Tuesday, July 31, 2007

More Pictures And Some You Tube Trinkets: Comic-Con 2007

Harvey Birdman: Attorney At Law

Parrapa the Rappa


Towley and Mr. Hanky

The Pope in front of Gabe and Tycho

Caveman Robot

Some Type of Pokemon


Storm Trooper with a Hot Dog

Mario Cast and Silent Bob

Mastah Chief

Jhonen Vasquez is like Bigfoot, all photos of him are out of focus.
(This is because Jhonen's dark Aura distorts the light around him.)

Greatest Line Ever

A Metaphor for Jesus

Statue at the WETA booth.

Monday, July 30, 2007

I Survived Comic-Con 2007

One thing I have always loved about my hometown is that every summer for one weekend, a nerd exodus appears over the horizon, finding their way to my holy land. They bring with them tribute, tidings of pure love, as well as a few million dollars worth of hotel profits, giving the city financial buoyancy for at least one more mismanaged fiscal year. Although America's Finest City is also a primordial pool of political corruption, I can't help but love it for the cabals of good people and great beaches that seem to thrive in an otherwise festering landscape of egotistic elitists and environmental antagonism. But my Hunter Thompson-esque beef with the Right Wing Mother Fuckers and L.A. Escapees that conspire to consume my city cannot dim the unfiltered, unleaded, grade A black-tar excitement that courses through my veins this time of year. For Comic-Con has come, and thou art welcome to the Mecca of the Geek Faithful.

The obvious irony of a comic book convention being held in a perpetually sunny paradise is not lost on me. All these pale rotund spheres of flesh that find an unsteady orbit within the city are alien to the indigenous people. If you're on a beach in San Diego during the off season, when the tourists remain in their humid four season shit hole existences, sight is an unreliable measure of humanity. When all the dudes got bodies chiseled by a salty sea and all the chicks got blond flowing locks dyed by the suns rays, nerdiness is a state of mind as opposed to an appearance. I was once hit on by a chick whose body shouted unrealistic expectations, but her pick-up line was "Let me show you my pokemons." Fuck I love San Diego. This being the case, it is easy to spot a foreign entity. The white sheets of skin that pour off airplanes and pool around bus stops are nearly luminescent in their complexion. I am consistently surprised that these geek masses do not spontaneously combust upon contact with sunlight, as if they were some kind of pop-culture vampire. And yet they brave our planet's fierce orb of fire to find their way to the hallowed hall of the convention center. Here, in my town, in my city, they come to find the elusive particle of happiness that only comes to the truly devout. It is in this quest that I join them. Am I successful? Judging by the quality of my nerdgasm last weekend, the answer is FUCK YES.

Highlights of '07, Plus Random Con Pictures.
Mounds of Dr. Who swag, including a giant talking Galek.

Aruguing over who was the better Dr. Who, Chris Eccleston or David Tennant. The ladies love Tennant, but me and my manly compadres are pro Eccleston.

Calling Jhonen Vasquez on the fact that he rips off Chuck Palahniuk's short story Guts in his new book Jellyfist. It totally starts off with the whole, "Hold your breath..." thing. I don't know...you have to read it to understand...

Also, I was the only human in the Vasquez line wearing a Hawaiin shirt and primary colors.

Talking to Doug Tennapel about the transformation of the Video Game industry from cool stuff made by creative people to a corporate engine popping out a series of unimaginative turds less fit for human consumption than the tacos on 6th street (spoiler, there are no tacos on 6th street). "I didn't leave games, games left me."

Also, Doug doesn't say goodbye. He shakes your hand, looks you in the eye, and says "God Bless". Now, I am an adamant atheist, but such a statement speaks to a warmth and sincererity so rare these days that it seems exclusive to your dead grandma. Doug is really awesome.

I always thought Ashley Wood would be a fatass son-of-a-bitch that loves to draw titties. After meeting him in person, I know that I was right. But I can't help but like his stuff. It just looks so skecthy it's great. Also, IDW is making a new Tank Girl comic? I was surprised too.

Brian Posehn is the super nice metal guy you find asleep in english class, and Sarah Silverman isn't afraid to say 'chink' in front of an audience full of drooling otaku. Although I still don't know why she would ever want to get boned by Jimmy Kimmel. That guy is nasty.

The Boondocks panel featured the only people at Comic-Con who's skin did not blind the airmen circling overhead, although that has more to do with genetics than anything else. Also, Aaron McGruder is one of the few guys I would go gay for. The trailer for Season 2 was one of the funniest three minutes of my life, if only because Uncle Ruckus demonstrated his new found proficiency in nunchaku. I am fucking excited.
My buddy was handing out his comic The Fowl to Very Famous People for them to look over. Mike Mignola got to the page featuring the giant rooster, smiled, then wrote in big, capslock letters: NICE!!

That is gravy right there.

My bag was heavy with comics of all consortiums by the end of the fourth day, but I was particularly pleased with some stuff by Oni Press. I demonstrated an unfortunate ignorance of the comic Scott Pilgrim, which I promptly purchased, and I finally got my copy of the Tek Jansen comic book. I also picked up a copy of Whiteout, because it is about time I got my own copy as opposed to just mooching off others.

I hear the Avatar panel was mad hot, but I was too busy having heterosexual sex with women to care about a TV show on Nickel-fucking-odeon.

No, that is a lie. I am just jealous. Jealous that I am not there with Aang, Sokka, Katara, and Toph, follwing them on their magical journey through a mystical realm of wonders and adventure. Sometimes I dream of them, being by their side, helping them through their tribulations as they are hunted by the Fire Kingdom.

Avatar gives me Harry Potter syndrom, a.k.a. the Joss Whedon syndrom. It reeks of a universe so well thought out, so deep and original, that I become completely apathetic to the fact that it is a poorly written children's novel, or a nickelodeon show, or a show on the WB. I just want to dive in and dance, dance, dance like no one is watching.
I annoyed the fuck out of Tycho, and beseeched him to have my first born. I also tried to convince Jeph Jacques that I'm way indier than he will ever be. I believe I succeeded.
I ended every night going to Ultrazone, eating In-N-Out, pwning n00bs, and hanging out on the beach till 1:00 A.M. with all my cohorts. I'd say, all in all, that this was the best Comic-Con ever.


Thursday, July 19, 2007

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Nothing You Ever Write Will Ever Be As Bad As This

And that is why 'I suck at this' is no excuse to stop. Whenever I feel discouraged, I just look out on the sea of shit that is the literary world and think, "Wow, I kick ass by comparison." An easy esteem booster is fan fiction. However, as a connoisseur of crappy fiction, I take much delight in stumbling upon an entirely new incarnation of incompetence.

Having recently returned from an Airplane Adventure, I had the dear fortune of being privy to a great number of titles that can turn your stomach. However, one novel (if you could call it that) grabbed my eyes by the sockets and just wouldn't let go. What you are about to see may cause nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, erectile dysfunction, blindness, diabetes, diabeetus, nympho-mania, Joementum, and the overwhelming desire to have a spike driven through your brain. You have been warned.
Now, bear witness!


Did you notice the ambiguous, "...or is it?" on the cover? That is how authors build suspense.

This is how I envision the book came to pass:

Publisher: What we need now is something juvenile. What we need now is something derivative...

Writer: I have some Animorphs fan fiction. Maybe it will work.

Publisher: I don't know...that series didn't have alot of angst. And animals are too pussy. We need something that kids can connect with. Something that can reach the Fall Out Boy generation.

Writer: They're teen runaways hunted by the government.

Publisher: Good! Now, what's the gimmick?

Writer: They have wings, like angels. And they listen to generic mall punk. So, that makes them edgy, because angels are supposed to be all, "I'm a pretty angel durp a durr!" But these guys are all like, "I'm hardcore FUCK YEAH!"

Publisher: This is genius. And, we could also sell a CD of the songs the characters listen too! Kids relate to shit like that.

Writer: That is the best idea ever!

Publisher: I need this series. Get it to me right away.

Writer: Surely master, you have not neglected my payment?
Publisher: Here is a vial of tears milked from a pregnant widow, now get the fuck out of here.

Writer: We thanks you mastah, you is a good mastah you iz.

The existence of this book series is proof that not only is the Anti-Christ real, but that his agents are already deeply embedded in the publishing industry.

Suspiciously, the entire premise sounds like something Joss Whedon would think of...

Monday, July 16, 2007

"Everyday Shooter" Not Your Everyday Game

I'll let the footage speak for itself. As a Depeche Mode song once said, words can only do harm.


Mad hot awesome sauce.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

You want some 'effin math rock!?

Since my ass won't be by a computer Friday to uphold my newly minted blagging schedule, I'm giving this to you early, as a taste of things to come.

One thing I will focus on from now on is sharing awesome music you probably don't know about. And I'm not talking Sufjan Stevens or Ben Folds indie. I'm talking 'these guys played in my basement' indie. And so, it is my honor to present the first of many music features. And who gets the coveted first spot?

I give you...


Besides being a perfect example of my favorite flavor of math rock, these guys went to my high school, and are the delightful little darlings of my local San Diego music scene. Bringing some sweet succulent art rock that is easy on the ears (and the eyes, ladies) Japandi certainly deserves some sexy attention from anybody into music that kicks ass.

What makes them great is the same thing that will keep them from getting any kind of radio airplay. Shifting and off kilter time signatures, epic non-stop instrumental eccentricities, and melodies that morph from butterflies to beasts will scare off any TGIF customers enjoying their Jalapeno poppers. But you know what? Fuck those guys. Japandi is the kind of music you have to pay attention to, and if you do, you will appreciate an aural innovation you won't get anywhere else.

Most official of websites: http://www.japandi.com/

Apostate Apotheosis Apologies, and Alliteration

Although I know the three people that read this blog (two of which I'm sure I sat behind in English class, and the other is simply awash in a sea of porn) don't care about my inconsistent updates, the chap that my still-in-progress Lovecraft story is intended for has chided me via email for my tardiness. As an act of redemption, I swear, I will update this damned thing every day of the work week, be it a substantial piece of literature, a brief rant, or just a link to some kickass bands, books, or internet foibles. Also, I swear to get that fucking Lovecraft thing done by next Friday. And if I don't, I will post an embarassing youtube video of my self dressed as a cardboard Galek. Hell, I may do that anyways, cause that sounds gravycore. The fact that anyone enjoyed my bitchings enough to bemoan my lethargy has inspired me to new heights. Internet, I will not dissapoint you. I will give you my everything. I love you. All three of you. I love you so much, that I will post a link to an exclusive video, that through the dark corridors of the interweb, has come in to my possesion. Here is some hot, E3 footage of Fallout 3. And it seems to have changed a lot less than we expected.

I never promised to stop being a dick, did I?

Monday, July 9, 2007

Over the Brink Pt. 2 "Breakdown"

Journal Entry, November 13th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I have not made an entry to my Journal for a month, and it is because of the chaos previously upstanding Ashley Eire has brought unto this facility. On the day of his review, before I could even address his concerns, he flew into hysterics, attacking me, and has become a danger to himself and the staff. I have transcribed the audio recording of our conversation for peer review.

Dr. Edwards: Hello again Ashley, it has been awhile since we sat down to chat like this.

Mr. Eire: That it has. I hope you don't mind that I've refused your offers of discharge from this institution.

Dr. Edwards: Certainly not, now that I have come across the source of your discontent.

Mr. Eire: I don't think you have Dr. Edwards. I believe that if you did, you would be in one of these padded cells with me.

Dr. Edwards: After searching your possessions, we found a pocket watch with your book…

Mr. Eire: It's not really a book so much as a hobby.

Dr. Edwards: Well it seems very professional, the illustrations are quite explicit.

Mr. Eire: Illustrations? I don't recall any illustrations.

Dr. Edwards: Really? Perhaps you have a firmer constitution, because I almost wretched at the sight of some deformed ghoul dining on human flesh.

Mr. Eire: …We are talking about my cooking notes correct?

Dr. Edwards: (laughter) No of course not Mr. Eire. Your other book. The one with the strange symbols. It seemed like you had translated some of it. Surely you must have picked it up somewhere in your travels…

Mr. Eire: The book is here!?

Dr. Edwards: No need to shout Mr. Eire, I assure you the book is safe…

Mr. Eire: …how is the book here...it was destroyed…I watched it…in the fires of that pit…


Mr. Eire: How did you come upon it!

Dr. Edwards: Please sir, restrain yourself. I can assure you that it is in the same condition in which you brought it in.


Mr. Eire: That witch! Damn her! I burned it just as it was to be done!

Dr. Edwards: Please! Mr. Eire! Calm yourself!

Mr. Eire: Destroy it! Cast the book into a fire stoked green with sulfur! It is a blight on this planet…

Dr. Edwards: There is no need to become aggressive…

(It is at this point that Mr. Eire grabbed me by the throat and forced me to the floor)

Mr. Eire: It has followed me here. I cannot sleep, for dreams are the hunting grounds of imps and ghouls. And yet waking I find my dreams follow me to my days! Now you listen, good man. Good, good man. His avatars will be born in flesh, and take more than your mind, lest that book and I make ourselves scarce. Damn her…she was right. It cannot be destroyed. It will not let itself be erased. Its agents are making ready here on earth. Its eyes are lidless, unblinking, and everywhere. I am the beacon that will lead it through the portal to our reality. I am the harbinger of its coming. And I'm afraid, Dr. Edwards, that I must take my leave of you.

(It is now that I have pressed the emergency button beneath my desk, and Mr. Eire is restrained, escorted to the highest level cell of the ward. The tape ends here)

Clearly I should have looked into this case more earnestly. It has become apparent that he sensed his weakening sanity, checking himself into this institution as a bulwark against the coming storm. I cannot help but feel regret that I did not realize the depth of Mr. Eire's instability upon his entrance to this facility. He has become unmanageable, and dangerous. At least five times since the incident, he has managed to escape his cell. Once he was found standing over a nurse with a scalpel, threatening to gut her, and wear her gizzard as a grotesque diadem. And again, he managed to escape the ward, making his way down to the storage room before being found out. Security reported finding him in a state of undress crouched above the now ubiquitous book, writing alien invocations into his skin with the only available utensil, an aluminum shank pried from a rusty can of peas. They attempted to bring him to the medical wing to treat the cuts, but before he could even be restrained the flesh healed over the incisions, creating lines of scarred script wrapping around his limbs and trunk. Almost every night, screams can be heard throughout the halls, his shouts speaking of grim portents and dire prophecy. In each scenario, he immediately becomes compliant when any kind of tranquilizer was threatened. He appears unwavering in his conviction to maintain consciousness, as warped a mind it may be. Who knows what kinds of demons reside in that man's soul, but I am determined to keep him free from society until they are pacified.

November 20th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Despite the consistent hell being raised by Mr. Eire on a daily basis, he has ceased screaming in the nights. However, the watch reports that though he is quiet, he remains awake throughout the evening, occasionally questioning them on the conditions of the outside, followed by entreaties to allow him to be discharged with the book. That book, it does seem to be the source of his troubles. Though his obliviousness to fact it was even in his possession is unexplainable, I will look into it, and question him on its origins. This will be interesting to see unfold.

One more digression (a comment on the book The Raw Shark Texts)

This guy writes exactly how I used to write when I was thirteen. That's not an insult, I just feel it is really ballsy to put something so pretentious and wordy to the asshole eyes of an editor. And to get it published...that is something of a feat. Here is an excerpt for your perusal. I bought the book just to see if he could keep it up for the course of a novel. You can tell he gets tired midway through the story, but I would be tired too after 100 pages of unbridled literary arrogance. The book is actually pretty damn good, and all of this is really just jealously manifesting itself in the form of anger. You'd be mad too if you found someone making bank in a writing style your friends called 'Taking A Shit On a Page And Pretending Its Gold'. Oh well. I guess the lesson to learn from this is: never take a critique from someone that won't write you a check if you change it.

And, on a personal note to all writers everywhere: Italics are for assholes that are too incompetent to establish emphasis through clever sentence structure. If you can't create emphasis without italics, don't. And yes, that goes for vulgarity too. I am a repeat offender on that count, but hey, we are all learning here.

Friday, July 6, 2007

Sorry for the lack of Lovecraft. So here is some narwhals and unicorns.

I haven't written through the middle of the saga enough to warrent a post, and I know I won't finish it until at least sunday, so here is a video that I've always loved. Hope this fills the hole inside you. Enjoy.

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

Over the Brink Pt.1 "Misinterpretation"

I have long posited the creation of a Lovecraftian comic book, but the withered claws that I dare call hands though nimble and lithe on a keyboard or fretboard can trace only crude impressions onto any piece of palp. I can't draw. But other people can. Particularly this fellow, with whom I am corroborating on this project. But since I am clueless to the nature of comic book writing, I will merely write, and let my better part interpret the story as he will. This is the first of at least three parts I plan to post this week. This is the slow build-up all Lovecraft stuff seems to have before demons start popping out of the anus of hell like metamucil infused turds. Enjoy.

Journal Entry, September 5th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
A quite peculiar subject was admitted to the ward today. Though most come dragged screaming through the threshold by family members, exhausted of the wild ramblings and disparate behavior of a now intolerable loved one, this particular individual came only escorted by a plump black suitcase, dripping sleeves and socks over the lobby's floor. Dressed impeccably with vest, tie, formal pants, and shoes that would not be out of place on a dance floor, he was a welcome sight when most come clad in naught but their night ware. The only things out of order were an absence of a coat or hat, and the presence a disheveled shirt, with sleeves rolled past the elbow and collar loosely buttoned. Though he seemed malnourished, with eyes resting in deep purple circles, his slim frame was held tight and his face was still soft with youth. The secretary was alarmed when he revealed that he was not visiting some poor cracked relative, but rather checking himself in for treatment. His eloquence, humor, and candor spoke not of some wild mental deviant but of a sophisticate whose manners were toned by the heavy etiquette of New England aristocracy. When pressed on why such a well adjusted man would seek sanctuary in the loony bin, he simply stated that, 'we all have demons that we're trying to outrun; I'm just trying to throw mine off the scent'. Such an interesting case. I cannot wait to interview this subject for my records.

Journal Entry, September 8th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
What a fascinating case indeed! I was not disappointed by his account. Yes, he hailed from New England, a fine upper crust gentleman whose wise understanding of investment saved him from the poverty that has stricken so many in these times. A Mr. Ashley Eire, his interest in the sciences and of discovery had led him to quite the number of queer encounters in his life. A collector of books and wild theories, his library had outgrown his house by the time he was 18. He briefly attended college before finding work with a defense company, specializing in abstract and unique ordinance. Just past his mid twenties, he tells me he will turn 28 in December. Though I continually pressed him on why exactly he has institutionalized himself, he seems reticent to say more besides having 'grim misgivings' about the future. I told him such simple therapy would be better suited to a psychiatrist than an institution, but he insisted that only 'this place is safe' enough for his residence. This will certainly be an interesting case to see develop! For lack of any apparent aberrations in his personality, he has been assigned to the lowest level ward.

Journal Entry, September 9th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Upon trifling through his possessions, the nurses stumbled upon a myriad of abnormal items, not the least of which was a book transcribed in foreich symbols and riddled with apocryphal geometries and baleful illustrations. Another was a silver pocket watch containing a picture of a negro woman and a frayed map, covered in vague notations and chronicling some sort of subterranean system. Also found was a note book filled with various culinary recipes and critiques of local cuisine. The last one, being dated a mere month ago, praised a Gumbo stew mixed with alligator meat. My, my, this man is certainly an eclectic collector of the absurd and the occult!

Journal Entry, September 20th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Though Mr. Eire is consistently reminded of his freedom to leave at anytime, he persists in the facility, a darling of the staff and a friend to the nurses. He's even assisted them in subduing a rather rabid occupant, who was stopped before he could thrust a spoon into his nasal cavity. What a refreshing change of pace it is to have a cooperative and interesting individual in my care.

Journal Entry, October 1st, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Couldn't help but flip through Mr. Eire's intriguing book. Upon closer examination, it appears the first few chapters, if they can even be called chapters, are translated into English text found hastily written in the margin. I could not stomach the illustrations, depicting graphic horrors I am unfamiliar with even in my nightmares, but the story seems to describe some ancient terror being brought to life by a wayward soul. How cliché. Though I question his taste in literature, one cannot doubt his ability in chess! He has already bested the junior doctors, and is swiftly working his way up the competitive latter. Perhaps I will get the honor to try my skills against him soon enough.

Journal Entry, October 5th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I am seriously pushing the limits of my authority, but my curiosity could not be helped! I was returning the book to the stack of Mr. Eire possessions, when the pocket watch slipped from the box and fell to the ground. Upon ensuring that no damage had come to it, I noticed the picture had slipped partway from the frame. After removing the picture, to verify that it had not been tarnished in anyway, I noticed a strange engraving behind where it had sat. It was a symbol of some kind, a series of rays leading to a central circle. And on the back of the picture, written in pencil, were the words 'I will be the light in your darkness'. What possible connotations could this have? Did this man, seemingly upstanding and intelligent, have dalliances with a negro woman? Then indeed, he has chosen rightly to bring himself here. Sexual confusion is difficult to admit to, particularly miscegenation. I shall broach possible treatment to Mr. Eire in his one month review on the 8th. At least he has avoided the perversity of the sodomite, but there is serious work to be done.

Journal Entry, October 7th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
The nurses have reported that Mr. Eire has not slept since he has submitted himself for care. Obvious subconscious guilt over his violation of natural law. But now that we have the symptom we can treat the disease, and I'm sure Mr. Eire will sleep easy knowing we have diagnosed the source of his unrest.

The Calm Before the Storm! Oh snap! What will happen next? Will shit go crazy up in this bitch? Will there be detailed descriptions of octopus impregnation? Probably! Find out for sure in the next installement of 'Channeling Lovecraft: Over the Brink'!