That's Much Better

Your Sis runs to the approaching weekend as if the school was on fire. And from an administrative perspective, it sorta is. More bad decisions and spotty communication have created a mess about the summer school and who is eligible. Efforts are made to find volunteer teachers after most of them have already packed up their rooms for the summer. She worries she'll be sucked into another obligation if she stays around too long.

I stopped by the art store yesterday to load up on convention gear:
1 pad tracing paper (great for learning technique)
1 small sketchpad (I needed a more portable one anyway)
3 2H pencils
1 two-tip Sharpie
2 mechanical pens

I also packed up my Silver Sharpie, rubber eraser, portfolio, notebook paper, and the business cards.

We assembled a pizza for a quick supper before watching [i]Kinsey[/i].

Motion Picture of the Day

Liam Neeson plays "Prok" Kinsey as he shifts his obsessive research discipline from gull wasps to human sexuality. While watching the film, I noticed we were seeing it as Kinsey might have directed it. That is, this film's version of Kinsey. It's a straight-forward film, at times falling into bio-pic cliche, but it doesn't play up sex for cheap thrills. In fact, sex is perceived as mechanical activity throughout. Kinsey, a product of this time, takes a workman's attitude to sex research and education, offering humanity in his famous interviews but not in his classroom. The first students gasp as Kinsey shows slides of human sex organs. I wonder how this played in the theatre; would the modern audiences chuckling over antiquated attitudes find themselves equally shocked?

It was a different time, a crushing morale and ignorant time not unlike how I blithely meandered through high school. A time when Kinsey realizes his marriage might never work unless he and his wife find an expert to tell them how sex is supposed to work. And they do. And he does. And everything changes. Kinsey realizes everyone has this problem because no one knows anything about sex. The first examples of normal, questioning folks display an almost charming lack of fundamental sex mechanics and recite the warnings of disease and insanity handed down from on high. And then, during the interviews, we see time and again as the subjects as Kinsey" Am I normal?" when what they really mean is "Is it wrong for me to enjoy what I do?"

And what Kinsey can't prepare for is the social reactions to his studies, either in the world media or among his inner circle of followers who can't quites escape the traditional morals even as they swap wives. Humans can choose to mimic the sex play of animals, but they aren't prepared to shed the human upbringing.

I like this cast a lot. Neeson is in virtually every scene, and he's good. Laura Linney is welcome on my TV screen anytime as are John Lithgow, Oliver Platt, and Tim Curry. It's a smart film, one that casts a clean light on events without romanticizing or eschewing the humor of foibles. I like it, and unlike the majority of porn I've seen, it doesn't erase the appetite for sex as it dissects it. Like Kinsey, the film reveals the trappings of humanity without diluting its joys.

The Day After

Your Sister sounded remarkably alert for someone running on fumes. She did nod off while at the dentist and as I rubbed her back before dinner. We had a fancy-schmancy dinner with teacher buddies, and the conversation did steer clear of school matters. We ate a great mix of food and shared bites of everything. We then showed them the new car and let them drive it around the block. They like it a lot, but the car payments worry them. Once we said good night and went home, Your Sis crashed hard. She was lightly snoring within a minute.

I checked out some CDs from the library in hopes of making a new mix CD for Your Sis while she's away.

Virgin Suicides soundtrack - Air
You asked me about Air when you were in Snazzyland, so I gave this a try. It's good. It sounds a lot like OK Computer mixed with the Alan Parsons Project.

The Best of Gladys Knight and the Pips
Gladys is in my top three female singers list with Annie Lennox and Barbara Streisand. But this is a mostly mid'1970s material, and the low-key, smooth R&B production is all the same. It does feature three live tracks that showcase the group's performing energy, and it's as if an LP were bumped from 33 RPM to 45. She sang the National Anthem at the Atlanta Olympics Opening Ceremony in a moment that made me grin like a child.

Sam Cooke Live
A great singer with an unfortunately small set. Sounds like about 30 people are in attendance at the Harlem Square Club, and that makes for a quieter experience that I was hoping for.

I don't think there's anything here she'd want to listen to.

Picture of the Day
The convention starts officially tomorrow, and, while it does compete with another con in Philadelphia, it will be the biggest show this month. I am jazzed, but accepting of the fact that what I have on display is not my best work. The next minicomics will be stronger. I now have 200 biz cards to take to the convention. I printed them at home to save money.

Workhorse

Your Sister just pulled an all-nighter. She called me at work yesterday to ask if I knew where to find two lost research papers, and I pleaded stupid. She eventually found them in the wrong place at school, but those papers hadn't been graded. When I got home, she was marking exams which of course were done in essay format. Now I understand that she teaches writing, and I clearly remember the brain-melting burden of writing pages upon pages in my English classes. But there has to be be a better way to set up exams so she doesn't face a pile of essays in a short grading window.

Then again, she may have had plenty of time originally were it not for utter incompetence in the administration in assigning teachers for remediation classes. It's a giant clusterfuck. There's no other way to say it. I think Your Sis could handle this if she had a breather between the AP preparation and research papers. But she's had her nose to the grindstone since Spring Break two months ago. Since that time, there has been a constant stream of "oh by the way" notices from the higher-ups and an insufficient pool of teachers available to carry the load.

She went back to the school around 9 last night, found the papers, returned home within the hour, and went back to the exams. I stayed up to offer my help, but she pulled rank and put me to bed around 12:45. She was afraid I wouldn't be able to drive to work. As it is, I'm quaffing a vente crackuccino today. But she stayed up all night, going back to school at 4 a.m. to input grades before today's deadline. She's detail-oriented, she's impossibly organized, and she wants to give the students as many chances to pass as possible. But she was handed a shitload of obligations at the last second, and there's no reason a teacher -- a teacher -- should pull an all-nighter. Her fatigue has subsumed her anger, and she's now just coasting along until she can crash tonight in the giant bed. We have a dinner date with a teacher couple tonight, and it's her light at the end of the tunnel. I offered to postpone it, but she won't hear of it.

She's a rock of professionalism, but she's also a sponge for responsibility. I continually advocate delegation and denial. I hope her new position shows her the need for saying "no" now and then. She can't keep up this level of work. I don't think anyone can. And I feel helpless. I don't know what I can do for her. She feels bad when I make the smallest gesture. Last night, she asked if I could cook the dinner she planned and felt guilty about it. I couldn't dissuade her anxiety which ran rampant because she doesn't have the energy to corral it. She doesn't have enough left to explode. She's going to ultimately ooze into a puddle. When she has the time.

Picture of the Day
I need to take her to an air show. She loves them. We attended one in Greenville when I worked there. It was a disaster of organization for everything except the flights. We saw the aircraft from a superb location as we worked a marketing booth. She was in glee. I was constantly planning where to run from exploding airplane parts.

Papers Down, Blood Pressure Up

The research papers are fini. Over. Closed for the summer. Your Sis wrapped them up with a marathon session on the couch. The end of classes means there's now a small window to get everything done before she leaves for the AP conference, and she is rattled. And angry. Much has been dropped in her lap with no advance notice from the bosses. Anxiety and stress are normal for this time of year, but she's in a new situation and has no callouses for these new grinds. It will get done. It always gets done. But she will need a temporary collapse sometime this week just to reboot. A planned dinner with another teacher couple may be just the thing. We're not sure if we're hosting them for a cookout or going to a local eatery. Either way, it will be cathartic if, and only if, I can get the other three to stop talking shop. Maybe I can thrill them with talk about the upcoming convention.

That's in just five days, by the way. I have to print out my business cards and buy some supplies. I don't have confirmation that I'll have any time at the booth potentially sketching for people. but I want to be prepared.

I may have sprained half my foot, and I'm switching to floor exercise before running again.

Horses, Puppies, and Tonys

Your Sis worked hard this weekend to finish all the grading. She was at work until about 10 p.m. Friday. I used the time to run at the college. Starting Saturday, she hunkered down on the couch and hit the research papers. We bought some produce at a local tailgate market before noticing a book sale at the library. I picked up a "West Wing" script book and a hardcover copy of Stephen King's Cell. I've wanted both for a long time. We watched about five hours of horse racing, and that's plenty to last me until next year. An outdoor dinner preceded some yard work. She weeded while I cleared away the ignored half of the garden. Then we assembled the tree pruner Your Dad gave us and took down some thick branches that kept me from mowing parts of the lawn. The back yard is in full glory at this time of year. The lush trees hide the surrounding trees, and it's become a private cylindrical garden.

I got up early and ran at the college Sunday. Unfortunately, I literally ran over a puppy. I was watching an oncoming car, and he ran up from behind me and under my feet. Suddenly, I was trampling. His owners were in the yard and saw the incident. They assured me he was just scared, not hurt, and would be OK. I felt awful. Another runner unwisely brought along her giant dog that hated strangers. She had to stop running to keep it from charging me. In better news, I did mange to cut two minutes from my pace time. Not because I was being chased by a giant stranger-hating dog.

Sunday night, we attended a graduation party for one of the transplanted Spanish students at her dad's restaurant. We couldn't follow the many Spanish conversations, but we did strike up a chat with an older couple. And they're retired illustrators for NASA. Is there any cooler job possible? (Answer: Uh, no.) The husband also collected his favorite comic strips from newspapers, and we got to talk comic artists. It was a startling series of conversations that lasted three hours. This just can't happen in Mayberry, not at a high-school graduation party.

Picture of the Day
We got home in time for me to watch the TiFauxed Tony Awards. It was a weak affair with too many "gosh, Broadway is great" numbers from high-profile productions like Mary Poppins. A new show called Spring Awakening took the majority of awards. It seems similar to Rent and seems to have just as rabid a following. That's them performing last night. The Coast of Utopia, a nine-hour trilogy play about European revolution, took the awards for that category.

The Procession

A local man signed up for the military after 9/11 and was killed in Afghanistan last week. His body arrived at the Asheville airport and received a formal color-guard procession all the way to Brevard yesterday. Folks stood along the highway with flags as the hearse drove by. I missed all this; I was in Asheville buying business-card paper (I was going to go to a print shop to make my convention cards, but I don't need 1,000 of them, even for $40) . Two local radio hosts decided to use this event to measure their demographic.

Host No. 1 thought the classy thing to do at a funeral procession is to have his listeners honk their horns at the same time. Fortunately, the procession started too late, and he didn't get his communal horn blast. Ass.

Host No. 2, a local preacher/activist, got into the procession and gave live play-by-play during the drive to Brevard. I was about 15 minutes behind the procession and still on I-26 for most of its slow drive to town. When I arrived in Brevard, it was about ten minutes after they arrived. The host described a mob of people all along the route, even some standing in the road. I didn't see any of this. He described hundreds of flags unfurled at roadside. I didn't see any of this. He name-dropped all the businesses he claimed had sufficient patriotic displays. I didn't see any of this. He compared the attendance to that of the Christmas parade numerous times. What I did see was the traffic moving along the secondary roads. All the intersections along the route were blocked by firetrucks, and Brevard was a parking lot when I arrived. People were driving past the funeral home to catch sight of the hearse. Just the day before, the host was summoning his listeners to the route to stand guard for nameless, liberal, anti-war protesters who were sure to vandalize the procession somehow. This, of course, didn't happen, and the preacher can now claim his audience denied the alleged plot. Double ass.

Now, obviously, a smalltown mass gesture of respect for a native fallen soldier is never something I will poo-poo. But blatant radio stunts are, and both these guys have cemented their status as unscrupulous bastards.

Your Parents delivered an anniversary gift and one of Your Grandmother's scrapbooks to me earlier in the day. Your Sis and I sat down to thumb through, and it's all baby pictures. A few of you, one of Penn, and the rest were her. Despite the inarguable cuteness of her baby pics, I was distracted by the photos of Your Mom. I can't see at all what drove her to get reconstruction work. Of course, I'm biased; you're all head-turning.

We then met Travis and Kathy for dinner at the pub and suffered through a tragically overwhelmed waitress. I placed my food order three times. I took the high road and tipped well. Your Sister has her last day of proper school today, although there is remediation next week for the losers who can't follow instructions. We'll probably miss a faculty party tonight in order to grade papers.

Picture of the Day
I have no idea what this is from.

Cooking With Villainy 3

The latest Shakespeare email mentions two more disturbing notions:

1) There is no rehearsal the day before opening night. This is madness. This is Sparta. This is Spartan madness. I've never done a show without a rehearsal before the curtain goes up. Never.

2) The official showtime, not counting intermission, is three hours. Romeo and Juliet is the only Shakespeare production to state how long the show should run. It's in the prologue:

... the two hours’ traffick of our stage ...

How do you add an hour to Romeo and Juliet? Slapstick and extended fight scenes. Once again, madness.

Some fuhntaztic weather allowed me to fertilize and mulch the potatoes. Here's what one does: I bought a 3 pound bag of garden fertilizer. You add one cup of the mix to each 30-foot row. I have two rows of potatoes just under 30 feet each. You sprinkle it about the plants and then water the soil to take in the fertilizer. That lasted about half an hour. I bought three bags of cypress wood mulch (mulch is cheaper than I assumed: $1.90 for a bag) and spread most of them about the plants, trapping in the moisture and preventing birds from eating the fertilizing pellets. This all took a little over an hour, and it wasn't what I'd call laborious. All I should have to do now is water occasionally for the next six weeks, and we can harvest them.

Your Sis feels guilty for not doing more to help out, but we're not growing that much, and she's dealt with school stuff at home for weeks now. The regular classes ended yesterday, and now students are taking exams for the next two days. She got home late last night, but it was my turn to make dinner anyway, and I made what turned out to be a really great recipe. And that leads us to ...

COOKING WITH VILLAINY!

Doom again demands you to engage your underdeveloped culinary brain cells. Doom requires delicious chicken scallopini! Do you heed Doom? SCALLOPINI!

Doom commands you to mix 1 cup of bread crumbs, 2 teaspoons of parsley flakes, dashes of salt and pepper, and 2 minced cloves of garlic.

Doom commands you to whisk the white of one egg with a half cup of water.

Doom commands you to place two chicken breast pieces within their own cling wrap veil. Flatten the pieces to a 1/8-inch thickness. Dip the chicken in the egg mixture and then dredge the pieces in the seasoned crumb bowl.

Doom commands you to heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a medium-hot skillet. Place chicken inside. Cook chicken for 2-3 minutes each side.

Doom commands you to prepare the side of your choosing (surprise Doom, cur) and cut one lemon into wedges. When eating, drizzle chicken and side with lemon juice.

Doom affirms the deliciousness of this dish, if you but do as Doom commands. Do not deviate from Doom's master Scallopini designs.

Picture of the Day
The Mach 5 for the upcoming Speed Racer film made by the Wachowski Brothers (The Matrix, V for Vendetta). Your Sis knows the cartoon. I missed it entirely. Knew of it, never saw it. But if the Wachowskis are involved, my ticket is purchased.

A Matter of Timing

You might remember my disastrous audition for the outdoor Shakespeare. Even though I didn't get a speaking role and had to bow out because of car troubles (and concern that the production was veering into camp), I'm still on the email chain. The recent communications from the theatre folk suggest mayhem. The rehearsal schedule is shifting often, and attendance is sporadic because of spotty weather. If I had stuck around, I'd pull out my hair. I'd drive an hour to get to the theatre and find out the evening is scotched because performers stayed home to avoid a drizzle. I'd be fired for flattening people with fury-fueled wrestling moves. Long story short, I dodged a bullet. This isn't counting everything I would have missed if I did the show: the comic show, the prom, the school awards ceremony, the run preparation, the minicomic, etc.

I shuffled over to the local Home Depot (which isn't at all local; the closest is more than a half hour away) for a mower spark plug, mulch, and fertilizer. The spark plug was the answer, by the way, so I didn't have to borrow the neighbor's mower. Your Sis was detained with work and a pharmacy visit, so we had pizza for a late supper. We had a confab over the remaining research papers and gave ourselves two deadlines to finish them.

Picture of the Day
Lego art.



In the News
I watched the GOP debate last night on CNN. Aside from the overwhelming volume of candidates, one is struck by the bad format. True, they had two hours and two styles of debate (a formal exchange and a town-hall session), but the number of people makes that amount of time insufficient. It flew by without anything of substance delivered. This was my first chance to hear from the fringe hopefuls, and aside from Texas representative Ron Paul, none did anything more than pander. Not that any of them presented a presidential carriage. The moderator conducted the debate as if it were The Dating Game ("If I were an illegal immigrant with no healthcare, and I had drug-resistant TB contracted from an Al-Qaeda operative in Iraq, what would you say if we met on a street corner?"). The only benefit from this show was to affix faces to the names. Each was equally anxious to show their enthusiasm for the job, a fidgety initiative that made them look almost desperate.

I think this is why Fred Thompson has become the sexy candidate; he doesn't convey any shimmering desire for the presidency. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy to drop sound bytes or toss off a smarmy grin while kissing babies to win your vote. At a time when we're allegedly more concerned with presentation over substance, Thompson emerges as a grumpy uncle whose nomination would denounce the slick, glad-handers who currently make up the candidate pool. Not that I think he has a chance of winning. He's entering the race relatively late, and the herd of current hopefuls may have left him with few financial resources to lobby. His Senate experience lends him credibility as a Washington veteran, but he's been out of office for some time now. Does he have any lingering pull? Will his alleged swinging bachelor days come back to haunt him? Also, except for grandstanding comments on immigration (this is our home and we can choose who walks in), he has no established policy stances nor any ideas to attack the big problems of foreign policy, deficits, and healthcare. Before long, he'll have to stop coasting on his celebrity cache and offer a platform.

Oh, and the current official candidates clearly targeted Hillary last night. I don't think any other Democrat was mentioned by name, and none was referenced as often. She's the bullseye for them whether it's because she's the nominal frontrunner or the perceived constituency is rabidly misogynist and conditioned by the dozens of GOP talk hosts. Maybe a mix of all. But ten guys taking shots as Hillary starts to look unchivalrous. Yes, it's a double standard. Yes, she's a public figure with equal opportunity to be criticized. But by not commenting on the other Democrat candidates, they appear to specifically target her as a person, not a candidate. And that could appear mean-spirited to the public.

Mowing Monkees

Mowing the lawn is much easier when the mower agrees to run. I was about halfway through with the front yard yesterday when the engine faded to silence. It's got oil, it's got gas. The spark plug is coated in oil, and that's the obvious problem. I'll stop by the hardware store for a new plug today, and I'll pick up garden mulch and fertilizer as well. The potato plants have launched themselves higher, and now it's time to smother the shoots to trap moisture.

As I left the house today, the next-door neighbor stopped me to offer the use of his mower. He also casually mentioned my lawnmower never sounded right to him. I'm a relatively new homeowner and the two of us rarely chat, so maybe we're still establishing our camaraderie and all, but that's a lousy thing to say to someone. That's my mower -- my oldest piece of hardware -- and I've kept it going for ten years now with diligent care. It's not supposed to be whisper quiet. It's a lawnmower and, despite occasionally bathing my plugs in oil, it still works. I would have taken him up on his offer, but now I'm not so inclined. If the mower is shot, I'll have to buy a new one anyway.

Your Sis is much better and managed to eat yesterday. We've got about four days to finish up two classes' worth of research papers, and I think that will take up all our time this weekend. Graduation is Sunday, and so are the Tonys. It's also our two-year jailhouse-iversary.

Moving Monkees of the Day
The audition footage for the Monkees. You know, I still haven't seen an entire episode of this since I was maybe five years old. I was in nursery school/kindergarten until first grade, and the babysitter let us watch afternoon TV, including syndicated reruns of "F-Troop," "Brady Bunch," "Monkees," "Batman," and "Ghostbusters" (the show the predates the Bill Murray movie). She used to feed us butter cookies, the little ones shaped like flowers, and we would eat them by sticking our pinky fingers through the center hole and nibbling from the edges inward. She pavloved us; whenever I see the Brady Bunch or Batman TV shows, I get that taste in my mouth thirty years later.

A Lot Actually

The weather was nice enough Friday for us to eat outside Jason's on Main Street. I like drinking Bass Ale on what amounts to a front porch while tourists wander by.

On Saturday, after Your Sister filed grades at school while I did laundry and ran a 5k. I went back to the college and again ran 3 miles within 30 minutes. I didn't have a talk podcast to work with this time, but the random music playlist helped quite a bit:

Welcome to the Black Parade -- My Chemical Romance
(such a good running song, I replayed it immediately)
Jive Talkin' -- Bee Gees
Head Like A Hole -- Nine Inch Nails
Four Leaf Clover -- Abra Moore
Battle of the Planets theme
a KRS One/Celtic music mashup
La Discoteque -- The United States Of Electronica
Come On Home -- Franz Ferdinand

And just like that, I was done. I tried to keep going, but it grew hot very quickly, and I didn't want to hurt myself. I'd like to do this at least twice a week, and I bet I could do it everyday if I made myself.

We ate again at the new steakhouse diner, which is as close to a Japanese Waffle House as you'll find, but the food is great. We rented two films, and watched one that night.


Tristram Shandy is an odd duck. I'm not sure it even qualifies as a movie. Half of the film is an adaptation of the novel; the second half is a mockumentary of the making of the adaptation. I can't even say I liked it. It's smart and funny (Your Sis was laughing out loud very early), and it has quiet, real moments of backstage interaction. But it doesn't feel like a finished product. Maybe it needs another 20 minutes to simmer. It also has the cinema verite comedy of both versions of "The Office," a style that leaves me bored and shrugging.




Stranger Then Fiction, however, may be my new favorite movie. It shouldn't work at all. At first blush, this is The Truman Show, complete with a noted funnyman trying to play it straight. I'm no fan of Will Farrell's continued use of blithe confidence shouted long and loud. And he is clearly the least interesting character in this film. I can't tell if he is purposefully trying to be bland or if he cannot muster intriguing, normal reactions. Literally, anyone can play this role, and the movie would be the same. But the film has two things in its favor:

1) A fantastic script. This is a film about writing, and it may be the best film about writing I've seen, surpassing possibly Adaptation. As the story unfolds, we can clearly see the script refers to its own efforts to make a story work. And when the movie is over, the finished product stands as a work much smarter than I gave it credit for. I rooted for it to make the pieces fit, and it does. It does very well.

2) Emma Thompson. Without her, this film withers. She plays the writer narrating Farrell's life and flummoxed with a satisfying manner to kill him off. While Maggie Gyllenhaal is incredibly adorable and Dustin Hoffman equally intelligent and comfortably odd, Emma makes this movie work. She is the core of the film, not Farrell. It's her struggle that emerges as the central churning. Queen Latifa, like farrell, is just there.

It should be noted that the DVD packaging does absolutely nothing to properly sell the movie. It's bland and simple and cheerful, and it prepares you to see a similar film. But this is a lovely, intelligent movie that establishes its own rules of progression without breaking them later. It's a standout film, and had I any idea, I would have watched it in the theatre and cried my eyes out.

Unfortunately, Your Sis became violently ill this weekend. She was flattened by severe vomiting and stayed home from work today. I think the worst is over. Apparently, this is a bug flying around the school, and now we wonder if I'll get it too. I hovered over her (from a polite distance) all of yesterday. We watched a little bit of the miniseries of Stephen King's "The Stand," and, holy cow, it doesn't hold up at all.

Potatoes of the Day
The garden is getting greener. They're about five inches tall at most, and they're almost halfway to harvest time. We're managing to grow something edible on purpose. We're stunned. None of the neighborhood animals have bothered them. I guess cats and dogs don't eat potatoes.

Din-Din

The delay caused by traffic did nothing to boost my spirits by the time I got home. Kathy and Your Sis had both called me to synchronize their watches, and I still had an half hour's drive ahead of me. When I got home, I cracked open the recipe book and started boiling the rice water. The chicken dish called specifically for grilled chicken, not backed or broiled, and the weather was nice enough for me to use the grill. But the charcoal wouldn't light. I tried using the leftover quick-light briquettes and setting fire to the scraps of paper. Nothing. You Sis suggested pouring cooking oil on the coal, but that only made them smoke. So off I go to the convenience store for lighter fluid. They had none. And thus they are no longer a convenience. The closest grocery store did have some, and I managed to get home before Kathy and Travis arrived. The fire started right up with a little fluid, and I still had time to get the rest of the meal together.

It led to a friendly evening of chit chat. Tonya the Exchange Student is thinner, presumably after suffering through a post-exchange, anti-American diet. The baby is eight months old, making wordlike noises, and turning into Kathy's little sister. The burgundy wine and orange marmalade sauce didn't kill anyone, and I washed the dishes while Your Sis played hostess. She finished the damn AP material. It's done, sent off to the Education High Command for approval. Now she has to tackle exams and essays.

We ended the evening by watching some of the National Spelling Bee and learning just how bad we are at guessing the spelling of French hairshirts and bed bugs.

Picture of the Day
Dem bones.

One Hour of Blah-Blah

I talked to the art class yesterday. When I was a high-school student, drawing derivative superhero characters on grid paper, I would have loved to hear one person say "yes, you can make a living drawing," and it would have been even better to hear this from someone who was actually doing so at the time.

I got there at 2:15 to talk until the school day ended at 3. I thought I was going to talk to a few students (those he had singled out as already making comic strips), but I found myself facing a dozen students. I took along a folder of my high-school and college art (to show the vast improvement that comes with practice and classes) and my current portfolio of newspaper and magazine work. I handed out minicomics from Wide Awake, my publisher, and the Somnia issue I appeared in. I had no notes so I just babbled for the hour.

The highlights:
1) None of my university art teachers were supportive of the school comics page, but we ragtag band of geeks managed to produce a full page of comic art at least once a week. We studied what we enjoyed and followed those works as templates. Some of us did social commentary, some did horror, some did traditional punchline work, I did superhero material. I learned to use bristol board, brushes, inks and a variety of pencils.

2) I didn't have a single art teacher who suggested this, but there's nothing wrong with using tracing paper to copy a work you admire to learn how and why it works. I learned this from artists at conventions. Tracing's not bad; pawning the finished product as yours is.

3) Give yourself time to set the work aside and look at it later with fresh eyes. As Alton Brown says "walk away, just walk away." If you try to slap together a product at the last second, you'll see only the mistakes when you're through with it.

4) You don't have to spend a lot of money on materials. Shop smart.

5) Use the internet to talk to other artists and find tips for production.

6) I got an a newspaper job four days after I graduated. I made car ads for a year. But I could afford to rent a house and buy a new car. If you like working with typefaces, color, and design, you can get a job. I later moved upstairs at the paper and dis illustrations, eventually winning the state AP illustrator award. My stuff didn't look like Norman Rockwell. But I could work in a variety of styles to match the editorial content.

7) Subscribe to a fashion magazine and study/copy/trace fabrics, colors, and bodies if you have access to neither when you draw. It's not a perfect study tool, but it will help you learn composition and design.

8 ) Learn to see what's there, not what you think is there. If art teaches you anything, it's clarity of perception. And that can serve you no matter what career you develop.

They seemed to enjoy it, and they laughed at the minicomic humor. I underscored that these were produced just an hour away from their school. Folks were making comics, making art either as their hobby or their livelihood. It's possible. But drawing is athletic; it's like running. You have to regularly do it even when you'd rather do something else. Develop the stride, learn to pace and push yourself.

And that's how I saved Christmas.

I met up with Your Sister afterward and helped her leave the classroom so she could get back to work on AP material at home. Before we left, we had a visit from the girl with the crush. A short one. We stopped by the local Starbucks booth while I picked up groceries for tonight's big dinner. I'm cooking for Travis, Kathy, and the returning exchange student. Your Sis worked on the project virtually the rest of the evening, stopping only for supper. I think she'll wrap it up later today.

Picture of the Day
Saturn and Rhea, one of its many moons. In Greek mythology, Saturn/Chronus and Rhea were married. They were also siblings, the offspring of the earth and sky. Saturn, Rhea and their other 10 siblings were the Titans that predated the recognizable pantheon of Zeus, Hera, Vulcan, etc. The Titans lost the battle for Olympus and were cast into the underworld.

Running on Empty

I downloaded the weekly Savage Love podcast, Dan Savage's audio version of his syndicated sex-advice column. The podcast usually averages 20 minutes, but this week's installment clocked in at just over 29 minutes. I wanted to try running with a spoken word recording instead of music, and this seemed to be the best opportunity. I went back to the college, ran my laps, and finished a 5k run before the podcast ended. That's faster than my official race time from Halloween. I'm at least five pounds lighter since then, and I'm no longer killing myself on the hills. I can work a stride now.

Your Sis nears the deadline for the AP lesson plans, and she is chugging to the finish line on fumes. She went to bed early last night after working past midnight on Monday. She's going to finish this; she really has no choice. But she's going to collapse when it's over. This has dragged her down for weeks, and it's consumed the majority of her free time. She is fried. And she still has research papers to grade.

I just learned that I won third place for Cover Design from the College Fraternity Editors Association. This was for the brass collage I did last spring. We didn't go to their annual convention this year, so I missed my chance at basking in the polite applause. Having just checked the winning magazine's website, I can see the judges prefer a traditional style. Actually, I should say the winners made better covers, and my cover was a better illustration. But there's no category for illustrations in this organization. One could then say -- and I shall -- my illustration was so good that it came in third for a category it shouldn't have entered.

Picture of the Day
Mozart don't sweat the girls.

Memorial Weekend

Friday night, we grabbed some KFC and went into the forest and hills, a small trend that started before I moved here. This time we went into South Carolina and sat atop a bald patch of hillside overlooking most of the Upstate. Dozens of miles away was a fireworks display. It was below us. I had a small case of vertigo when I realized there was nothing between me and the moon. And then I realized this was too cool to panic over and squashed the anxiety. It was a fantastic date.

Saturday night was the prom. As before, it was at an uber-swank inn located at Biltmore. This will be the last year the prom is held there as the estate figures it can make more money from corporate events. Has nothing to do with the behavior of our kids. The estate police are constant presences.

I happened to have a tuxedo jacket from my earlier exploits, and Your Sis wore a simple black dress. We got there for our 9 to 11 shift right at nine. We followed a stretch limo to the inn which we later learned carried 12 kids. The inn right across the parking lot was hosting a corporate party, and its system was blasting "Come On Ride the Train" as we arrived. I was glad to go to the other party.

We strolled the perimeter, checking out the vibe and the eats. We stopped along the way to chat with the other faculty there and compare outfits. I like her co-workers. Nice people.

The kids were well behaved too. The fashions of the night were fairly sedate and approaching classy. Chokers seemed to be back in style. The courtyard acted as the dance floor so you could watch the partying from all the dinner tables. Around the corner was the photo station; you could get a photo keychain of yourself within an hour of taking your picture. We didn't have that for my prom. And mine was in the school gym.

Lots of kids talked to the missus, and they talked dresses and makeup. This is really the only time she's girly with the students, and she had fun. Befitting a high school prom, we had high school drama. A female student has a crush on her, and she is not subtle about it. She's stayed after class many times to start conversations, and she's tried to hug her every time. Her friends have asked Your Sis if she's aware of the kid's obsession. It seems harmless, but it is focused. While she does have a boyfriend (even just nominally), she orbited us the entire time. I mean, she wasn't out of eyesight for more than ten minutes. And she was dragging her fella around by the wrist to keep tabs on her. It was funny. Eventually, she worked up the nerve to say something, and Your Sis tried to blow her off, and the kid stumbled over herself to say something cool and funny.

Her: God, I hate this music, don't you? [It was ACDC.]
Wife: We were just about to go dance to it.
Her: Well, I mean, like, I like THIS song. It's cool.

And off she slunk.

We were supposed to watch for dirty, filthy dancing, but the kids just weren't that competent at it. The boys, I mean. Aimed a little high, it looked. The girls knew exactly what they were doing. And we decided that if the clothes stayed on, there's no problem. Also, when the DJ played "Baby Got Back," the majority of the girls sang along to it. The boys didn't know the song. The DJ got a gold star from me for playing Def Leppard a good 20 years after they hit their peak.

We got our picture taken, snacked a bit, chatted a bit more and went home. The local '80s station was playing what can only be described as prom music for our generation (Journey, Prince, etc.) and we opened the moon roof for the drive home.

This was a much better prom experience for either of us than the ones we attended at their age.

We confirmed this weekend that we are sprouting potatoes. That's not a euphemism for babies. We are really sprouting potatoes in the garden. The soil is holding the sprinkler moisture well, and the plant leaves look healthy and hearty. Sunday was her birthday, and she unfortunately handled a lot of schoolwork. I got her a calligraphy set as she requested and we watched Friday Night Lights (also her request; good film, quick pace, and shot like a documentary) after eating grilled steaks.

I was off Monday, but I worked on the house all day. I scrubbed the deck, the siding, and the garage door. The deck doesn't look like it will last another year, but we plan to ask the school shop guild to rebuild it. They love real, on-site projects like this.

Picture of the Day
The publisher altered the cover to the minicomic, and I don't object. He didn't touch the interior, so I really can't complain. I mean, he's paying for the printing.

It Was 30 Years Ago Today

I realized right before I parked my car in our garage that the college perimeter is fairly flat, and the one significant elevation it has would make for good training. Twenty minutes later, I was huffing and puffing on the campus. I ran the perimeter three times and then drove it to measure the distance. It's almost exactly one mile. So I had run three miles or a smidgen under 5k. It was a good day for it -- nice weather, not too bad a breeze -- and the campus is quiet for now. I have my new run route.

If there was any downside to it, it's that I first walked this campus more than 15 years ago. I like my memories of the place, but a creeping sense of stasis bothers me. I never thought I'd be back here, much less living here. I don't get that from being in town; it's changed enough from the early '90s, and Your Sister outweighs any unpleasantness I might feel. Also, I feel like a dirty old man running the same loop at the same time as college girls on the track or soccer teams. Then again, Your Sis is probably teaching their younger brothers and feeling the same thing.

Then I read online that this is the 30th anniversary of Star Wars and, geez louise, can I possibly feel any more decrepit? You know, I can't recall anything I would have considered cool prior to seeing Star Wars, and that was on my sixth birthday. I even remember the TV commercials for that run, and My Mom asking if I wanted to see it. Once I did, it erased everything that came before. I certainly recall all the cool things that came after, however. But my first movie theatre memory is one of fear during the compactor scene.

Aside from momentary lapses into wah-wah, I feel good after the run. I am getting noticeably wiser in pacing myself and pushing myself within limits of muscle sprains and pulls. While watching "Lost" Wednesday night, we saw our first commercial for the third Pirates movie. We had no idea it opened this weekend. The local theatre is playing it too. We might not get to it until the middle of next week though. We have prom and birthday stuff this weekend, and we have to tackle research papers.

Picture of the Day
The Beijing Olympic medals

I Feel 30 Pounds Lighter

The dentists visit was just a consult after all. I was told of the various ways they could sedate me and that my teeth aren't going to be a problem to remove. They are not impacted. I was shaking the entire time, waiting for the soap-opera revelation of Dire Destiny. "Those wisdom teeth have hatched into venomous spiders and tranfsformed your entire head into a ticking time-bomb. Nurse, get me the hatchet." But no. I have an appointment for June 27 to have them yanked and have already secured the day off from work. I also have an entire bottle of Loratab to tide me over 'til then if need be.

We watched the final "Six Feet Under," and it's a whopper of an ending. Deeply satisfying stuff here. Not enough to bring the tears though.

The season finale of "Lost" brought the awesome by the buckets and proved that the first six episodes of this season were an aberration. Great acting, great writing, some resolutions, and a lot of new intrigue. A very satisfying installment to end on. Your Sis did get hit hard by one scene, but I was too distracted by the storytelling.

Also, the comic is 98% done. She found a few typos. Easily fixed.

And with these big events, I feel like I've shaken off some winter coat, like I've accomplished something. I awoke this morning feeling like I had started summer vacation. Despite the baffling absence of bottled caramel frappuccino from all the convenience stores, I had a great commute with some sterling music and I said "fuck it" and bought a frappuccino from the supermarket Starbucks booth.

I feel lighter. Or maybe light-headed. It is a lot of caffeine, you know.

Picture of the Day
Saturday morning on CBS featured live-action superhero and space-action material. This was my favorite:


Although I took, at the time, strange and unknown interest in the Mighty Isis.

Her alter ego was a petite, brunette school teacher. I must have imprinted.

But "Shazam" was the cooler show, and Captain Marvel was my favorite hero, and I think he still is. I do have an action figure of him on my desk at work, the only geek concession I've made at the office. The shows were influenced by the Hulk, Spider-Man and Wonder Woman live-action shows shown in primetime weekdays. And the two bionic shows proved the appeal of sci-fi. It was a cool time for kids to watch TV.

Anticipation of Exhaustion

The teachers had a small gang dinner yesterday, and I joined in with the missus. We finally tried the local Japanese steakhouse, and it's surprisingly good. At first blush, it's a typical Southern diner, but instead of slaw and taters, you get teriyaki steak and shrimp sauce. SHRIMP SAUCE. I haven't had this for years. The school art teacher asked me to talk to some of his cartoon-minded students next week, and I'm up for it. I've got tons of stuff to show them from my paper days, and I've got a handful of local minicomics too. My own may be finished and done; I made the most recent art adjustments last night after we watched the penultimate episode of "Six Feet Under." Tonight is the season finale of "Lost," too. We'll wrap up two series within three days of each other after which we'll melt into brain-drained puddles. I anticipate a good cry from at least one show. If not, I'll demand a refund.

I have a short work day today as I got to the oral surgeon. I don't know what to expect. I've put this off for so long that I may have an emotional breakdown when I leave the office. And if I'm missing the offending teeth, I may not be able to seek solace in ice cream. And I really ought to run again, but I don't see that happening while I'm whacked out on generic Loratab.

So, to recap: Comic done, "Six Feet Under" wrapping up, "Lost" takes its Act 3 bow, I fix my teeth. I need a beer.

In the Geek News
Every once in a while, the online geek forum eats itself in heated, breathless blather. This time it made national news, and when I say "national news," I mean "24-hour news networks that need filler." Here's what happened.

Comic illustrator Adam Hughes is renowned for his cheesecake art. This top-rated cover artist draws women that are statuesque, and it made sense to make statues out of them. The comic-fan market has branched out into everything you can imagine: posters, shirts, action figures, dolls, and the statue and mini-statue branch which has particularly taken off in the last ten years. Comic artists will often design a statue, and a sculptor takes over from there. Sometimes the sculptor will create a piece based solely on the style of a famous artist-character combination (a Jack Kirby Fantastic Four, a Frank Miller Batman, etc.) So Hughes drew Mary Jane discovering Peter's costume in the laundry. It looked like this:


This is quintessential Hughes. The style is called "good girl;" it's flirty without being salacious. The statue, however, mangled the statue.

It's loyal to the design, but it loses the flavor. This isn't the scandal, though. No, a number of hand-wringers emerged to complain that it looked like a harlot MJ was doing Peter's laundry, and this was demeaning. Instead of a laundry basket, they see a tub. And they see MJ presenting her ass for what's being smirkingly called "sexual availability." Fox News and MSNBC, for example, picked up on the story. Spidey 3 is a huge film, seen by a varied audience, but because the stigma exists that comics are only for kids, they ignored the angry feminist argument and argued that this is too sexy for the alleged child consumers. Now this statue is $120. A kid can't afford it. You can't find this in toy stores. You either buy it from the company's website or through a comic store. This is priced for the older collector. It's not marketed or produced or priced for kids.

But the online outrage continues. And now the discussion has jumped to the overall perceived dismissal of female consumers in the traditionally superhero comic market. Now obviously the comic market has shifted its focus to the older consumer. Simply put, they have more money to spend than an eight-year-old. Many comic covers are cheesecake pin-ups, and a number are similar to what you'd find inside Maxim. Kids are no longer the major demographic of comics, and the companies are using cheesecake and softcore to catch the eye of the older consumer in a very crowded market. It does go too far. But I don't agree that this kind of presentation automatically insults all women, either as the subjects of the art or the consumers. It goes back to the Frank Miller fiasco of a few months back: Your Sis likes his comics; therefore she's either imaginary or stupid. If she was bothered by this stuff, she'd stay away from comics. She doesn't like going into comic stores, but that's because the clientèle bothers her, not the products.

Into the heat of this debate fell this cover for an upcoming Marvel comic:


Many people went apeshit. Bondage is nothing new in comics (Wonder Woman used to be made powerless if you shackled her wrists, and then there's her magic lasso compelling the truth from the bound). But this image implies a niche of Japanese comics called "tentacle hentai," wherein women are molested by the monstrous. This did nothing to calm down the rhetoric. Neither did the revelation that the cover artist is a Japanese woman. I don't like the art myself. It's muddy and plastic.

But it's utterly in line with decades of horror comic imagery. Does that fact in itself confirm that comics are demeaning toward women? No. Comics are entrenched in their pulp origins and contain those elements, one of which is lurid situations. There's also violence and dark emotions. Now, you don't expect it in Superman or Spider-Man. But a comic featuring leather-clad women with 1970s blackspolitation and kung-fu fashion and attitude? Yeah, it's gonna be trashy. It's supposed to be. And it will be found in the same comic shop as X-Men (which has a history of occasional trashiness, to be honest) and Spider-Man (who used to date a leather-clad Catwoman ripoff with a neckline down to her navel). This is the diversity of the market, and I'd rather have that supply-and-demand dynamic in action then a dull-eyed homogeneity. The first rule of the free market is that you only buy what you want. And the golden rule corollary is that the guy next to you can buy what he wants, and the two of you leave each other alone to mind your own budgets and morals.

But that's not as much fun to say as "omigod, comics hate women." I'm curious to see if this lingers during the comic convention. Hughes will be there, and his prints of various women in various "good girl" images will sell like gold-plated hotcakes. Your Sis, by the way, likes his art. But she hates spin-off sidekick women like Supergirl and Batgirl on principal. BatMAN but BatGIRL? This she finds demeaning.

Heat Run

Even though I waited until it was cooler, Monday's run was escorted by a blasting sun and its best friend, the hot wind. I ran two miles in one shot, aided by perfectly timed intersection walk signs and an overall lack of cars turning right. I wish I knew a trick to expand my lung capacity because I find myself occasionally gasping like an asthmatic. Maybe it's the pollen. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe I have lung flab. I try to adjust my breathing as I go; I do have a breathing rhythm I try to maintain. But I'm getting bored with my route. I need to start running on side roads and perhaps find some straight planes to run instead of all these @&$% hills. The 5k race is less than two months away.

I finally made an appointment with the oral surgeon to yank out my wisdom teeth. My first appointment is only a consultation, even though I have a referral for the procedure from the dentist last November. The surgeon is only available twice a month.

Picture of the Day
The Cats Eye Nebula, somewhere up there.


In The News
Nobody liked the immigration bill. Both sides decry its lack of significant security measures, its merit system for entry, and its seemingly naive call for hefty fines from people working crap jobs. The right-wing media is apoplectic, saying it's the death of the GOP with some even calling for Bush's impeachment. And these are his party folk. The left-wing people say the bill encourages a serf class that splits families. The local radio people claim North Carolina is especially targeted by illegal immigrants for our lax law enforcement and numerous labor jobs. But these rabid talkers also claim our state is the front line on illegals and thus terrorism, because its just a matter of time, evidently, before Al Qaeda come through the Texas border. They've claimed this for six years now, and it hasn't happened yet. But this makes for a great distraction from the Gonzales and Iraq news.

Sunday Was a Week Long

The first version of the minicomic is done, and I'll proof it later today. I spent some time Saturday and Sunday penciling and inking the spot illustrations. I scanned them in and polished off their respective pages, all while listening to a commentary track on the new Re-Animator DVD. It has a brand-new making-of documentary proving what the earlier commentary track established: this is a fun buncha folks who struck gold with a tiny horror movie.

We were at Kathy and Travis' house Saturday night for a cookout and fire-sitting. We learned their exchange student is returning for a two-week visit, just in time for prom. She may not be going. We definitely are. I even took my suit to the dry cleaners. We're supposed to chaperone, but I'm not sure how much deputy power we'll have.

Sunday started early as I worked on the comic art. We watched the Preakness on TiVo, suffering through the sappy packaging of a Cajun jokey while doing nothing to inform us what kind of skill a jokey must possess. We noticed that all the jockeys and trainers and owners said the same thing on-camera: the horse will run his race. But watching a race, you can clearly see the jockeys whipping and steering. So why not focus on that? Why passively anthropomorphize the horse? The locker room interviews showed the top three jockeys crashed on the couch watching the TV coverage just a half hour before the race. This doesn't suggest any level of pre-race tension or preparation. After more than an hour of presenting the Kentucky Derby winner and one other jockey, neither won. We fetched groceries after a rare cup for coffee from me. Your Sis worked on school material while I finished the comic art and moved to the PlayStation for Guitar Hero. The death metal songs are aptly named as they murder your fingers. We had a small dinner and watched three episodes of "Six Feet Under." Only three more left. My Sunday felt languorous; I think she's exhausted from moving so slowly to the end of the semester.

Picture of the Day
Apparently the official Joker image from the new Batman movie. I like it. The new film franchise takes a grounded approach, and this style of Joker seems to fit right in. Geeks will be torn; the image is cool, but he's not smiling. A good chunk of comic fans will decry the lack of a cheesy grin, and, when I was younger, I would have been one of them. Joker's face is frozen in a smile, they'd say. But not only is this an impractical condition, but it limits the ability of an artist to express anything through the character. Also, he'd drool all over himself. The character, not the artist. No, Joker has to have muscle control to help him mock and mimic his enemies. Even though this image is of Heath Ledger, a total Brad Pitt vibe exudes. The first movie continues to grow in stature the more comic movies I see, and I have high hopes for the next one.

Accolades

The publisher seems fine with my schedule for getting him the minicomic next week. I laid it out in a horizontal format without doing much at all to alter the original comic. The original ran in vertical form, a little smaller than 8.5 x 11. The new format will be horizontal at 4.25 x 2.5, smaller than a dollar bill. But the comic fits just fine. I take two panels and make them a page, and take the next two panels, make them a page. Since the original comic was set up with two panels a tier, this creates no problem. Even when I have my two long page-wide panels, they aren't broken up in the layout. Unfortunately, this makes for a thin comic: 12 pages and four cover pages. But I can add eight more pages of related filler in the back for a nice 24-page comic, covers included. I've sent off the proposal and the new layout to the publisher for his comments. He hasn't seen the comic before, but I can't imagine he'd veto it.

Your Sis and I attended the annual school ceremony for recognition of students and teachers. This is, I think, the fifth consecutive year she's received an award from a student for her work. I'm not surprised. We ate finger food before the fairly short ceremony. I also got to see the student newspaper editor received a scholarship and congratulate her on her academic career. And then we were home for snacks and "Lost." This season ends next week, and we'll finish "Six Feet Under" before the end of June. We'll be exploding with free time just as summer vacation begins.

Picture of the Day