What I Bought 9/2/2025 - Part 3

The food truck selling the Cuban sandwiches still has not been at the big Friday food truck thing since the first time I went. I missed my chance. On the other hand, I did have some jerk chicken tacos last Friday. The spiciness kicked my ass.

Wrapping up the books from August with the last issue of one mini-series, and the return of another after an absence of several months.

Dust to Dust #6, by JG Jones (writer/artist), Phil Bram (wirter), Jackie Marzan (letterer) - The jackrabbits all being very careful not to make eye contact with the person in the gas mask.

Sarah the photographer is still asking questions about the alleged child killer the sheriff let escape, while also trying to better understand the sheriff. The sheriff, back on his feet after the moonshine brothers beat his ass, has sworn off the demon drink and sets out to fix a break in the phone lines that he says the mayor didn't seem too concerned about finding and repairing.

But the mayor's found the rough drafts of Sarah's article, and doesn't approve of how his town is being portrayed. So he shreds her notes and boots her from the hotel. In general, the mayor appears to be grow aggressive and unhinged. The sight of a photo of his wife makes him hit his daughter (who is starting to figure out her baseball-playing fiance is a loser), and he's lost all patience with the alleged "rainmaker", who has produced bupkis so far.

And run through all this is the jackrabbit drive. Essentially, the locals feel there are so many rabbits they're like a plague. So they run them all into a big chicken-wire cage, and beat them to death with sticks. Based on what the sheriff tells Roscoe, they don't even use them for meat, they just kill them so they don't eat whatever pitiful amount of crops grow. The parents even encourage the kids to grab a stick and join in, but one boy, Roger, would rather read a book or help the rabbits escape.

Jones spends quite a few pages in this issue on that whole deal, but it's entirely ignored by any of the main cast. The sheriff is playing repairman, the ballplayer is fooling around with the preacher's daughter, the mayor's having his breakdown over the bleak financial situation, Sarah's not interested in taking pictures of that bit of local color. Because it's a waste of time. It doesn't solve any of the problems facing the town; it's just an opportunity for these people who feel beaten down by the world to take out their frustration on something that can't fight back, then go have themselves some booze to cool the thirst they worked up in a pointless effort.

Past Time #5, by Joe Harris (writer), Russell Olson (artist), Carlos M. Mangual (letterer) - There's always gotta be one class clown in the team photo.

Henry murdering that scout last issue brings the story back to where the mini-series began. Because the scout's sportswriter buddy, Jack, was a day late showing up, but spent the next several decades tracking Henry as he jumped from one bush league to another, under vaguely similar names, sometimes with an excuse for the affliction that made him need to stay out of the sun.

Eventually Henry had enough of being hounded, and has sufficient power to put everyone else in the stadium into a stupor while he smacked line drives at the writer's head. Terry ends up caught, hanging from the ceiling and bleeding into a bucket, but Henry lets him live. No thanks to Ronny, who is still hanging around with Henry for some reason, but doesn't care what he does to this guy.

Olson sets the scene in two columns of panels, one red and one blue on each row. The red are focused on Henry, on his anger or maybe just on his wants. He wants a story written about him (but only the story he wants told.) He doesn't want to hear about the war. The blue are focused more on Jack or Ronny. Jack bringing up Henry's war record like that matters at this point, Ronny just bored with the whole thing.

But they let Jack live and now it's 1988. Henry might just get to play in the major leagues, and Jack abide that thought, or whatever Henry is getting to play in the majors. But he's too late. Henry gets his at-bat, and Jack Terry gets hit by a car because he stopped in the middle of the street, too aghast at Henry getting his dream.

The book ends in the "present day" where, despite what Henry told Ronny that night in Chicago "one last time", he's still playing baseball. In Mexico, wearing a luchador mask and calling himself "Hector Hermanos." So Henry's selfish to the end, or maybe he just loves playing baseball too much to stop. And being an immortal creature of the night means he never has to stop. Ronny's still with him, I guess the effect of Henry siring him. In an earlier issue, Henry staked someone he bit that was still trying to find him to be with him.

Or maybe for all Ronnie's talk about dying in a church, and being angry about what Henry took from him, he doesn't want his life to end, either. Continuing on, for the love of the game.

What I Bought 3/5/2025 - Part 3

I'm not much of a sushi guy. It's fine, outside that one time I had it and (combined with several other factors, including a gas leak somewhere nearby) wound up puking in the street outside an apartment where we were celebrating Alex's birthday. But I've never eaten it and been seized by the need to have more. I definitely enjoy gyoza, those pork dumplings. Outstanding. Anyway, here's the first two issues of a mini-series.

The Surgeon #1 and 2, by John Pence (writer), Zahcary Dolan (penciler), Laurie Foster (inker), Eve Orozco (colorist), Marcelo Brisemo (color assists, issue 2), Taylor Esposito (letterer) - Wouldn't be an apocalypse without shirtless guys in goggles and mohawks. 

The surgeon is one Jenny Hanover, who accepts an offer on "Craigslist", a series of watchtowers that hang out signals about requests for one thing or another, to act as doctor for a fort called Turtle Island. Hanover's pretty skilled, and not just in doctoring, and Turtle Island is seemingly very well-run. Good irrigation and septic systems, plenty of food, blacksmithing, ammo, organization. Though I can't tell if Pence is establishing all this to make us suspicious of exactly how they manage that.

The doc gets a little soused at a celebratory party and makes some kind of promise to train up the people in the art of self-defense. Just in time, because the scouts for a group called the Hot Animal Machines find them. Despite her best efforts, one escapes to alert the rest, and now it's your classic siege situation. Right down to the suicide bomber that blows a hole in the fort's walls.

Pence writes Hanover as competent but blunt, and aware of it. She admits to a lack of social graces, and may even apologize for it, but doesn't have a lot of time for hurt feelings from the guy nominally in charge of the fort's defense. And that guy, after getting wounded, is probably addicted to the opium she used as a painkiller.

(The fact she doesn't entirely remember the terms of her agreement with the guy who runs the fort - an engineer - feels like another of those things Pence is foreshadowing. Dolan depicts the party with tall, narrow panels where she's increasingly relaxed and smiling, even as the edges of the panels progressively crumble. Orozco starts with natural coloring and keeps increasing and shifting the tint from pink to blue to a the point where the doc's skin is bright green and her hair is blue.)

Dolan's art reminds me a bit of J. Calafiore's. Not as stiff or scratchy, but something in the squareness of the heads, the particular way he draws bloodspray or violence. Something jagged and brutal, appropriate to a world where a skilled doctor admits she's killed far more than she's saved, because it's much easier to take lives than save them.

What I Bought 2/5/2025 - Part 1

I bought some baby carrots last week with the idea I'd use them to cut down on my chip intake. When I'm in the mood for something with crunch, eat the carrots instead of walking down to the store and buying chips. In reality, it's played out that I think about wanting chips, remind myself of the carrots, and decide I'm not hungry after all.

Success!

Deadpool #10, by Cody Ziglar (writer), Roge Antonio (artist), Guru-eFX (color artist), Joe Sabino (letterer) - Synchronized bullet chopping is going to be the big new event in the Los Angeles Olympics. Assuming L.A. hasn't burned to the ground or fallen into the ocean before then.

Ellie and Deadpool are still adjusting to sharing a healing factor. Deadpool in particular was growing overly reliant on just tanking damage until he kills whoever he's fighting. When Taskmaster decides him beating their asses isn't producing fast enough results, he sends them after the goober with the big gun Ellie and Princess took down a few issues ago.

Antonio uses some odd postures for Wade when he's moving. Less so for Eleanor, which I assume is meant to be her copying other people's moves, while her dad just does whatever he wants. He's also inconsistent about the blisters/sores/tumors? on Wade's face. For a while, I thought he was deliberately drawing fewer of them on the left side of Wade's face, but I think he just changes the amount depending on what angle he's drawing Wade from. With Wade only having access to half of a healing factor weaker than his usual, he probably ought to look worse now. The various cancers should be gaining the upper hand, or at least stressing his healing factor even further.

Also, ditch the '90s-style pixie boots. Not even Liefeld draws him wearing those anymore.

Anyway, confident that's enough practice, and in need of money, Deadpool agrees to a job killing Spider-Man (Miles Morales edition.) He didn't tell Eleanor that's what they'd be doing before they started, however, which seems likely to cause some issues. Especially with the fact Wade is trying to commit to being a good dad (I'm still wondering where Preston is in all this. She's not concerned her foster daughter just up and vanished?), and while Eleanor isn't sure what else she gave up in the deal to save her father's life.

That has potential. Ellie's only ever witnessed Deadpool killing people that could be broadly categorized as "bad guys." Flag-Smasher and his ULTIMATUM losers. And those were the types of jobs he was sticking to so far in this run. But that's not always how he operates. Wade Wilson does a lot of shitty things, and Eleanor may not have really faced that up to now. And if she backs away, the way Ziglar's set things up now, Wade's going to cling tighter, trying not to screw things up and fail to be there for her. It could also drive a wedge between her and Princess. I doubt the symbiote dog is going to be bothered about varying definitions of "good" and "bad". 

Moon Knight: Fist of Khonshu #4, by Jed MacKay (writer), Devmalya Pramanik (artist), Rachelle Rosenberg (color artist), Cory Petit (letterer) - Jostling a cop's doughnuts? That's a felony.

The drug dealer's dirty cop tries and fails to intimidate Dr. Sterman. At least someone's showing some spine, because Marc's sitting in that underground lair, sulking in his tent like a guy from Chile. Jake and Steven wants answers, in a sequence where Premanik draws the panels as mirroring each other in their shapes, interlocking or pushing against each other. Rosenberg colors Jake's panels heavily in red/pink, while Steven's are dominated by green. Marc's got that red-orange and black combo that I tend to associate with him burning something.

Vermin shows up, looking for a rematch after Marc set him running way back at the beginning of MacKay's run. Marc refuses to retreat from an enemy that is his own army. As he fights and is buried under bodies, Premanik has a page of a bunch of curving rows of panels, set against a negative space outline of Vermin, intercut by close-ups on Moon Knight's various personalities.

Marc fights his way through, but in doing so, rejects the notion he can have anyone around him. Premanik draws that like Marc's being torn apart from the crown of his head down, with a dozen little, irregular-shaped panels in the rip. I didn't include the entire page below, but enough to get the gist. So he's doing the Batman-style "I have to go it alone," thing now. Though I was wondering where Reese, Soldier and the rest were. Their faces got plastered on the news, too, so they likely aren't up top, just wandering around. But nobody showed during this entire battle. 

Whatever, Marc confronts the dirty cop in her apartment, considering killing her. But instead, he has her call the drug dealer, so Marc can challenge him to a one-on-one fight. Well, I'm sure a boxer-turned-drug lord will fight entirely on the up-and-up. Then again, Marc may rig the location of the fight with plastique to blow both of them up.

Loosen that Belt

Question that occurred to me a couple of weeks ago: When a waiter or waitress asks if you saved room for dessert, have you ever saved room?

For me, the answer is no. At a restaurant, I'm loading up on the main course. If I really want dessert, I've probably got something cheaper at home. Alex said the same, but said his fiance always saves room for dessert. I asked a few co-workers during a lull in a "team-building exercise", and two of the five indicated they did. Although they also said they had to check the responses of the other people at the table before saying so aloud.

Still, that leaves three for which the answer was apparently no. And overall, I've got 5 "No" and 3 "Yes." So I put it to you, delightful readers, do you save room for dessert?

What I Bought 9/27/2024 - Part 2

I went with Alex to one of his gigs in a town he hadn't played before. The attempt to visit the local comic shop ran aground because it was closed for a family matter, but there was an Asian restaurant next door, so I got the chance to try takoyaki.

Years of seeing anime characters eat it off skewers or toothpicks gave me the impression it would be crispier and crunchier. I guess I was expecting something like popcorn shrimp maybe, which it was not. That wasn't a bad thing, it was quite tasty. I didn't even have trouble with the sauces on top, which have typically been my arch-foe with other Asian cuisine. Just not what I was expecting, but a nice compliment to the fried rice.

The ice cream I had later that night may have been a bad idea, if my stomach's response around the time Alex's gig ended is any indication.

Babs #2, by Garth Ennis (writer), Jacen Burrows (artist), Andy Troy and Lee Loughridge (colorists), Rob Steen (letterer) - I envision Babs and Izzy tricked those guys into beating the crap out of each other to settle who would get to beat up Babs and Izzy. Hence the lack of blood spatter on the ladies. Fight smart not hard.

The Knights of Human Rights are for Humans are still prattling on about making the land safe for "normal" folk, but Mork the Orc (kind of small for an orc) and his dumbshit pals still think they can get in with this bunch, via some scroll Mork has. Leopards, faces being eaten, never thought my face, you can pretty well see the trajectory of that arc, though I can't rule out Ennis pulling a swerve.

Babs, meanwhile, spends half the issue wandering. First encountering a horde of undead warriors trying to figure out which way is the next place they're supposed to manifest. Which Ennis gets some humor from by having the horde bust each other's chops, because they've been together so long. Surprised he and Burrows didn't do more with the decomposing nature of their bodies. Later she shares a road with some poor knight trying to play at being a grand hero who won't shut up. Interacting with people locked in pitiful cycles prompts brief (one page worth) concern in Babs she'll end up like that, so she decides to steal some silver from the dwarf mines. Aim high! Except all the dwarves are missing.

Well, Tiberius Toledo - I think that name's supposed to mean something, possibly related to Roman history, but fuck if I know - did claim he already drove out the dwarves. Which I assume means he slaughtered them to the last child, but I guess I'll see next issue. It feels like Ennis is working towards Babs having to do more than simply wander and pull crimes that might grant her "middle class comfort" as the sword puts it, by dealing with Toledo and actually trying to rule like she's apparently supposed to. Except the tone feels too cynical for that, so either she turns it down and inter-species (class? race?) war erupts across the realm, or she tries and fucks it royally because she never finished princess school.

Body Trade #1, by Zac Thompson (writer), Jok (artist), Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou (letterer) - The way he's seated in front of that grand tree, with the thick clothes and beard, makes me think a bit of, like, Odin, seated in front of the World Tree or something.

Kim's son just passed away. The obituary says of prolonged illness, but based on the shouted accusations of Kim's ex-wife, it had something do to with Kim's bad driving. So that's an uncomfortable funeral, made worse for Kim by the fact there's no body. Because the hospital bills were enormous, so they had to sell the body to Bio-Mem to cover the costs. Kim doesn't give a shit, he just wants his son's body, to the extent he threatens a company rep (who is, admittedly preying on the desperation of an aged new-widow when he finds her.)

Kim gets his ass kicked by some meathead in a tank top who looks rougher than Kim and drives the H3 on steroids they transport bodies in. Up to that point, Jok's drawn Kim as a rough edges, heavily lined face, narrowed eyes and slanted brows. In the moment this new asshole shows up, he eases off all that, raises the brows, opens the eyes. Most of the lines on the face vanish. It doesn't make Kim look nice or anything, just lost and scared.

And he's not the only one, as even the "lead broker" for Bio-Mem is getting heat from her bosses, or maybe they're stockholders. Shitheads who have unreasonable expectations about profit and public image for what is essentially them being vultures. She also scratched her arm until she tore her coat, and Kim was scratching his cast (and his beard) earlier. I don't know if it's a nervous tic, or there's some contagion going around that results from whatever Bio-Mem is doing with these bodies, which aren't being transported humanly or with much concern to hygiene. Ah, the old cutting "costs to raise profits" gambit.

Thompson's playing cagey with what Bio-Mem does with the bodies, and also what's up with Kim. He keeps calling someone named "Cal", who seems to be a therapist or anger coach of some sorts. The cast on his arm is also too recent to be involved in whatever wreck his wife brought up (and I notice no one signed it, which could mean something or nothing. Cal's the only person who has anything nice to say to Kim.) I'm not nearly as invested in these mysteries as I was the incident on the mountain in Blow Away, or whatever was going on in Nature's Labyrinth. Which isn't great, since I didn't feel all that satisfied with the resolutions in either of those. Figure this book is on thin ice.

He's Murder in the Kitchen

It's almost Thanksgiving here in the U.S., and that means it's time to ask the question on everybody's mind:

How good of a cook is Frank Castle?

What do you mean, that wasn't on your mind and never has been? You won't spare a thought for poor Frank Punisher's (tip o' the cap to Jay and Miles Explain the X-Men for that name) culinary skills? Who else is gonna make Thanksgiving dinner for him? His family? They're dead, you know. You're so insensitive.

OK, OK, we all know Frank isn't celebrating Thanksgiving with anything other than shooting some guys trying to hijack TV shipments on their way to the big box stores for Black Friday. But the man has to eat something other than the smell of gunpowder and cordite, and C-4 does not have enough fiber for a man his age (however old Frank is these days.)

I think we generally see the Punisher eating MRE rations, or indistinguishable stuff out of cans. I know in Ennis' run he went to a pub at least once, because he was eating in a dark corner when that news broadcast came on about Nicky Cavella digging up his family's bodies. But at some point, before all the punishing, the guy lived a relatively normal life with a family*. They would have family meals, because that seems like the kind of family they were from his memories, and he must have cooked occasionally, if only to give Maria a chance to rest.

So, what's in Frank's kitchen repertoire? I'm assuming he knows how to make chili, or stew. All American men are supposed to know how to make those. Even I know how to make chili, and I'm about two steps above Homer Simpson somehow causing a fire make Corn Flakes. I'm sure he knows how to grill burgers or hot dogs, his dad would have taught him that. Scrambled eggs, toast, probably grilled cheese sandwiches, stuff like that.

That's pretty straightforward stuff, but I dunno, I feel like Frank would know some surprising stuff. The Tyger established that he like reading poetry, and that his mother encouraged it, over his father's half-hearted objections. Frank seems to be an only child, I could see his mother trying to pass on things she knows, Frank patiently listening and absorbing. Maybe he can make pie crusts from scratch, or he knows how to make really good cannolis, something like that.

Although I could see the argument that Frank makes these things technically perfect, but the food lacks soul or some other ineffable quality. Like he follows the recipe to the letter, but lacks that inventiveness or instinct that causes him to make a slight alteration that enhances the experience. I'm kind of like this, except I stick to recipes as closely as possible so I don't fuck up and waste a bunch of food. If I'm going to burn x amount of time cooking, I better get something edible out of it! Utilitarian, but it works, which was probably Frank's approach.

* It just occurred to me, I have no idea what Castle did for a living between when he came home from Vietnam/the Middle East/whichever American military boondoggle his origin is tied to currently, and when his family died. Was he still in the military, but as an instructor at a boot camp? Did he have a civilian job?

What I Bought 6/1/2021 - Part 2

Did you know there are Skittles freezer pops now? I found that out this week, when the coworker without respect for peoples' personal space brought some in. Not sure the world was crying out for that product, but it probably wasn't crying out for the Starburst jelly beans either, and I do love those. Anyway, the other two books from last month. A second issue and a first issue.

The Marvels #2, by Kurt Busiek (writer), Yildray Cinar (artist), Richard Isanove (color artist), Simon Bowland (letterer) - Alex Ross makes this Kevin Schumer guy look a lot older than Cinar does. Not a new thing for Alex Ross, obviously, but it's like Steven Wright got dumped in the Marvel Universe.

There's a brief bit at the beginning with Frank Castle interrogating drug dealers, then doing what he usually does with drug dealers, but most of this issue is focused on getting to know Kevin a little better. His uncle is apparently super-villain gear supplier the Tinkerer, and Kevin sometimes sneaks into places with suspected super-science activities and steals things for him, for money. When he isn't leading tour groups, or listening in on the Thing and the Human torch discuss the merits of scary books versus scary movies. But he has some larger role to play in whatever's coming, although the people watching him don't seem terribly impressed.

That's pretty much the issue, bar a brief fight between a hero and a villain in the capital city of Siancong, where a bunch of weird shadowy tendrils erupt from a building. So there's a bit of plot advancement in this issue, but mostly it's about getting to know Kevin Schumer. Which makes sense. If he's going to be important, we need to care about him. I don't know if him helping the Tinkerer is the way to do that, but it's an approach to take.

I feel like Cinar's Frank Castle looks too young. I know, he's not a Vietnam vet any longer, but he could still look grizzled. Castle should probably look old before his time, or that kind of old where he could anywhere from 40 to 70, you know? But the Tinkerer also look a bit younger than I'm used to. I was trying to think who he reminded me of, and I finally decided it's Stan Pines from Gravity Falls. Which, there are worse fictional characters to resemble than one that successfully rocks a fez.

 

One of these days I really do have to start writing these things before I decide on panels to scan, so they actually line up a little.

I do think my initial impression after issue 1 was correct. This is going to read better as whole once it's done. When you can see how all the different pieces fit and built. Like I said then, I have pretty high confidence in Kurt Busiek to be able to do that successfully.

Yuki vs. Panda #1, by Graham Misiurak (writer), A.L. Jones (artist/letterer) - I guess the panda doesn't understand the concept of reflections.

So a stereotypical pervy old master brings his granddaughter to the zoo. While he's distracted hitting on a lady, Yuki goes to stare at pandas, but refuses to share her ice cream with one of the babies. What's more, she taunts the panda. When the panda gets some ice cream while she's distracted, she reaches through the bars, grabs its skull and bites part of its ear off. The granddad pulls her off and does the vanish in a smoke cloud trick, and the baby panda shortly thereafter escapes from the zoo. Flash forward ten years, Yuki's getting put through ninja training before school, or training for School Olympics, and that's as far as it gets.

So, we all know who I'm rooting for here. I mean, biting a panda's ear partially off? Shouldn't you throw her in jail for harming an endangered species?

The story has the potential to be a lot of things. It feels like it might turn into almost a Road Runner/Wil E. Coyote thing, with the panda constantly trying to take revenge and failing at every turn. Yuki could be either oblivious and simply avoid danger on instinct from her training, or actually know there's a panda after her. Or it could become a violent revenge fantasy story where the panda brutally slaughters all her acquaintances until Yuki is the Last Girl, Final Girl, whatever that term is.

 

I doubt it's going to be the second one, but I'm not sure how satisfying it's going to be to watch the panda repeatedly fail to get some payback.

Jones' art definitely has manga influence to it. Linework on the characters is thick, makes them stand out against what are mostly soft focus backgrounds. The surroundings don't get a lot of emphasis. His shading is more varied or graded when he's trying to convey some momentous thing. The first page, when the narrator is intoning about rivalry and showing all these different people fighting each other, and later when Yuki and the Panda have a staredown and a wind appears from seemingly nowhere.

I'm Half-Brain Dead, So You Get This

Hopefully all of you had good weekends, whether you're Americans celebrating by blowing shit up or not. I spent Friday afternoon helping Alex pack and move some stuff to his new place two hours away. I don't really feel like it's substantially bigger than his old apartment, but he and his fiance seem pleased. And they have a cat now, who has a perpetual skeptically raised eyebrow look going.

After we unpacked what we brought - not as much as Alex planned, since all his records took up more space than he anticipated - we tried to going to a nearby comic store, because he needed another longbox. They were already closed for the day. Which kicked off an hour+ odyssey of several repeated, then aborted attempts to return to his apartment. First we turned back to purchase alcohol. Then we turned back because everybody wanted pizza, so we had to go pick up the order. The high schoolers at the Little Ceasar's were not up to the challenge of the amount of business they had going, so that took a while. Plus, they forgot one of the pizzas, so then we had to wait longer.

Eventually we made it back, food was consumed, I watched them try to put together IKEA furniture, we watched Attack the Block again, because that movie rules. More John Boyega and less Adam Driver would have made those recent Star Wars movies 1000 times better, I can confidently say despite not bothering to watch any of them.

Spent a few hours at the pool Saturday, while it was overcast and surprisingly cool. We got the heck out when we could see the rain moving down the street towards us, so just in the nick of time. Wouldn't have wanted to get wet, after all. I felt vaguely dizzy and disoriented the rest of the day, not sure what that was about. Also got more sun than I expected, judging by the state of my shoulders.

Bought some food for the cookout that night. Most of the people in the store were wearing masks, though not all, naturally. Alex wanted to make some three-cheese mac & cheese, but the last cheese they tried was a provolone that was universally panned by everyone in the house as smelling like ass and have an awful aftertaste. Two-cheese max & cheese, then.

Watched Hotel Artemis again (still really enjoy that movie). Although Alex went and took a nap a half-hour into it. Some things never change. We went back to the comic store, but it was just about to close, so there was only enough time for Alex to grab the longbox, rather than scout the back issues or trades.

We didn't end up shooting off any fireworks ourselves. The fiance's parents have two small dogs who were freaking out enough from all the other people in the neighborhood shooting fireworks, it wouldn't have been wise to add to the stress. So we watched a movie I hadn't seen previously, that I'll get around to reviewing next week.

Had a quiet drive home Sunday morning, and spent the rest of the day trying to catch up on things I'd missed the previous day-and-a-half. Like sleep. Air mattresses are not the best.

Good Burger

Watching the first half of Good Burger on Netflix with Alex qualified as the high point of last Saturday. We were supposed to go to a convention in Lawrence, but the weather was going to be crap out there, so Alex suggested Oktoberfest with some other people instead. I should have trusted my instincts that a festival about beer was not the place for a non-drinker, but I thought I'd take a chance. Maybe there would be interesting crafts or cheap bratwursts or something. Hahahahahahahaha, no.

Moral of the story: Never take a chance on new experiences.

Anyway, Good Burger. A '90s movie that feels like an '80s movie, with its band of weirdos (including Abe Vigoda, was not expecting that) trying to save the local burger chain place from being run out of business by the nefarious national chain Mondo Burger. Also has the slowly building friendship between opposites with Ed (Kel Mitchell) and Dexter (Kenan Thompson). Also, via Ed, has a lot of humor that reminds me of what you might see on Adult Swim. Not in terms of profanity, but the randomness of his responses or reactions to things around him. So Dexter asks if they've met before, and Ed asks if Dexter's been to Australia. Dexter replies no, so does Ed, very disappointed. Or else he takes things extremely literally. Guy asks for burger with nothing on it, Ed gives him a bun, with nothing on it. Because a meat patty would be something, duh.

So it was dumb as hell, but I laughed a lot more than I expected I would. Only half of those laughs were at Sinbad's ridiculous outfits.

I'm In An Alcohol-Fueled Rage. I Don't Even Drink

I really hate those Ciroc vodka commercials. The ones where there are two guys at a bar, ordering some daiquiris or whatever. Then they notice Ray Liotta sitting further down, alone and scowling, drinking his vodka. He gives them and their fruit-based drinks a scornful look, and ashamed and insecure in their masculinity, they order some of the shitty vodka so he'll think better of them.

Set aside the fact that if we're operating under the old "real man" definition, then they should just drink whatever they want and to hell with what anyone else thinks. I mean, presumably no one tells Ray Liotta to drink that vodka, or succeeds in shaming him for not drinking, I don't know, whiskey or whatever. because he's a Real Man. So by that token, these guys should just nod in acknowledgement of his existence (since he made eye contact, let's be minimally polite), take their original drinks, and return to their table. Fuck what Ray Liotta thinks of them. Oh, you were in Goodfellas, whoope-de-doo.

Granted I don't drink much, and my limited experience with vodka has convinced me that, were I to take up drinking regularly, vodka wouldn't be my choice. Still, it just irritates me every time I see it. They came to that bar to have a good time, not sit alone in the dark looking contemplative and unhappy. Let them drink their sugary alcoholic beverages in peace!

Hell, if I'm going to sit alone drinking, I'd do it at home, with Scotch, and listen to some jazz, so I could pretend to be some fictional, tortured homicide detective or private investigator. Stand looking out my window and sipping the Scotch steadily, ruminating over how my (non-existent) wife left me because I wouldn't share with her. That's how you get a proper alcoholic brood on.

Not Serious Question of the Day

Have you ever smacked your lips while eating?

You hear some food or another is lip smacking good, have you ever encountered that? And if so, was it done out of actual enjoyment of the food? Because I feel like I've only really encountered it in fiction, and it's usually ascribed to people to either making them seem disgusting or obnoxious. They're doing it to annoy someone at the table that criticized their manners, or the person has an unsteady stomach, and can't handle food at the moment. That kind of thing.

Eating While Driving's A Distraction, But So Are Friends

UnCalvin: This is a dreadful idea.

Calvin: You've said that already. Pass the stuffing.

Clever Adolescent Panda (CAP): No! Do you want to get us all killed?

Calvin: For the 17th time, no. I just want some stuffing.

CAP: You are driving, in the middle of a rainstorm. This is not the time for foods that require utensils.

Deadpool: [I have a funnel. I normally use it for hot sauce, but if we use the opposite end of the serving spoon, we might be able to cram stuffing through it.]

Calvin: Hmm, sounds like it's worth a try. Funnel me!

UnCalvin and CAP: NO!

CAP: Why are we even doing this?

Calvin: Because I have to be on the road today, so there was no other way to do our day-after-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving.

Deadpool: [We could celebrate it in October, like we do in Canada. I'm Canadian, it would fit.]

Calvin: *turns to look back at Wade* You may have noticed this entire meal is leftovers from what my mom made, so unless you're going to cook, you can cram your Canuck holidays -

UnCalvin: Look out! *grabs wheel*

Calvin: Panda, UnCalvin's trying to kill us! Get her!

CAP: I think she was trying to keep you from killing us.

Calvin: Please, sideswiping a minivan wouldn't have killed us, and UnCalvin almost spilled the mashed potatoes.

Deadpool: [There are still mashed potatoes? Pass those over here.]

CAP: Sure, but let me get some of the pie.

UnCalvin: May I have the cranberries?

Calvin: Figures you'd like cranberries. At least that means plenty of dark meat for me, if someone will fork it over already.

UnCalvin: Not a chance, I hate white meat.

Calvin: What? Damn, normally those inconsistencies in the evil opposite thing work in my favor.

CAP: What is she doing here anyway?

Calvin: She's been living in my car for the last two months, 'cause she's too depressed to go back to the company she lost.

UnCalvin: That's a blatant falsehood! You called and invited me to this!

Calvin: Oh yeah.

Deadpool; [I could help you get your company back. It won't be cheap, but for an old friend, I'll sned my best stand-in.]

UnCalvin: I don't even rate the real Deadpool?

Calvin: At least don't give her Foolkiller.

CAP: Or Madcap.

UnCalvin: Or Solo.

Calvin: What happened to that guy? He used to be all, 'While I live, terror dies!' Now he's working for Wade.

Deadpool: [Higher visibility being linked to an A-list character like me. He's hoping to make an appearance in one of those Netflix series.]

CAP: *snorts*

Deadpool: [Yeah, he's delusional, but it works for me in the meantime. I'm a busy guy.]

Calvin: Killing zoning commissioners is time consuming.

CAP: Wade, you can't tamper with the zoning board!

Calvin: I dunno, we all want to kill zoning commissioners sometimes, especially crooked ones. Like that time they wouldn't let me build a 20-foot high brick wall with guard towers around my apartment building to keep the riffraff out.

UnCalvin: You never did that.

Calvin: Maybe I just dreamed doing it.

UnCalvin: Have a roll. *jams roll in Calvin's mouth* Now that he's shut up for a few minutes, let's discuss what we're thankful for. *pause* I've got nothing.

Deadpool: [I'm thankful for my meteoric rise to most beloved hero, a position I will never, ever lose in the hearts of the famously loyal citizens of the Marvel U - I'm completely screwed.]

Calvin: Like it was a demonstration at a Phillips convention.

CAP: At least you have us! We're your friends, right guys?

Calvin: Sure, why not? You haven't nerve struck me and stolen any of my stuff in years, that's close enough.

UnCalvin: I suppose, those that realization hardly improves my - AAAAAAAH!

Calvin: Sorry, that minivan cut me off. It doesn't even have its headlights on while using its wiper blades. Lawbreaker!

Deadpool: [Criminal activity? I'll handle it *draws machine pistol* Just let me lean out the window. . .]

CAP: No killing Wade!

Calvin: Let him, it's a minivan, they're only owned by devils, anyway.

Deadpool: [I'm just gonna shoot out a tire. They re-instituted that rule against Avengers killing with the reboot. Hawkeye wouldn't shut up about it.]

CAP: You don't think them going out of control when a tire blows on a wet highway at 65 miles an hour will kill them?

Deadpool: [Not if they know what they're doing!]

UnCalvin: Stop him, panda! I'm not trusting this buffoon driving to avoid a minivan careening out of control without wrecking us in the process!

Calvin: Hey, I'll have yo - *UnCalvin jams another roll in his mouth*

UnCalvin: Cram it.

*Much scuffling ensues. The panda has its teeth locked around Wade's trigger finger and is trying to use its bulk to pull him away from the window as it leans back. UnCalvin was trying to help drag Wade away by a leg, but was only succeeding in pulling his pants. Fortunately she decided to switch tactics before everyone went blind, but opted to reach across Calvin to roll up Wade's window, trapping his head outside. Wade, thinking Calvin was responsible, punched him in the back of the head, causing him to nearly choke on the roll. The coughing fit that followed sent the vehicle swerving about, making everyone stop fighting and start screaming. Well, Wade was already screaming about having a window closed on his neck, but you know what I mean. Calvin eventually gets the vehicle pulled over and under control.*

Calvin: All you jerks get the hell out or I'm busting your freakin' skulls!

*Brief pause, followed by incredulous laughter from all three of the passengers*

CAP: That's a good one.

UnCalvin: Indeed.

Deadpool: [Can someone open the window? My mask is getting soggy, and it's washing all the food stains out.]

Calvin: *grumbling* Fine, whatever. We're not moving now. Will someone pass me some food, that's not a roll?

CAP: Sure, have some pie.

Calvin: Great! Where's the Cool Whip?

CAP: *looks around* Er, splattered all over the back glass, and your wrench sets?

Calvin: What?! Aw, damn it. I should have just invited Makes Brakes Fail Lass and the Blender Furby.

UnCalvin: Here's an unopened container.

Calvin: *sniffs* That's, that's the nicest thing you've ever done for me.

CAP: I think your mom packed it.

Calvin: Yeah, but UnCalvin didn't hide it, which is pretty nice by her standards.

CAP: That's true.

Deadpool: [Yep.]

UnCalvin: I can be nice!

CAP: You rebuilt the Blender Furby as an assassination device.

UnCalvin: And positive reinforcement fitness machine!

What I Bought 1/26/2015 - Part 4

Not that I'm a fan of most commercials, but that one for the Wendy's bacon mushroom melt thing, where everyone sings about what they did to earn it, I really hate that one. They end up saying they did nothing, but it's more than that. Outside of the first guy, who actually washed and folded his underwear, every other person was either an incompetent dolt (the kid that can't parallel park), or an actual jerk (the lady bragging because she slipped an extra item into the 10 or less line, and of course, the redhead that's "helping" a friend move. By carrying a pillow). Basically, it's a sandwich for stupid assholes.

Daredevil #10-12, by Chris Samnee and Mark Waid (storytellers), Matthew Wilson (colorist), and Joe Caramagna (letterer) - I can understand Matt turning his head away. A motorcycle has to be a hell of a thing for a guy with enhanced hearing. Also, he probably doesn't want his face ground off by the tires.

Issue 10 wraps things up with Killgrave and his kids. Purple Man actually helps Matt get going again by demanding he show some fear, which is something Matt knows how to work against, as opposed to the overwhelming feeling of isolation the kids hit him with. So Matt fends off his shambling foe and staggers back to his law office, where Kirsten is still putting off her dad about the offer to publish Matt's memoirs. She helps patch him up, and gives him the clue where kids who can do whatever they want would go: One of those funland/Chuck E. Cheese type places. But once they've scattered among the rides and games, they're easy prey for Killgrave. Matt shows up and takes him down with the police, but still isn't entirely himself afterward. Fortunately, he has Kirsten to help him through it.

Samnee went heavy on the blacks in this issue, especially in the moments when Matt's struggling the most with what the kids did. The scene in the office, the panel where Kirsten slams the door open, ready to take a swing at whoever is there, there's very little black in it, because she's the only one in the panel. For the rest of the page, and the one after that, as she and Matt converse and she patches him up, there are a lot of shadows, mostly around Matt, but also her, because she's concerned about him. And something about the colors, the light in the room is muted. It makes it feel like a quiet scene, where they're keeping their voices low even though there's no need. The shadows tend to fade when Matt's active, doing something, or has something he can focus on to distract him from the emotions the kids unleashed, but it's kind of a temporary thing.

After that, Matt and Kirsten take on the case of George Smith, the former Stunt-Master, who is angry the company he sold the rights to his name to have given it to a new kid who is an Internet sensation. Before Matt and Kirsten can make a lot of headway, Smith kills himself, and Matt decides to confront the new Stunt-Master personally, only to learn Smith isn't dead, and the new guy hasn't actually been pulling off these crazy stunts. All those times it looked like he died, someone actually did die, and he came out the other side OK. The drug company that's sponsoring him had been pumping homeless people full of drugs and tossing them out there. And the final reveal is that it was actually Smith who was masterminding the whole thing, as a way to go out on top. Even took a bunch of drugs so he could fool Matt's senses, with the side effect that he cut his life expectancy down to about a year.

Then at the end Matt lets it slip he loves Kirsten, which probably doesn't bode well for her.

When the story started, and we hear George's tale, I thought Waid and Samnee were deliberately referencing the plight of a lot of comics creators. Smith, through his efforts, creates this larger than life character, but now the character is continuing on beyond him, and he's not receiving any recognition or financial compensation for it. It seemed like Jack Kirby's story, or Gary Friedrich's, or the Siegels struggles with DC. Which made the reveal that Smith was behind everything a little curious. I have no idea how that would fit in with the "creators getting shafted" idea, so maybe it wasn't intentional on their part. I mean, Smith was killing people to elevate his star, which would suggest each creator is really only in it for himself, and would screw all the others over if the opportunity presented itself to make a little scratch. Maybe they're making the point that some creators are like this, and they're terrible and awful, but what's the endgame of that? Only support creator rights if they aren't ruthless, amoral jerks?

OK, that somewhat confusing and depressing  thematic discussion aside, I liked Matt and Foggy's differing versions of Matt's first encounter with Hawkeye, especially with Kirsten on the sidelines offering commentary. Foggy's point that Matt needs to be truthful because Hawkeye is going to want to read about his first meeting with Daredevil, the recognition that Matt tends to overact when he needs to sell being able to see. I mentioned it in the Year in Review posts, but Kirsten and Foggy's steady lampooning of Matt's ego is one of the most enjoyable parts of this book. It's great that Matt has largely abandoned the gloom n' doom outlook and embraced a more upbeat approach, but his cockiness could absolutely get insufferable if there wasn't someone there to jab at him. With Kirsten and Foggy, he has two. Kirsten has a but quicker wit, and is more willing to use it, but Foggy has years of being Matt's best friend under his belt, which gives him an inside track to block Matt's attempts at self-aggrandizement.

The Weekend Has Thrown My Sleep Schedule Off Completely

Hope you all had a pleasant weekend. I spent mine visiting with Alex, as is standard for the 4th. We didn't blow anything up this year. Alex was not at his house when I came in, and his phone was dead, so I had to kill a couple hours wandering around town until he did get in touch with me. Then it was time for a surprise visit to a quarry a different friend of his owns, for swimming, and more sun than was probably advisable. He had a gig, so that's how we spent the evening and the early morning hours. There was supposed to be a eg in the middle of the dance floor, but they changed their mind about that. Which might explain why it was such a well-behaved crowd. I've never seen the bouncers have it so easy getting people to leave at the end of the night. It was nice, I got a couple of decent photos (including one where his attempt to look cool is likely undercut by my throwing a thumbs up next to him like a goober), though the lighting in the club makes it hard to find the right balance. No flash makes everything too dark, but the flash washes out all the lasers and smoke machines.

Saturday was pretty slow. Hung at one of his friend's houses and watched movies. I'm gonna save Seven Psychopaths for tomorrow, but what the heck, we can discuss Spielberg's 1941, which I'd never seen. Is there a term for movies with lots of disparate threads that eventually tie together in implausible fashion? That's kind of what 1941 is. All the characters just happen to come together in the same place at the same time, even though they were scattered all over California. Everyone's in a panic after Pearl Harbor, so there's a crazy base commander in the desert seeing Japanese forces everywhere, John Belushi is flying a P-40 chasing Zeros that don't exist. There is a Japanese sub off the coast, commanded by Toshiro Mifune, with a German officer in tow, completely lost and incapable of even outsmarting Slim Pickens. There's a family with an artillery piece on their lawn, with a daughter dating a guy who hasn't enlisted, and they both want to win a dance contest, but Treat Williams is playing a jerkass enlisted man who won't take "No" for an answer. He could have gotten run over by Dan Ackroyd's tank and I would have thought he deserved more pain. What a tool. It was an OK film, Belushi was pretty funny, but it went too long. It took them forever to finish up the submarine plotline.

Sunday was a little more running around, though not until after 3 p.m., since it took Alex that long to wake up. We went to a short-notice birthday party where the birthday boy almost didn't show up, and we never did get around to cutting the cake. We also tried to playing Cards Against Humanity version of Apples to Apples, but geez, I hate playing games with drunk people. They aren't paying attention, they keep forgetting to grab a new card after they set one down, it's a mess. Plus, the only cards that ever win are the filthy ones, and frankly, there aren't that many funny ones. Complaints about a lack of good cards were frequent. Apples to Apples is better in its basic version. But there was a lot of good music at the party, and some nice fish.

I really wanted a piece of that cake, though.

I'd Have Been Better Off Shopping

Clever Adolescent Panda: I don't understand why we couldn't come for Thanksgiving yesterday.

UnCalvin: Because he doesn't want us around his family, obviously.

Future Deadpool: *lifts face out of the bowl of mashed potatoes* We do blow things up a lot. *notices everyone staring at him, looks at bowl of potatoes* That was rude of me. I should have put some on my plate instead.

UnCalvin: Quite. Now hand me the cranberries, please.

Clever Adolescent Panda: You aren't going to use them as explosives, are you?

UnCalvin: *snidely* I don't know, are you and your silent partner there going to destroy my business and push me to the brink of financial ruin over a gag gift?

Cassanee: I'm here to be polite. And eat.

Future Deadpool: I'll say. You can really pack it away! I love a girl that eats! Sorry, woman. Woman that eats. Here, have some liquefied chicken bones. it' what we eat since chickens are extinct.

Cassanee: *shuffles chair away from Future Deadpool*

Clever Adolescent Panda: How many times do I have to say "I'm sorry"?

Future Deadpool: In my time, we had a machine that took money from your account and gave it to the person you were talking to every time you said "sorry". Then our Xavier destroyed it because he said it was oppressing mutants. Really, he was mad I kept tricking him into bumping into me and apologizing for it. Then Future Molly made me eat my arms.

UnCalvin: *pushes away plate* Thank you, Wade.

Calvin: Yeah, Wade, swell.

Clever Adolescent Panda: *whispering* Why did you invite him?

Calvin: He said his team told him there were timeline disruptions that wouldn't let him return home with them.

Clever Adolescent Panda: They ditched him.

Calvin: Pretty much. I felt bad for him, so here we are.

UnCalvin: *loudly* What are you two plotting over there?

Calvin: We were deciding who had to tell you there's no pecan pie.

UnCalvin: *outraged* What?! How could you not have pecan pie? I specifically requested it!

Calvin: Then why didn't you buy one?

UnCalvin: I'm busy! I have employees, and new shareholders to find, thanks to someone *glares at the panda*

Clever Adolescent Panda: Oh, let it go already.

UnCalvin: *undeterred* You've been lazing about for weeks! You couldn't even go buy one at the store?

Cornelius Potfiller: I brought a pecan pie.

Calvin: Yeah right. I could barely move yesterday, which is why we're doing this now. And if I had gone store bought, you'd have complained about how lazy THAT was. "Why didn't you make a pie? I grew these fruits personally.' Who brings fruit to Thanksgiving? Even Future Deadpool brought appropriate fare!

UnCalvin: Pizza rolls?!

Calvin: They're rolls, aren't they?

Future Deadpool: I missed pizza rolls. We had to kill them all 15 years before I came here when Ringmaster and the Circus of Crime hypnotized them into sentience.

Cornelius Potfiller: I brought a pecan pie.

UnCalvin: *irritated* Well then where is it?

Cornelius Potfiller: Oh sorry, it's behind the centerpiece. I didn't realize you couldn't see it.

UnCalvin: Oh. *takes pie* Thank you.

Clever Adolescent Panda: How did you know to bring one?

Cornelius Potfiller: I caught my maid cooking it for her family's dinner, using my kitchen. SO I took and brought it along. Can you believe the nerve?

UnCalvin: *stops eating* What?

Clever Adolescent Panda: What?

Calvin: *facepalms*

Future Deadpool: I find that really hilarious, but recognize it's also in poor taste. Also, I'd like to stab you.

Cornelius: *nervous* What?

Calvin: *sighs* I don't need blood all over the place. Cornelius take all the food that's leftover, give it to the maid, apologize for taking her pie.

Cornelius: Now see here. . .

Calvin: Otherwise, it's an open question which one of these three will kill you first.

Cornelius: *resigned* Very well. *muttering* I should have gone to the club for brandy and cigars, rather than consort with this gutter trash.

Calvin: Look this is running really long already. Why doesn't everyone say what they're thankful for so we can wrap this up?

UnCalvin: But I'm having so much fun! Fine. I'm thankful for my boundless intellect and good looks, which will see me through any crisis brought about by your meddling.

Clever Adolescent Panda: I'm thankful for UnCalvin never giving up, because it's so much fun to wreck his life.

UnCalvin: *outraged again* What? Impudent scamp! *reaches for blaster*

Cassanee: I'm thankful I live far away from all of you. *swats blaster away, aided by turkey grease on UnCalvin's fingers. gun lands in mashed potatoes*

UnCalvin: Curses!

Cornelius: I'm thankful for the whiskey and cigars awaiting me at the club, where I may scoff at your paltry repast with my similarly wealthy friends.

Future Deadpool: I'm thankful to be in a place that has indoor plumbing and mashed potatoes that come with prizes. Check out this nifty ray gun!

Clever Adolescent Panda: They have time travel when you're from, but no indoor plumbing?

Future Deadpool: Turns out mutant governments aren't any better about spending to maintain infrastructure than human ones.

UnCalvin: Delightful. Give me back my ray gun!

Future Deadpool: OK, but only because I'm highly physically attracted to you. *tosses blaster to UnCalvin, casually smashes Cornelius in the face with the bowl of potatoes* You can shapeshift to look like Pyslocke, right?

UnCalvin: *looking very uncomfortable* Um, Calvin, what are you thankful for?

Calvin: Besides being thankful I don't bring all of you together more often? Well, there's someone I want to express thanks to I never thought I would.

UnCalvin: You've finally recognized I'm the only thing keeping your blog going?

Clever Adolescent Panda: Get real! I'm the one who moves the needle!

UnCalvin: Please! You stopped being a draw after Calvin stopped posting pictures of adorable baby pandas! And those weren't even you! I know you were using body doubles!

Cassanee: What?

Clever Adolescent Panda: It's not true! Besides, you can find cute panda pictures anywhere. I'm the only one that fights ogres and evil opposites!

Calvin: The panda's right, as far as I know.

UnCalvin: I've asked you not to use that term. "Evil opposite" is hurtful. I prefer "metaphysically reactive".

Cornelius: *still on the floor* Could someone call a physician? I believe the clout to my cranium has caused my humors to mix dangerously.

Clever Adolescent Panda: *ignores Cornelius* That term is nonsense!

UnCalvin: Your face is nonsense! *Clever Adolescent Panda leaps across the table and the two begin scuffling.*

Calvin: *sighs, rises from the chair, walks around, and helps Cornelius up* You'll be fine. I put all the food in Tupperware bowls just in case someone tried to use them as weapons.

Cassanee: So who were you going to thank?

Calvin: Deion Sanders. *UnCalvin and Clever Adolescent Panda stop fighting*

Clever Adolescent Panda: *takes UnCalvin's hair out of its mouth* Wait, really?

Calvin: Yeah. Last week they were talking about the NFL Hall of Fame ballot, and Deion mentioned former Cardinals' cornerback Aeneas Williams as a guy he thought deserved to be elected. I don't know if it'll make a difference, but it was nice to see Williams get some acknowledgement. I always worry he gets overlooked because he played for the Cardinals. And Michael Irvin even backed him up on it. So, you know, thanks for that, guys.

Clever Adolescent Panda: Are you sure you aren't UnCalvin in disguise?

UnCalvin: Imbecile. You're sitting on me.

Clever Adolescent Panda: Yeah, but Calvin thanking two guys who played for the Cowboys? Oh no, we're trapped in an awful mirror universe.

Calvin: If we were in a mirror universe, I would have cooked a pecan pie for UnCalvin, and it would have been delicious. Also, Future Deadpool wouldn't be hitting on UnCalvin.

Future Deadpool: Yeah, I'd be hitting on you. Aw, that's an unpleasant thought.

Cassanee: *pushes plate away* Agreed.

Clever Adolescent Panda: Yeah, that's not right Future Deadpool.

Cornelius: What foul sentiment! This is the most farcical eating I've attended in many months, and furthermore - *Future Deadpool punches Cornelius in the face*

Calvin: Yeah, I think we're done here.

Clever Adolescent Panda: You aren't going to thank your audience?

Calvin: Not for another two weeks or so.

Clever Adolescent Panda: Two weeks? Oh, the blogiversary! Great, I'll see you then! *starts to leave*

UnCalvin: I'll also be here, to class up the proceedings.

Future Deadpool: And I'll be here to chat you up when you get drunk and cry a lot!

UnCalvin: *chants mystic incantation, vanishes*

Calvin: Guys, that really isn't necessary.

Cassanee: I'll pass.

Clever Adolescent Panda: Don't be like that. It'll be fun! We can bring the Ghost of the Forest along, too!

Calvin: Hey, at least one of you could take Cornelius with you!

Is Fish Part Of The Balanced Desert Breakfast?

I had a coworker watching Trigun over the weekend. There's a point at which Vash explains why he passed of the reward for recapturing two members of the Nebraska family. One of the reasons is that, since he essentially saved the town, the kindly old lady who owns the diner they're sitting in has promised him all the salmon sandwiches he can eat.

Which sounds great until I remember they're on a desert planet. I suppose the salmon could have been brought along in the great ships they used to reach this planet, and that they could have survived the rough landings like the humans did. But salmon seem like a very inefficient food source to maintain on a desert world, where people are so heavily dependent on those plants of theirs.

Maybe Knives was right about humans being worthless garbage that should be exterminated.

I'm not really clear on the limits of what the plants can do. They're a massive energy source, so maybe they have a machine that can create salmon flesh, ready to eat, without needing to make an actual fish that would require additional resources to maintain?

I Don't Understand People's Thinking Sometimes

Yesterday someone on one of the other crews here baked cookies, then set them out on the table in the common area. They looked very tasty, but sadly, there was a sign next to them asking people to not eat them. Because they were for someone's birthday.

OK, I can appreciate the desire not to have your gift devoured by the horde. In that case, I might suggest putting them somewhere else. Like your room. Or leave them in the kitchen. I find people tend to have fewer expectations for food they see sitting in there. But the table in the common area is one people use specifically for when they want to share things they made. This happens all the time. So why leave something there that is specifically not to be shared?

If I get brownies from home, and I don't want to share, I leave them in my room. I don't bring them to the common room, set them out for all to see, then affix a sign telling everyone to keep their grubby paws off. Because that would be rude. Also, I wouldn't trust people not to go ahead and eat them anyway. As far as I know, no one touched the cookies, but I wouldn't count on that level of restraint to hold.

My Train Of Thought Is Off The Rails Again

Some time ago, some coworkers and I got into a discussion about our preferences in doughnuts. I agreed with one fellow that I prefer the cake doughnuts, while the others preferred the, I guess, yeast doughnuts. The ones that are typically larger and lighter. Those can be OK, I'm not completely against them, but it's like eating air. Air with frosting on it.

Now if someone could devise frosting that defied gravity, that person would be elevated to the level of a god. You could be sitting in an easy chair, reading a book, you spray some frosting next to you, and just turn your head and take a bite whenever you like.

There'd be mishaps, though. People would overestimate their vertical, and you'd have frosting sprayed too high in the air for anyone to reach. Just floating there, causing problems for birds, attracting insects. The birds might appreciate all the insects, but they'd end up getting some of the frosting along with the bugs and the next thing you know, you have birds suffering from obesity and diabetes. Will Wilford Bremley help them get diabetes supplies delivered right to their nests? I doubt it.

I imagine people would start spraying the frosting too high as part of performance art. You'd see people out on sidewalks, dressed in leotards, pantomiming leaping helplessly towards their costar (who is suspended from a light pole with a sign that says "Frosting" around their neck), but always coming up short. They'd title their performance something ridiculous like "Icarus Flies Too Close To The Sun". On the other side, gravity-defying frosting-based comedy would take off. There'd be so many acts about a guy trying to reach that frosting, so now he's going to try and climb the walls with plungers. Then he'll try stacking up furniture in an unsteady tower. Then he'll try sawing through his roof to get the frosting from above, all with hilarious consequences.

Purely For Insult Research

It wasn't my plan to go five days without posting. I'm at Alex', but since I brought my computer I figured I could keep banging out posts. Then Alex couldn't remember the password so I could connect to his network. He'd saved it on his phone, but he goes through phones like I go through tissues during allergy season, and it's rare that everything on the busted phone can be transferred to the new one. Alex' laptop has some sort of bug where I could type a post, save it, but couldn't publish it. The downside is, no posts the last five days. The upside is, I kept trying, so I have three more days' worth of posts ready to go. I know you probably didn't care, but I strive for daily content here, and failing that, to at least let you know ahead of time when there won't be.

OK, explanation finished. Moving on.

What would you say is the typical alcoholic beverage of elderly southern ladies who belong to a garden club?

I ask because there was a little festival down here recently, and the garden club hands out awads for best presentation or whatever. Every year the same people win (this also happens at Christmas) regardless of how much or how little effort someone made. I'm not actually much of a decorator, but the cool kids only aspect of the awards irks me. So I derisively described them as a bunch of old biddys sitting around playing canasta, smoking cigarettes and drinking Tom Collins, but I have no idea if they'd actually drink a Tom Collins (I know doodley-squat about alcohol).

Mint juleps seems too obvious, plus I'm not sure we're far enough south. Maybe it would just be gin?

Yes, I've Returned

I'm not as addled as usual when returning from one of these weekend jaunts. Strange considering how off my typical sleep schedule I was. Still, I'm sure waking up for work at 7 tomorrow will be loads of fun.

The weekend itself was OK, though filled with both predictable and unpredictable stupidity. There was a party in the middle of nowhere. Alex bought a keg, made back maybe half his money, and considered that fine. I was less enthused since a bump caused the bucket to spill ice and water in the back of my vehicle, and I was sprayed with beer while he tried to tap the keg. Plus he lost the new phone he'd received as a replacement for his last one four days earlier, one of those predictable acts I mentioned. The disorganization of the party with regards to the DJ schedule and who was bringing equipment was similarly unsurprising to me. We reached his home to find ourselves locked out by his sister, whether because she's an idiot or an ass, I don't know. Probably both. I ended up entering through a window, then Alex passed out on the floor, leaving me to haul everything in. The urge to drop the keg on his head was fortunately not overwhelming.

We visited his coworker's home again, at her request, and like the time back in July, she started arguing with her spouse while we were there, making me desperately want to be elsewhere. The visit to his aunt and uncle's place went better; no one gave me grief for not wanting an alcoholic beverage. We played a card game called Quarters that netted me a couple of bucks, and played several rounds of pool, though every game was won when one team scratched while trying to sink the 8-ball. Victory by default. I played my usual sorry game, interrupted by occasional impressive shots I'd like to say I planned, but were luck.

Sunday, I was reminded Alex and I have very different philosophies on life. His is "No regrets"; mine is "There's no mistake so far in the past I can't still beat myself up over it". His is probably more conducive to a happy life, but I think it explains why he makes the same mistakes repeatedly, as I think he's combined not regretting past choices with not learning from them. Speaking of poor choices, we both ate far too many White Castle burgers yesterday, which I've been regretting all day. I think Alex got most of his regretting over last night, so perhaps he does regret, but only for a limited time. I don't think I'll be wanting any of those for several months, so that's something.

Driving back this morning, had a truck with a camper on it, that was also hauling a trailer, cut in front of me at a turn. Why they were in such a hurry to get on that road I'm not certain. They drove no faster than 40, when the speed limit was 55. If they'd let me go ahead of them, I would have left them in the dust easily, leaving them free to drive the speed they liked. Instead I was trapped behind them for several miles until I found a passing opportunity. Which lead to me being trapped behind another truck hauling a trailer, albeit at a slightly faster speed (more like 45). The problem with this one was a tendency to take its half out of the middle of the road, especially in straightaways. When I went to pass, I had to wait for them to register that, and get back in the proper lane, rather than having their driver's side three feet into the oncoming lane.

Regardless of the annoyances that come with sharing a world with other people, I'm here. My comics weren't waiting for me, so I may need to call Jack. I thought we sorted this out last week, but apparently we did not. We'll find something to discuss to fill the time, so don't worry about that.