You gonna eeeeat that pasta? Blooooop.
If you’re anything like me, you hate flying and are terrified of clouds turning to solid ice and falling on you. It’s just the way I’m made, ya know?
Continue reading
Supanova 6: Bris…Bwainnnnnsss
Supanova 5: In the Ass of Madness
Need a lift, buddy?
Well, the Melbourne stretch of the Supanova convention is over and next up is Brisbane. The two non-convention days in Melbourne since the thing ended on Sunday have been fairly quiet with very few signs of The Hatch to disturb our sleep. Someone claims to have found some Hatch droppings on the roof of a church, but without proper laboratory facilities they could be anything droppings, and, in fact, look suspiciously like regular old human droppings (Australians, for whatever reason, seem to love shitting on churches).
Continue reading
Supanova 4: Ambiguously Hairy Genitals
Don't hate me because I am beautiful.
After the sometimes traumatizing ordeals of the previous days, Sunday was a walk in the fly-infested park, to be sure. Â I’m not even sure the day warrants a report, but I’ll see what I can dredge up from memory.
Continue reading
Supanova 3: The Signening
Try my delicious spicy chicken. You know you want to.
Waking in a puddle of my own sick, having sleep-expunged at least my stomach’s memories of the night before, I thought about the day ahead. It was Saturday, the first day of the actual signing portion of the Supanova convention.
Continue reading
Supanova 2: Roo’d
Some years back, when I was working on Intruder JIM, I took a trip to Korea to visit the overseas animation studio where the show was being animated and was treated to a rather unexpected little bit of local business custom. Â I was taken, by the suit and tie wearing executives from the studio to a ‘gentleman’s club’.
The extent of it, for me, was that the studio people, all your very average, distinguished Korean types in suits and ties, glasses and smart, short haircuts, brought the few of us that were visiting into this dark place where women came out and walked around on a stage, each of them wearing a number. Â The numbers were for picking which women you wanted to come down and be your server and company for the time you spend there, serving drinks, chatting about whatever it is there was to chat about, and looking generally thankful for not being their feet anymore.
Continue reading