increasingly anxious. My world had focused on this one particular thing and I was at a loss to understand what was going on. I fought the urge to say ‘stupid machine!’ while waving a cane.
“Push the ‘Okay’ button,” Susan suggested.
I pushed it. There was a beep and a receipt started to spit out.
I smiled weakly at her. “I’m not familiar with this model,” I said, hoping to suggest that there were other models that I could use efficiently, like some sort of credit-card automaton.
She nodded. “Some of our older customers have a problem with those.”
I started to nod in agreement, but then realized that to her, I was one of those ‘older customers.’ I was, quite literally, old enough to be her father. I decided, right then and there, that this would not do. I was not old. I was young, hip, and quite possibly, cool.
And then I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, Susan was asking if I was okay and I was drooling. I assured her that I was fine and set out. I was not old. I would not go gently into that good night. And I would prove it. All I needed were some parachute pants and a piece of cardboard to do some break dancing.
Cheers,
-Jason
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