If you drew a comic called Super Frog at age 11

Then take a number.

Jeffrey-OC/WIGU-Rowland and I both got ours at the deli counter of weird coincidences involving crudely drawn amphibious superheroes. My immediate thought was this was like an especially shitty or an especially awesome episode of Lost. Maybe it is both.

The year was 1986, and as he tells it, Jeff's 11 year-old mind conceived of a hero named Superfrog (no space).

Flash forward to the year 1990, a time when my 11 year-old mind would independently duplicate this feat, and bring into the world -- again -- a hero named Super Frog (but with a space!)



This cover stirs visions of a an intrepid young lad soldiering through that night sky with a thin, purple magic marker, thrashing in every conceivable direction like a crazed raccoon trying to escape an empty swimming pool. But it looks like he eventually and quite understandably muttered "fuck this" and stomped off to plunder the kitchen for some delicious Slimer-themed Ecto Cooler Hi-C.

You'll note some striking similarities between my and Jeff's work, aside from breadth of ambition. (Amphibition?)

They both dwelt on swampy planets. Though mine was supposed to be Earth, since my story followed a Superman template. I figured he might as well since he shared a prefix with that hero. Jeff's looks like it fits into more of a Star Wars mold, which would make "Amphibia" somewhat akin to Yoda's swampy planet I guess.

Also note that while Jeff's planet was plagued by a "terrorist group called MEGA", my story was published by MEGA comics. This is obviously a word one dare not leave uncapitalized. Also both these frogs had really cool underground lairs.

But I'm afraid that's where the similarities end.

11 year-old Jeff's handwriting is actually better than mine is today, let alone the grisly marks which I pawned off as letters at age 11. You'll also note Jeff could actually string together a pretty decent sentence. "But, Amphibia was not without its evil forces…" Note the fairly sophisticated use of the double negative to take a little something off the sentence for rhetorical purposes. He could have taken the easy route and said "Amphibia had so many evil forces!" Or, "Amphibia had all hella evil forces up ins, yo!" if he wanted to produce a tone of jocular irony. (Although I doubt that sort of irony had been invented yet in 1986.) The point is, he wasn't using language as a blunt instrument to say what he wanted to say.

Whereas I took that blunt instrument, used it to murder a family of four, and hid the bodies in my garage. You will observe this sample.

It's actually hard for me to believe an 11 year-old did this. To me it doesn't look very far beyond the reach of a 6 year-old. Where does one even begin dissecting this?

Ok, the Dr. Claw-style boss wants his henchman with an upsettingly phallic hat to go down to the "science plant". Where they do science. He wants him to steal some science. Fair enough. Then he instructs him to take a "disgise", and we shortly receive a humorous payoff. His disguise is simply a jacket. Ha ha, right?

Maybe. Except that I explicitly remember that I did not intend for this to be a joke. I was serious. That was his serious disguise.

Then at gunpoint, or maybe tube of Ben-Gaypoint, he commands the aardvark fellow to surrender the main project. Like, the main science thing they do. He wants him to hand over the big science thing. But it turns out he "already launched it". He launched all the science they were working on into space, and he is sorry about it. Maybe if the snake with the dick hat got there a little earlier, all that science would still be there.

Then later on in the comic when I got tired of all this storytelling bullshit, I went and drew a map. This was my first hack at a comic, and I don't think I actually even liked comics. All I really wanted to do was design the next Super Mario Bros. game and mail it to some Japanese developers. I actually tried to do this several times, and I just assumed whoever looked at it would be blown away by my ideas while making little hushed noises of polite awe in that distinctly Japanese way.

When I was 11 my teachers thought I was retarded. This isn't some sort of joke to make you laugh. This is actually true. For a while thereafter I resented the accusation. But looking back on this work I'm starting to think they might have been technically right. Whatever the case, I don't know why I ever had the notion that I was artistically inclined before age 11.

But in looking through this archive of relics, it's pretty clear my artistic development took a major leap in the following year. I did this drawing when I was 12. Ok, so it's obviously inspired very heavily by Rob Liefeld's work in the early 90s. Still, looking back on it I think it's probably better than anything Liefeld ever did. I even came up with a kickass signature brand for that year, "DREW92". WHOA, COOL DUDE!!!

Then from there it appears my artwork enjoyed pretty | brisk | strides through the rest of high school. Actually that first image there seems somewhat reminiscent of a Problem Sleuth villain, even though I drew it about 15 years ago.

My and Jeff's stroll down Super Frog lane is reminding me the more things change, the more they stay the same. Don't believe me?





Mob boss villains separated by two decades.



You're eventually supposed to grow out of shit like this, right?
I don't know why I didn't scan the rest of Super Frog. The samples above are from an archive consisting of photos I took about five years ago. I'm not sure what my thinking was at the time.

I'll see if I can dig up the original book and scan all of it. If I do, I'll post it. But I'll be trailing behind Jeff's documentation of his old comic, which I suppose is only fitting. He was always ahead of the curve on this Superfrog/Super[space]Frog business.

Oh, also another guy cropped up who did a Superfrog (Super-Frog, with a dash!) when he was a youngster.

Look, if you are 11 and you are a boy, here's what's up. You're going to be drawing a COMIC. That comic will be about a FROG. That frog is also gonna be SUPER. This is what your DNA will tell you to do, and if you don't do it there's probably something wrong with you. This is what SCIENCE says will happen, and this can be verified, assuming some dumbass doesn't go ahead and launch that science into space first.

BLOG REDUX: Bon Voyage, Tim and George

I'm really just reposting this article from my old blog so Byron can link to it in his new blog.

Originally posted: 06/24/08
---------------------------------------

Tim Russert and George Carlin both recently passed away, and it is time to honor their memory with the somber gravity that can only be conveyed by that sappy acoustic version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.

It is also time for us to acknowledge that their very real souls have moved on to the very real afterlife, where their transient physical identities will persist relentlessly for all eternity.

As such I have put together this collage in memoriam as is the stoic tradition of this blog [EDIT: RE: MY OLD BLOG]. So keep a seat warm for me, George. I can’t wait for your bit on the 10 words you can’t say in heaven! And Tim, keep giving ‘em hell! ;)

How do I prank thee? Let me qwantz the ways.

Ok so here's what up.

I was recently embroiled (am still embroiled???) in this exotic prankster's feud with this guy who draws dinosaurs saying things. Ok he doesn't really draw them but anyway. It was fun (is still fun???) but then due to some mental handicap specific to the needlessly officious I deleted some of my earlier prankins because the news section was getting a little long in the tooth. VERTICALLY SPEAKING.

It was like a great venerable redwood and I was sort of like an especially angry Paul Bunyan, or just some really terrifically huge dude with an axe who hates trees, and possibly harbors disdain for the very concept of HEIGHT ITSELF.

So I did this and dusted my hands but then some people started yelling at me.

So I'm like, ok, I guess I can put it all back up somehow, even though that stuff I deleted is gone forever. I don't exactly have a stout archival repository for every frivolous little EPIC FUCKING BATTLESCAPE AMONG WORLD CLASS PRACTICAL JAPESTERS that happens to flutter through the perfumey breeze of my life.

I promised I'd take a crack at reconstructing what I said, and in the process probably charting new frontiers in the realm of dubious fidelity.

Anyway why don't we take this thing from the top. Ryan said this once upon a time, and I have emboldened the key point.

February 4th, 2009: Andrew "MS Paint Adventures" Hussie has been putting together some videos with his friend Jan van den Hemel where they re-edit some Star Trek: TNG footage into hilarious short videos. They're great, you guys! I recommend watching them in order because it is comedy gold that builds on itself really nicely. Andrew Hussie is quickly becoming the only person whose house I park outside at night. I just want to watch him eat his dinner.

And I was tickled he said it, but then I went on to say (probably) something like this.

Ryan, you're not fooling anyone sitting in your car, sort of ducking down behind your dashboard like that. [I think I probably mentioned something about opera glasses, or goggles here, which he retrieved from his glovebox. I'm not sure why I would suggest he keep such a thing in his glovebox. I think my motivation was probably to use language to cast him as a bit of a lithe-fingered fop. I'm going to go ahead and assume that I was successful in this respect, and blow my whistle while hoisting my arms for the touchdown sign like football refs do whenever they're in the vicinity of a sick burn.

Also I mentioned something about how I was eating a turkey sandwich or something. Oops, I should probably return to my "voice".]

Ryan, I am eating a turkey sandwich or something.

Ok, Ryan caught wind of all that PRETTY QUICK.

February 5th, 2009: UPDATE: Last night Andrew had a open-faced turkey sandwich with a glass of water. He took a bite and chewed, frowning at his dinner. He sprinkled some pepper on top, and took another bite. The sandwich appeared to satisfy him now, and he dispatched it quickly, drinking the water all in one go at the end. Impressive. He then reached for his empty glass, turning it upside down and using it like a microphone. I couldn't hear clearly, but it sounded like he was reciting "Baby Got Back", sitting there at the dinner table. I felt like he was putting on a show for my benefit. I got suspicious - did he know he was being watched? But then some water slide down the glass onto his lap and he jumped up, brushing his slacks down and running out of the room, cursing. It was that little detail that made the whole evening worthwhile.

I said something kind of complicated in response to this… wait, oops, hang on…

Ryan. I'm going to say something kind of complicated in response to this. The basic gist of it will be that while you are distracted by my outrageous domestic broadcast and its embarrassing void of self-awareness, I took the opportunity to deploy a servant through my cellar door and into the yard and had him shove a whole can of cookie dough into your car's tailpipe.

CHECK AND MATE, prank buddy.

Alright I didn't say that last part, but in just transcribing it now, oh man. It was just so sweet how I did that to his car.

Ryan didn't really see it that way though.

February 6th, 2009: Okay, so I guess Andrew has, like, a butler? Who he pays to stuff food into my car's exhaust pipe? And that's fine, that's cool. We all need jobs. But when I drive home and my car stalls out a few minutes in and it's because the tail pipe is blocked with chocolate-chip cookie dough, it's not that awesome. Andrew's house is at the end of a deserted lane surrounded by a bunch of fields, and now I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere.

So I walk back to Andrew's place - takes about 20 minutes. I ring the doorbell. No answer. I knock on the door. All the lights are on; I know he's home. I go round back and I stand in the dark of his back yard and I can see him there in his living room. His soggy slacks are spread out on the couch. His underpants are tasteful. He's rapping again. It sounds like - yes, it's Rapper's Delight. Andrew's really belting it: "Have you ever went over a friend's house to eat / And the food just aint no good? / I mean the macaroni's soggy, the peas are mushed / and the chicken tastes like wood."

I've never realized how much of that song is about food.

At this point I don't actually need to make up an approximate ridiculous reply, because I can submit word for word the ACTUAL RIDICULOUS REPLY which I typed. On a KEYBOARD:

Ok, well it seems Mr. North didn't totally appreciate the Pop n Fresh emissions test I had old Snootington slip into his muffler. Some people just don't know how to take a joke.

February 9th, 2009: I woke up parked outside my house. Andrew was nowhere to be seen. My shirt was folded neatly in my lap and I was wearing a very nice pair of suspenders. Someone had written on my chest: "Human Hug Factory". I couldn't remember, but I knew - I know - that everything will be alright.

As I slip back into "hypothetical reply" mode for some reason again, I'm caused to wonder by Ryan's tone if he is treating my submission to Urban Dictionary as a sort of sweeping denouement to our grand mutual Prankisode.

I could hardly fault him if his intent was a "rhetorical wind-down", a sort of genteel "that's all, folks" in the manner so comfortable and form-fitting to men of North's class and distinction.

Could it be that this borderline-psychotic transcription poses as the final blunt thud on the horse's soft carcass? Or could it be the calm in the storm before North's next ferocious gotcha?

Oh Jesus.

I'd better get back to my mansion and order those goodfornothing butlers back to their fucking battle stations…

Star Trek Edits

Recently I helped a friend edit some episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I've collected them all on this web page here.

Some other things of note: Wil Wheaton (Wesley Crusher) from the show has seen them and written about it in his blog. The videos have also appeared on TV, a on a G4 broadcast called Attack of the Show. (It is mentioned in item number 4 on that clip.) They went as far as getting in costumes and sort of "acting out" the scenes from the particular episode they showed. Cool!

A few other notes on this, and some FAQish sort of stuff...

These were edited by Jan Van den Hemel, who's obviously pretty awesome at this. I helped him make these by writing these sort of "scripts", suggesting how to arrange clips, what lines to dub, and what sort of visual effects to try out. I also usually supply the, uh, external resources. Jan supplies a lot of input to the "scripting" process too. The result I think is a pretty effective fusion of our senses of humor, but of course all the technical editing gravitas is pure Jan.

We will probably keep making these videos, as long as it stays fun. We'll keep doing Star Trek for a while, but will likely also try using samples from other TV shows and movies later.

Need for the Steed

Exactly one year ago, I purchased a painting of a horse.

I chronicled this remarkable tale in my old blog. I repost the major excerpts from this adventure here today for posterity.

------

Posted 12/17/2007
“Fundraiser 07-08: Need for the Steed”

A lot of webmasters such as bloggers or webcomic authors have fundraisers from time to time. It’s usually for something like a new computer (they are upgrading so they can better bring YOU content. How benevolent!), or some other piece of electronic equipment, or maybe even a medical procedure.

This practice is of course self-indulgent bullshit. If you need money for something, go get a job and save the money yourself. Shaking coins from your readership like a piggybank at the threat of suspended content or hiatus is a crass move indeed.

Unless you have a really good reason, that is. Like me.

Today I am launching a bold fundraising campaign, “Fundraiser 07-08: Need for the Steed”, to obtain the monies necessary to purchase this incredible painting.



A while ago I discovered this artist simply named “T”. I was instantly smitten.

I “reviewed” (i.e. fawned over) the work at an earlier date. I have supplied an excerpt from this review here.

Everything about this painting is fucking amazing. Oakland Raiders linebacker Bill Romanowski fending off a wild, flaming black steed, in a mystical snowcapped mountain setting. I don’t know if it’s the concept alone, which itself is obviously mind-blowing. Maybe it’s also the curious, vaguely-humanoid musculature of the horse. It has a man’s bicep and triceps, and some very suspiciously man-like back muscles. Or maybe it’s the flaming mane, which on closer inspection, doesn’t resemble flame so much as synthetic orange puppet hair. This steed is either from hell, or has recently escaped Fraggle Rock, and is ready to tear the entire NFL a new asshole. But he didn’t count on bumping into Bill Romo (understandably, since he was bucking around the middle of the damned Himalayas).

I wrote that several years ago, and before I catch myself extolling the grandeur of the painterly genius of “T” again, I’ll just get to the point. A couple years ago around the same time of year, a little before Christmas, I wrote “T” an email offering to purchase the painting. In addition to gushing about his work with strategically vapid and obsequious prose, I offered him $50 for it. This offer was more than fair, I thought. He however declined, saying he simply could not accept any less than $400 for it.

Ok, so obviously I thought this guy was out of his fucking mind, turning down good money of any quantity for this ugly piece of shit. But that was probably just the anger of rejection talking. I would get over it.

Recently, I offered to buy the painting again, hoping he might have forgotten about his hard-line stance and come to terms with the unsellability of his putrid work (oops, there I go again with the bitterness. I have good reason again though.) I was prepared to offer another $50, maybe go a little higher if necessary. It’s turning into a kind of Christmas tradition. This is how all of the finest holiday traditions begin, I think. Through hostile adherence to something pointless and mildly excruciating.

This is how the latest interaction went down. Here’s the pitch I opened with:

———–
Hello,

I am writing you in regard to this beautiful painting
listed on your website. [link to painting]

Would you consider selling this?

A long time ago I wrote you on the same subject, but
it seemed the paintings were unavailable if I recall.

I am hoping they may be available now! What would you
charge for the above piece?

Thank you for your time.
———–

Personally I think it was a pretty well composed pitch. The tone is right, and I think I tailored my demeanor to seem just convincingly stupid enough to genuinely like this retarded painting (which I do!). Notice how I downplayed his vicious prior obstinacy by referring to the paintings as “unavailable if I recall”. Master stroke. Also I didn’t come out firing with a dollar figure, mainly because I didn’t want to scare him off right away. I needed to ease him into the fact that I am still only willing to part with $50 for this abomination.

Anyway, this was his reply.

———–
Hey Andrew,

Thanks for checking back. I do have a price on the painting it is $425. A few people have e-mailed me about buying it for less, but I would rather just hang on to it. I like the piece a lot and haven’t painted anything since it. It was to be the first in a series of sports fantasy paintings, but I have gotten side tracked with my job and other family things so I haven’t started painting again. I will get back to it soon. So, if you want it for the $425 it is yours, if not, I will keep it on my wall.

Thank you
T
———–

I grope for language to describe my reaction. Nay, a single word.

LIVIDITY.

$425?? So it seems he actually raised the price over the years. Oh, and PARDON my skepticism at the implication that he has received other offers over the years for his idiotic shit. He is probably only vaguely recollecting the ONE time it happened. From ME.

Naturally, I swallowed my indignation like the bitch I am. I just need that painting, and obviously it’s going to take more fancy footwork to pry it from his grubby, miserly hands. I responded, and this was my first sentence.

Wow, it is very cool that it is still for sale! I would
really love to have it.

Notice how easily I slip back into character. Whatever obscure pocket of personal acumen this is, I seem to possess it in spades. I probably could have been one of those spies who entrenches himself in Russian territory, uncovering intelligence on nuclear sites. Except instead of nukes, I would be disarming the Russian aristocracy of all their shitty paintings of horses, and vanishing with them into the night.

$425 is a lot of money for me. But I think your work
is good and you deserve to be compensated well for it.

If his heart wasn’t made of stone, it would melt at this line. I am playing up to his megalomaniacal belief that his work actually has value, combined with voicing a sad state of affairs for myself, like I am a charity case. For all he knows, I’m like Tiny Tim with a crutch, holding up my tin bowl, and instead of asking for gruel, saying, “Could I please ‘ave a paintin’ sir, preferably an NFL-star-battling-horse themed one, sir?” These sentiments would tickle any artist starved for positive feedback for his ghastly work, assuming he wasn’t totally deranged. Unfortunately, his heart is made of stone, and he is deranged.

I went on in that reply, trying to strike up a deal, but he didn’t respond. I was prepared to dish out more toadying remarks, too, like seriously encouraging him to take up painting again, and saying I would love to see him continue his series of sports fantasy paintings. This has the added bonus of being true. How about Terrel Owens putting a unicorn in a headlock while forging through an enchanted jungle? Or star kicker Adam Vinatieri kicking an ogre in the groin near a dark wizard’s castle? Or quarterback Tom Brady kissing a male elf atop a bubbling volcano? This series would be fucking dynamite, and I’d love to own the whole set (as long as I didn’t have to sell my kidneys for it).

Anyway, if I want this painting, obviously the only thing I can do is pay the full price for it. And I think you will agree, it would be ridiculous for me to spend that much of my own money on it.

That’s where YOU come in!

So pony up with the donations guys, and soon you will enjoy the vicarious delights of owning a completely unique work of art, through me!

If you donate, I will do something for you. I’m not really sure what yet. It depends on the size of the donation. If it’s only like $5 or $10, I might just write you a detailed thank you note. Maybe I will email you a custom sketch or a comic too, we’ll see. If you make a bigger donation, like $50, you can feel free to be more demanding with my time, like tell me to draw you a comic and mail it to you. I don’t know, but I’ll make it worth your while. Come on guys, let’s work on this together!

Of course the biggest reward is the giving itself, and knowing you are contributing to a cause much more worthwhile than something lame like upgrading my computer. YAWN!

The donation thermometer is ready to skyrocket!



Caveats and provisos: In the event that there are some donations, but the target is not reached, I reserve the right to spend the donations on whatever I want. Like dinners at the Olive Garden. I also reserve this right should the target be reached, but I no longer really feel like buying the painting.


------

So as you can see from the above “progress bar” graphic, the donation figure steadily climbed to $145. This was very promising, but it was still a long way off the mark, and I was beginning to suspect I would fall short. I was already contemplating the succession of succulent Olive Garden feasts I would be using that money to finance. The kaleidoscope of savory Mediterranean flavors had begun to work its powers of affordable, family-dining hypnosis on me.

But not so fast.

Early in January of the following year, this is what happened.

------


Posted 01/07/2008
"WE FUCKING DID IT!"

Ladies and gentlemen…

VICTORY.

TLDR - Yesterday, two incredible guys, both named Paul, independently of each other donated the full remainder needed to buy the painting. Yeah, you may want to read the story. It’s fucking epic.

How was this feat possible? Needless to say, the magnificent achievement’s brick and mortar was the charitable will and good grace of you, the readers. Alas, noble though your efforts were, they were not enough. Standing on your shoulders, I only reached halfway up the wall, a far cry from being allowed to glimpse the pleasure gardens of painterly depictions of unbridled equine savagery waged against professional sports legends.

It’s at this point in the story which I smile and tap my pipe on the heel of my shoe. My gaze becomes abstracted, my eyes shimmer. I am no longer with you.

I am crumpled under the barstools of an unaccountable dive somewhere. I marinate in puddles of liquids to which I myself contributed not moments ago. I mumble incoherently with my lips around something—I think, and pray, it is a bottle. Slurred words wander from the drowsy orifice, and occasionally stumble from a runny nostril. “Horse”, was it? “Romanowski”, did I say? If the other disinterested patrons of the bar strained to listen, they might have made out the phrase “epic mountaintop struggle” as well.

I thrash. My delirious convulsions become more pronounced. Feverish visions pester me, like an overzealous carnival employee lurking, poised to frighten in a shoddy haunted house. My breathing is heavy. “No… horse…” I say. “I can’t… linebacker…” I wheeze. At once I sit upright, and shout, “I will never own that painting of a horse attacking a champion of the gridiron!!!”

There was a voice. A rich, amber-throated sort of vocal honey.

“Yes you will.”

My eyes find a pair of shoes. Cream-colored, polished like the ivory bust of an African prince, presented as a gift to European royalty. Draped over them, cuffs belonging to pants, also cream-colored and well pressed. I look up. And up. This man had no end! His elegant form broadened as it ascended, and was stopped, nay, commanded to halt by a pair of shoulders so sturdy, a banquet for a devout Catholic family of fifteen could be served on each, and the settings would not jostle an inch while a pious, severe grace was conducted by the patriarch. Hanging on these shoulders was a coat of immaculate cut, and a slightly different cream color. Other colors of cream accented his tie, shirt, and kerchief, and above all those was a bronze, manly face. His smile was wide and serene, his eyes winter blue, deep with kindness. He wore a cream-colored hat.

The room hushed. Somewhere a utensil fell onto a piece of glass or ceramic. Everyone knew.

It was Paul Elsewho.

“But… but sir. I can’t buy it. I haven’t the monetary discretion for the painting.” It was the sniveling blither indigenous to the tongue of the truly pathetic.

“You do now,” the man said, clicking a ball point pen, which now busied itself above a checkbook. “You can and you will buy that painting of a steed grappling with an Oakland-area athlete.”

The words resonated from his amber throat. I knew any words from it would be true. He handed me the check for $155 United States dollars.

Even though I know in my heart the assurance of this man stretches further than that of the U.S. Treasury for the merit of the currency he gives me, my craven mouth cannot help but persist in its loathsome habits of doubt. “But sir… what if it’s still not enough?”

That’s when the door exploded off its hinges, as if punched inward by the searing daylight. The light was then blocked by another imposing form, its silhouette boasting the contours of an exquisite physique. “That’s where I come in,” boomed the rugged, gravelly voice.

I clutched the garb of Paul E. and hid behind his confident frame. I quivered like a reprehensible bit of cowardly gelatin. Through the tears, I saw who it was. Everyone did. It was the legendary Paul W.

He tossed his scarf over one shoulder. The tables in the room lifted an inch off the ground with each astonishing footstep. The bartender hid. Paul dropped a sack full of valuables, which made a noise like a gypsy’s cart smashing into a brick wall. Printed on the bag was “$155”. As I opened the bag, a gleam of golden yellow illuminated my wonder-stricken face.

The mighty Paul W. caressed his stubble thoughtfully while giving me a stern look. The corner of his mouth turned upward, ever so slightly, and he winked. “Yeah, that oughta do you just fine,” he said. A man in a bowler cap sitting in a dingy corner must have rubbed him the wrong way at that moment. Paul W. turned to the man and, with a ferocity in his eyes typically recalled only by dead lion tamers, said, “What the fuck are you looking at?” The man’s head exploded.

Yes, the other Paul was right. It did oughta do me. It did oughta do me just fine. These two noble, charitable, magnificent men entered my life and changed everything. They asked for nothing in return. Indeed, what does one give the man who has everything, and everything to give? These two radiant titans of masculine virtue, they are perfect. They are gracious perfection itself. I feel emboldened as I am flanked by my two Pauls, my saviors of brawn, my dapper hulks of sapient mettle. I can do anything with my Pauls. My arms interlock with theirs, and together we spin pinwheels into the night. Spinning, spinning, laughing, and spinning.

I speak to you as a man who has had his faith in humanity not merely restored, not merely gutted, refitted with high-end parts and refurbished, but as a man who has had humanity itself, in the form of two exquisite Pauls, invest its faith in me.

I speak to you as a man who has just purchased a painting of an orange-haired pony flicking its hooves at a strapping pigskin warrior.

I speak to you—

VICTORIOUS.


------

I promptly took the money and ran like the black-sinewed, scarlet-maned wind. I ran to T’s Paypal page and bought his astonishing work of art.

All that was left to do was for me to sit back and wait for my painting to come in the mail.

And sit back and wait for my painting to come in the mail I did.

And come in the mail it did.

------


Posted 01/18/08
"Total Victory"




If you’ve followed me on this journey, from the harrowing setbacks at the start, to the stunning success of the fund raiser and ultimate validation of all that is right with humanity, then you know how important this day is.

This is a victory not for me, but for us all. It is a spirited, flaming-maned buck against the petulant voice which tells us our dreams can’t come true, and we are just wasting our time.

Dreams do come true. Your wildest wishes can happen. Magic is real. Fairytales are sobering nonfiction, and your bravest fancies are a rock-fucking-solid lock. Hold fast to your dreams and soon you will hold them over your head like the beating, dripping heart of the enemy commander.

When one commits his entire being to an idea or an outcome, never relenting or wavering, he cannot be stopped. It is not a matter of stating firmly, “One day, I will have that painting.” It is a matter of stating, and believing, “That painting is already mine. The momentary separation between myself and the painting is incidental to the reality, and of no consequence.” When one compresses all his drive and concentration onto the head of a pin for one goal, it can no longer be considered a goal. It is a conclusion manifest in the furling parchments of reality itself.

So I urge you to celebrate this victory with me. The road was long and rocky, the potholes numerous. But in retrospect, any perceived suspense was merely destiny’s sleight of hand!












AND SO ON

Fancy-Santas are Stupid Imposters

(Since Christmas is in the air, I thought it would be a good time for a redux of this article posted in my old blog. It is probably the only thing worth salvaging from that blog and in this season of sharing I feel it is important to share it with you.)

I hate Fancy-Santas. Unlike the archetypical Santa, the cliché with the bright red suit, white beard, and unassuming accessories like black boots and mittens, the Fancy-Santa tries to be more than the cliché. He drapes himself in ruffled velvets, expensive European leathers, peculiar hats, and often can be found carrying around armloads of weird things, like a wreath, or a swan, or a fucking bush.

But what’s worse is his attitude. The Fancy-Santa acts like he’s too good to be a normal Santa. While a normal Santa is jolly and friendly, the Fancy-Santa is aloof and acts like a complete prick. He likes to think he’s mysterious, tiptoeing through the woods, occasionally pausing to cast an abstract gaze into the northern sky. What mortal could dare to even fathom the grand majesties behind his ice-blue eyes and gaudy attire? What mortal could afford one of his bullshit dolls or figurines?

You’ve probably seen a Fancy-Santa slowly rotating on a QVC broadcast for about $900, while a spokeswoman gingerly strokes his velvet robes. She uses words like “beautiful” and “exquisite” and “precious”. To her, the Fancy-Santa resembles everything good and decent left in her life, a life looted of joy by a succession of boorish ex-husbands. There is nothing boorish about a Fancy-Santa though. He is thoughtful, dignified, elegant—the perfect gentleman. And the perfect catch for a lonely middle-aged woman, if she could just find him in the fucking woods first. (protip: set a bear trap)

Still don’t know what I’m talking about? You’re lucky, then. But I’m afraid your good fortune runs out here.

This is a Fancy-Santa.



Just look at that asshole. Who the fuck does he think he is? What is he so happy about?

Listen, you imposter. You are not Kris Kringle. Put down the wreath, take off your silly robes, and go home.

They are always decked out in an absurd plethora of ridiculous shit. He’s got a small crystal tree. You know, in case of an emergency. And some kind of weird lacey doily hanging from it. Also, a list for authenticity’s sake, because—ha ha!—he’s got to confirm which children are naughty or nice. As if he’s going to be giving children jack shit.

If you ever run into a Fancy-Santa like this, the only proper recourse is to splash your eggnog in his face and pull down his pants.

Next. Get a load of this horse’s ass.



There’s always a vague implication that Fancy-Santas are a kind of rugged proprietor of the wilderness. A great mystical outdoorsman, oozing communion with nature. He is a noble champion of the woods and all its critters.

Bullshit!

He’s a glorified bum. Just because he lives in the woods doesn’t mean he owns them. And just because animals are stupid enough to sidle up to him doesn’t mean he won’t eat them and then use their pelts to craft another luxurious hooded robe. I imagine happening upon a Fancy-Santa skulking around in the woods is sort of like seeing Bigfoot. Except Bigfoot probably has the decency to at least dig a hole before he takes a shit on the ground.

This next one is a better example than the previous two, and I hate him all the more, because he takes himself more seriously.



It’s hard work being such a monumental bullshit artist like a Fancy-Santa. It helps to look grave and stern, as if you are burdened by crushing mountains of hidden wisdom. Secretly, the only wisdom he guards is an array of handy pointers on how to get fleas out of a beard.

I guess the unspoken hook to a Fancy-Santa is that they’re supposed to be magic. Like a fucking wizard. They really look like wizards, but with a Santa twist. I think the Fancy-Santa thing is really just a way for wizard freaks to get their jollies (yes, that was a Santa pun). But they can do so through the safety of mainstream Christmas orthodoxy. Similarly, the same middle-aged women who like wizards possibly like them because they remind them of Santa, the great paternal emblem, and perhaps hence, the “perfect man”. This perhaps further is the disturbing central pivot point for some weird fetish or visceral attraction programmed into the female mind set to erupt in middle age. The wizard/Santa allure is deep-rooted stuff, and expresses itself in many ways. I wonder if it explains in part the popularity of Harry Potter. Dumbledore was sort of like a Fancy-Santa. I wonder if J.K. Rowling collects Fancy-Santas. Of course, Dumbledore was proven to be gay, which on further reflection may be a critical part of the mythos. It makes these ideal mystical men unavailable, furthering the complex of unattainability. Come to think of it, now I’m sure all Fancy-Santas must be gay too. They are FANCY, after all. The rouge cheeks, the playful smirks. It’s all adding up. They’re a bunch of nomadic fags whisking through the snow.

But in reality, they aren’t even really all that magic. Because they’re stupid frauds. I mean, what can they really do that’s all that great? Maybe give you a sly wink, and when you turn around again, he’s gone. BIG FUCKING DEAL! He’s a self-absorbed jackass who would never use whatever lame powers he has to help anyone. He’s certainly not delivering presents. The real Santa doesn’t mess around. He’s got a whole army of slave labor devoted to making toys, and actually has the means to deliver them. A Fancy-Santa barely bothers with the pretense. He might get around to giving kids presents if all the children on the earth happened to live in the fucking woods with him, maybe in a two mile radius. But they don’t, they live in houses like normal people. Whenever a Fancy-Santa carries around toys, it is just for show. If you see him walking around with a teddy bear, I can guarantee you that in the near future, rather than give it to a youngster, he will burn it for warmth.

Then there are ones like this, which are doubly infuriating. This dude thinks he’s Gandalf the White. Jesus Christ, he’s so fucking pure, I bet every time he bends over, a flock of white doves flaps frantically out of his ass.



It’s passed off like he’s the Lord of Winter or some bullshit. If you ever see an idiot like this traipsing around, the proper thing to do is approach him from behind and push him into a pile of snow and then run away.

This one is riding a fucking bear. Go to hell, numbnuts!



Look at the absurd hat on this one. And what exactly does he think he’s going to do with that sled full of toys? Who’s he trying to kid? Even he has to feel too much shame in his reprehensible appearance to parade that sled around in public. Anyway, I doubt he could push that thing more than a mile through the woods before suffering from cardiac arrest.



Then, as if standard Fancy-Santa fare weren’t dreadful enough, there are these themed ones. This one is sort of hobo-themed. This wayward wintry bindlestiff gazes vacantly into the clouds as if wondering where it all went wrong.

The answer is of course the moment he decided to become a Fancy-Santa.



Surf’s up!!! There are few pleasures that compare to the experience of wringing sea water out of a puffy white beard.

This Fancy-Santa seriously needs to just go fuck off.



Even the Orient is getting in on the act! This Fancy-Santa is absolutely terrifying. I can’t tell whether he embodies the spirit of Christmas, or the malice of a dark Asian emperor. I’ve never seen a Santa, or any holiday figure, who I suspect would beat the shit out of me with one hand while he used the other to sip calmly from a bowl of soup.



That is all I have to say about Fancy-Santas for now. But there is a lot more to say on the subject, and when I uncover more of these vile and stomach-turning truths about these frauds you can be sure that I will post all the dirt here.

Maybe come Christmas morning the true Saint Nicholas will have left something to this effect beneath your tree.

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