Deathmatch

DEATHMATCH #1 IS OVER.  DO NOT SUBMIT NEW ENTRIES.

As you may or may not know, when I’m not screaming at people in person, gesticulating dangerously, about how I am a creator of magic and wonders the likes of which mankind has never before seen, when not slaving over my drawing desk or computerized workstation of the future actually generating said wonders, when I’m not sobbing, face in hands,  from the crushing horror of my reality when said wonders have been unleashed to a resounding response of “Ur boots r so kewl where you get thme?” and “DO U LIEK CHEEZ?”, I like to gather the world’s greatest fighters and pit them against one another in cruel and bloody mortal combat.
Continue reading Deathmatch…

Cotton candy for the kids.

Respected News Publication.

Look what’s in the Chicago Tribune and tremble before the most enormous-headed manifestation of evil ever to scar the minds of all it touches.

BEHOLD!

I should retroactively reconstruct my stories of creating GIR to specifically involve doing it just to see how cosplayers would deal with the unwieldy design in real world situations, much to amusement and horror of people around them, always on guard should the cosplayer teeter and fall over, hurting themselves badly.

Comicon Report: Sunday

Okay, this was pretty good.  Not a whole lot of interest to write about for the last day of the con, which isn’t to say that it wasn’t a day filled with action, adventure, and incredibly bad, hastily whipped up renditions of Heath Ledger as the Joker, but only one thing truly stood out enough to convey without having to mask it in layers of fabrication.

Middle of the con-day, I’m taking a break, and furious over someone having stolen my chair in the tiny enclosure where tiny breaks are taken.  Joe, and Bryon, two of SLG’s most terrible creatures working the booth, J.R. Goldberg and myself are all eating our respective lunches in this small room, surrounded by boxes and curtains, so we’re pretty much sequestered away from anyone on the outside.  We’re chewing and talking in that way that we do, and I start catching little snippets of very impassioned conversation from outside, near one of the booth’s sales tables.  I look through a small slit in the curtain and see Matt, another of the highly trained, deadly booth workers sitting, looking at someone that is mostly obscured by the curtain.  This guy Matt’s listening to is going on about some awful encounter he had with what sounds like a grade-A douchebag.  To the guy’s right, Dan, another booth guy, is also looking on and taking in this guy’s tale of woe, which I soon realize is about yours truly – HORRIBLE LITTLE ME.  

I get the lunchees’ attention and tell them that I am actually witnessing the birth of one of those rumors that ends up staining the internet, a thing I have seen the final results of, but never before spotted to freshly in the wild.  It is a fascinating and scary thing, hilarious and sad all at the same time.

Later on, Matt and Dan tell me that the guy had walked up asking if Roman Dirge was around.  Having told the guy no, they then told him that I was currently signing, to which the guy curled up his face and said no thanks, leading into his tale of terror.

Here is that guy’s tale:

This wounded ass was walking through the crowded hall and spotted me heading in the opposite direction, actually bumping into my shoulder, thanks, no doubt, to how absolutely packed the place gets.  I then turned around to say “Watch where you’re fucking going, asshole!”, flipping him off in the process.  Lots of indignant remarks followed the telling of this encounter, and a lot of postulating on what could make a guy like me act in such a way.

Thing is, none of this ever happened.  Peeking out from the curtain, I had never seen the guy before in my life, and though bumps and shoves do happen in such an enclosed space, nobody every knocked me around that much, and I sure as hell never said anything but excuse me when it happened.

But to this guy, it either really happened, or this was some way of leaving a mark by trying to tell stories about someone he’s never met.

From day one of doing comics or animation, you wonder what it is in people that makes them speak about people they just don’t at all know in a way that makes it sound like they had some connection, even in a negative way, with that person, and I wonder how many other people this guy told the story to.

It doesn’t beat the story about the time I was kicked out of a nighclub for doing coke in the bathroom, because I’m such a fuckin’ hackneyed rockstar, but this time I actually got to marvel at it in action.

It was like turning your head at just the right time to catch a glimpse of that shooting star, only it’s clutching a giant sack of shwag and hoping you remember it.

ComiKhaaAAAAANNNN Update: Saturday

So you want to know about Saturday at the San Diego Comicon, do ya?  Well pull up a bucket, flip it over and have yerself a sit, you goddamned freak that sits on buckets, you.

The day started out like any of mine usually do, with me bolting upright in bed drenched in the remains of my night-terror sweat, screaming and frantically clawing at my flesh to remove whatever was burrowing into my limbs and torso in the sweet sweet escapist realms of my dreams.

At this point the staff generally enter the room after having to smash the door open, as I latch every single lock on the door the night before in dread of hotel gremlins.  Upon being grabbed and shaken by the staff, I, still in my dreamstate, believe that my defenses were for nought and that the gremlins are throttling me to break all of my bones to make me more easily chewable, and fight back, usually taking one of the wee ladies down before being thrown against the window, smashing through it, doubling over the balcony and hitting the pavement several floors below.

I then walked to the con, headphones not quite protecting me from such snippets of conversation such as the one between two passing, manly men with large arms, one of them saying to the other, ” Beets, lettuce, cabbage…” which only confused me as much as frightened me.  Depending on the mood, when crossing the street to get to the convention center and walking awkwardly amongst several hundreds of human beings, all bumping and jostling into one another, miserably desperate to get to their fun, I listen to either music from Schindler’s List, Lawrence of Arabia, or the ferry scene music from War of the Worlds.  

Got inside, and headed straight to the SLG booth, where the dogs had already mauled a few early fans to a bloody mess.  Because I am the puppymaster, with a gesture, I bade the mongrels to part to allow me access to the booth.  

First signing of the day went well, with most everyone being generally pretty nice.  In fact, it might have been the most decent group of people at a Comicon in quite some time, although the disturbing rise in guys asking for hugs is something to be addressed, and makes me wonder about the rumors about a diet high in soy.  They all settled for handshakes or a devastating kick to the knees, so there was really no drama from those situations at all.  The the dogs dragged them away by their faces.

Wandered around on my first break and actually discovered that the M.C. Frontalot on my Twitter was not an impostor but the actual M.C Frontalot.  Who says the internet’s all shams and flams and baby prams?  Huh?  I don’t know either, kids.  He gave me socks from the Dumbrella booth, noting that I was essentially dressed like a hobo, my socks full of holes with little mice living in them.  The man’s not just a nerdcore warlock, which isn’t at all an actual thing but it seems right only at this moment, but he’s a saint, folks.  A saint.  The socks already have holes in them, by the way.  I’m a terrible thing.

Back at the booth, someone came up and told me they dug the work I had done on the MSI album.  While they were doing this, I was handing Jimmy Urine a copy of the poster I had done, having just run into him walking around the con.  Jimmy was there to promote his new line of cup-o-soups, and was packing up to go, realizing this was just the wrong place to be doing that, but not before walking around a bit and grabbing a poster.  The guy talking about the album work, upon hearing that the person who had just walked off was the lead singer of the band they so love, SHOT HIMSELF IN THE FACE.  YES.  IN THE FACE.

Signing 2 began, and it was even more casual than the first, allowing me to actually speak to people, with them saying such things as “Oh, hello there.” and me responding with various retorts, the most common of which was “I do, but only when it’s chubby.”  So all in all it was a pretty successful appearance in the heart of hell.

Dinner with the SLG crew was as unpleasant as always, with everyone eating out of a trough and lifting their filthy faces only to howl and growl if any other got close to their “feed zone”.