#280: Manning King, the Thing-Bringer

      'Tis the day after the day after the day after Christmas. More streaks of belly-roll-induced ware trace the crannies of your chimney, and the author myself is left with a truth to carry into the new year. Jolly ol' Santa Clause and six-out-of-seven reindeer are now more believable than my ability to meet a deadline. However, in spite of a buckling fender bender of my scheduling bafoonery and countless reasons for the season hacking my seasonal art slate down a couple thirds, I'm not in the business of surrendering. Thus, before that pesky landlord Father Time tugs the plug on 2017, here commences a proper finale. I present Manning King, the Thing Bringer! Scuffed are the pinheaded heels of the alien insect race the Aruchee, scattering over the static sands of their planet Pragga Prime like hairpins poured down a slope. As spry and old, winged and dune-bound conjoin in packed reverie, the busied bug crowds fling and flitter, joyously hugging their pillars of worship: a pair of chunky rubber soles, and just north, those oh-so-familiar buckles of velcro. For the merry Aruchee have once again united under the kindly eye-in-their-sun-roasted-sky, the doughy deity they call their very own Little St. Nick: Manning King, the Thing-Bringer. Not one living Aruchee can say they witnessed the first visit of the Thing-Bringer--or the last, for that matter-- but whenever he returns, they're never in the mood to care. His lumbering charity has overseen more than a dozen generations of Aruchee, being met with open arms and misty arthropod eyes on their riotous holiday of sacred reunion: Saturday. Squeezing through a pit-black square portal dubbed the "Gateway of Micubbie" in the holy scripture, Manning King has enlightened provinces with Viewmasters and marbles, and fed frail villages with tapioca pudding. Eon after eon, weekend after weekend, the Thing-Bringer never fails to leave a ridged, glossy footprint on the legend of the Aruchee people, one as giant as it is lasting. That is, in between lofty naps and kid-kwon-do classes at the strip mall.

(Pictured: the Bringer of Things in mythic action, thumping his fascinating foreign wears with kindly tenation across Pragga's humble planes. Bat property of Sammy Swatt's Little League for Big Tots, all rights reserved.)

IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR.

     The muffled murmer of a morning alarm lifts you from your slumber. A cream sunbeam peeks through your frosted window and skips down your hallway. Foamy cradles of crisp December snow dapple the antarctic blur beyond your doorstep. *hefty exhale* You live anywhere besides Southern California. However, in spite of the identity and increased nippiness of your neck-of-the-woods, its carotid artery is pumping steady with the zesty cocktail of seasonal merriment, and I'm in no position to interrupt the flow. My envy can wait until May showers. In the meantime, the season of giving with all of its clauses in tow will keep my sun-puckered palms on-task. Without further further ado, the 12 Creations of Christmas, everybody! Despite fate keeping the twelve speediest machinations of my twelvemonth to a less-than-per-day basis, festive superstition won't let me say "no." Fair game, Kringle. I'm a slave to your staccato sleighbells. Now, bluntly scissoring the sheeny ribbon of the 12 Creations in a clean two, straight from the art class I never told you I joined, all the things I never informed you I made. Cheers.

"The Beckoner."

"Posterboy."

"Cindy Sits."

"The Divine Digets."

#279: The Maxxy's® Mannequin Shoplifter Subduing Syndicate

     As should come to no surprise, the North American turkey-human repast for interspecies peace took another grizzly turn this twelvemonth. Maintain your faith. There's always next year. In other tragic tidings, I realize that as the doorsteps of moonlit occidental suburbia were scuffled with zealous trick-or-treaters' wily white Converses on October 31st, the blog was laid embarrassingly bare. However, at the turn of the month, so was my scorched neighborhood slope, so my surroundings weren't exactly in my favor.

(Actor's portrayal. Mind the watermarks.)

      However, as my frenzied fickle pinballing from hotel-to-hotel has ceased and the smoke fumes are almost finished waging war on my nostrils, my ducks are finally in some semblance of a row. So, without further ado, a post one sluggish sooty month in the making: the Maxxy's® Mannequin Shoplifter Subduing Syndicate! Mannequins do not deserve your trust. Those blank faces. Those glossy, gangly extremities. That posh, modernist attire that makes them look like charter school performance artists. My skin crawls at the thought. However, while a phobia of all dapper nightmare models lining aisles across the globe wouldn't get you much besides a two-fer bundle on public panic attacks, at an infamous outlet in the JC-Verse, it could save your life, limb, and everything in-between. Keep your hands to yourselves and selectively on the shelves, because at Maxxy's Retail Surplus Superstore Co. Inc.®, it's you against them. Seriously, we're talking about five-and-dime fascism now, make no mistake. These sleek chain-store Chekists are the uncanny kin of tense anti-shoplifter opprobrium, and are tasked with mincing every five-finger discount down to the proverbial knuckle. You'd be living a kiosk-side facade if you assumed that those stuffy Windsor ties don't become whips, those necklaces nunchakus, and those pocket squares throwing stars on a dime. And don't even get me started on the break rooms. Programmed with a virtual archive of noir interrogation scenes and Chokehold Encyclopedia for the Self-Starter: Volumes 1-6, your typical Maxxy's® Mannequin is a kunoichi in a cardigan--and if one so much as catches you suspiciously crossing their tees, you can bet your britches they'll dot your eyes. No questions asked. No reasons given.

(That particular kick is dubbed the "Half-Off." Half off of what precisely is case-by-case.)

ONE MAN'S TRASH CAN IS ANOTHER MAN'S TREASURE CAN.

    I need not look inward to know that I'm an upcycled person. A solitary glance at my Goodwill-centric rags or the superannuated vintage impulse buys cluttering my creative lair/itty-bitty-living space would tell you that much. Keeping that in mind, it was only a matter of time until I laid eyes upon a dumpster and thought, "By gum, that rancid rainwater stain belongs in the Louvre." Without further ado, I offer you "Ashbin Abyss." Mediums include photography, and that all-purpose Cretan labyrinth of a graphic toolbox, Adobe Photoshop. Enjoy:

(Alternative titles included "The Mess-opalegic Zone" and "The Sea of Stanquility.")

#278: Saffron Jean: The Santa Bocado Mystic

     What better way to counteract the kicking-off of the 2nd dullest month of the year, next to January, then with a hearty dose of meandering absurdity. For me, that was treating myself to the first half of Yellow Submarine. For you, I give you this post. Ladies, gents, and any other fine folks constituting to "other," may I introduce you to Saffron Jean, the Santa Bocado Mystic! Jean "Saffron Jean" Saffronson lives his life the way most people finish theirs: clammy, incoherent, and hollering into the aether at his late grandmother. So, one could say that he's ahead of the curve. As Santa Bocado Pier's resident beach hobo, medicine man, "astral chiropractor," therapist, self-published author, and trimonthly continental-cod-hut-and-tiki-bar rant poet, the man's done pretty well for himself. With a cushy central set-up sandwiched between the solo keyboardist and the shirtless guy who'll let you insult his chin curtain for $4 (as well as a none-too-shabby write-up in the Bocado Babbler heralding his business as "pleasantly not a front for a cult") Jean's essentially set for life. One has to ponder how an aging 11th-grade dropout who stores salted peanuts in the shell dangling from his neck could've incanted his way to the top. Well, according to his paperback memoir Third Eye on the Lookout, Lady Luck was kind. Whilst purchasing a corn chip portrait of the Dalai Lama at Venice Beach in '67, Jean recollects, he pulled out a half-dollar to pay. Suddenly, the 50 cents slipped from his damp didgets and plummeted to the concrete, landing at a 50 degree angle. And at that very moment, the intricacies of the universe were engraved into his brain. The next five World Series runner-ups and Woodstock headliners flashed before his sunken eyes. And the rest was history. While I myself can't fully endorse the word of a pier-based entrepeneur who lives in a tipi that reeks of incense and fish tacos, I would encourage you to take him at face value. The JC-Verse has seen stranger. Now, before I depart, allow me to offer you some noteworthy quotes from the man himself. I apologize beforehand:

"I live my life in accordance with the three Lennons/Lennins: John, Vlad, and the quaint Michigan township."

"They say the future is a promise. But my therapist Iris says thanks to me, life nowadays is a commitment. Therefore, the future is the present."

"Chakras, you ninny!"

"If salt is the devil's sugar, then call me a sinner, brother, call me a si . . . wha . . . Meemaw! For the love of Gosh, do you mind??!"

And lastly:

"It's the 20th Century, of course I know judo."

(Pictured: the famed and pittied Santa Bocado Mystic hoisting up the tools paramount to his patented "Astral Slingshot" maneuver. Any participants that could vouch for this ritual's legitimacy are nowhere to be found, but according to Jean, that's because "it's so groovy in the Astral Plane that no one would ever want to come back, silly.")

#277: Planet Terry

    What starts with an S and is currently on the verge of imbibing my life whole in one gargantuan gulp? While sleep deprivation, Simpsons seasons 1-8, and sprees of voracious video-essay consumption are all viable answers, I was fishing for . . . school. Gosh, pardon my French. Indeed today is my technical first day of sophomore year, but considering how things are kind of on cruise control until my teacher figures out the lesson plan, I'll be using this school week as a sort of 5-day farewell to summertime here on the blog. Sort of like a browser-based purgatory to offer you and yours truly some closure before I'm tossed into the harsh underworld of schol. Schoo. You know what, my fingers refuse to type it again, let's move along. Time for my latest character: Planet Terry! The charmed life of a planet is really something to envy. Those celestial sons-o'-guns have every last light-second of their leisurely existence planned out for them from the get-go, complete with 24-eon rotisserie sunbathing and a scenic circular route around the cosmos. Getting ripped from this Life of Riley and made into some super-sized behemoth's forearm, however, puts a bit of a damper on that. And while that may not be a concern in our astronomical neck of the woods^{[citation needed]}, for the planets of the JC-Verse, that fear is ever-present--all thanks to the final frontier's biggest, brashest and most bumbling bully. After a torturous teresecond of idley roaming amongst the stars without a physical form, the astral entity that would become Planet Terry grew sick of his isolated lot in life. Boredom turned to rage, rage turned to a century or two of astronomical temper tantrums, and then a lightbulb. He could construct himself the physical vessel of his fantasies, and the tools with which to do so were right under his spectral schnoz--taunting him on fixed axes. Tactlessly tearing planets from their orbits and leaving suns bare for parsecs in every direction, Terry built himself a celestial body out of celestial bodies, and proceeded to make the whole universe his playground. With moons for peepers and dwarf planets for palms, the makeshift mammoth is still thunderously thrashing through space to this day. For the poor unsuspecting planetoids of the JC-Verse, let's pray he doesn't accidently trip over a supernova any time soon and need a new knee. Say it with me, amen.

#276: Wayne Sturdivant: The Artist Formerly Known as Percepto

       Upon beginning a massive Phineas and Ferb re-watch with the sis, it's dawned on me that Dr. Doofenshmirtz is a villian that suburban HGTV-addicts like my mother can really rally behind. There's so much talk of beachfront property and resale value in his schemes that sailed over my head as a youngster. Just some food-for-thought. Anywho, time for another '60s-era ex-crimefighter in the vain of my last character. Ladies and gents, I give you Wayne Sturdivant: the artist formerly known as Percepto! The superhero and the rock star are pretty parallel professions. Bold, bombastic public personas, legions of devoted followers, and a break-neck lifestyle that either leaves you a bygone novelty or cements you as a giant amongst men. So, once your golden age is behind you and your shrapnel-skewered ticker yearns for something fresh, making the leap from crimefighting fame to the annals of rock history would be easy-peasy, yes? In theory. Not every philanthropic Einstein in a tin can or wisecracking mutate has the chops to nail the transition--although one particular hero was essentially born for it. Back in the '60s, when every crusader and their mother (may she rest in peace) was hurling hokey one-liners at their adversaries, Wayne Sturdivant, AKA "Percepto" hummed his way through combat. The young hero's heightened senses would drastically enrich the psychedelic symphonies he listened to, allowing him to enjoy the trippy tunes of the times on an even trippier level. So, he traded his goggles for a Gibson and set out to share that. Busting onto the unsuspecting airwaves with a warped barrage of sound he dubbed "onomatopoeia pop," the super-powered soloist baffled listeners with an uncanny recreation of the concert inside his cranium--one that would warrant a tip of Brian Wilson's toy fire helmet. (I realize this post was kind of a nosedive into the pit of pop culture references. Comment below if I should include an index.)

THE JACKPOT.

    As the summertime train steams toward August and that beaked rascal Ra continues to mercilessly beat down on Southern California, morale around Jacob's Characterz! Inc. remains surprisingly high. Why? Spider-Man Homecoming was good. And with that, a fair share of weight has been lifted from my scrawny adolescent shoulders. So, in honor of the webslinger's slow-but-steady march back to cinematic glory, here's an apropos piece of fanart I did depicting my stab at the classic MJ--Romita dimples and all. Enjoy! (Credit to my accomplice/bloodline bunkmate Abby "the Sis" Elise, Brook from Be More Chill, and my somewhat-girlfriend [redacted]  for inspiring the modernized wardrobe.)

EXTRACURRICULAR ART ENDEAVORS

     Preface: I hope that the 4th treated all you self-respecting 'Muricans well this year. A belated cheers to truth, justice, and vibrant, benevolent explosives being launched from Disneyland and semi-legally from the 'burbs. *audible clink* Now, without further ado, I present a little non-character(z) piece I've been fussing over for a week or two that's finally prepped for posting. I call it "A Rainy Night at Station Alpha-B7." Interpret as you will:

#275: Sal Borester

    The shining sun, the sweltering heat and the fact that I'm posting at 7PM on a Wednesday when I should be in fierce, unrelenting combat with my world history workload, all equal one thing. It's summer, folks! I've got approximately 10 weeks of sweet liberation ahead of me, and while those don't consitute 104 days of summer vacation, they will more than suffice. Now, it's time to start things off with a bubble-encased italicized bang, because it's time to meet a character stemming straight from this blog's comic book roots. Ladies and gents, Sal Borester! Willingly pitting yourself against a miscellany of crazed crooks/aliens/deities/dastardly sentient apes, and waggishly quipping at them while you do so, requires that you're one of two things. Amazingly heroic, or alternatively, bat-dung insane. Distinguishing between the two can be a surprisingly tricky task, as exhibited by one of the JC-Verse's most allusive and "interesting" ex-crimefighters, Salvador "Stupendous Sala-Man" Borester. But you can call him Sal. After smashing alongside the Fab Fortification of Peace during the new wave superheroism revival of the '60s, ol' Sal hung up his weathered one-piece and opted to cash in on his above-average DNA. Selling a wide variety of miracle medications and multi-purpose pills derived from his enhanced amphibian blood, the two-toned titan built a business empire. He then began funneling his billions into a busload of ventures, ranging from the philanthropic to the downright eccentric. With a coarse and colorful hide to match his personality, Sal bares not only an uncanny resemblance to a lovechild of the Hulk and Howard Hughes, but also to his own product: he's a tough pill to swallow, but at the end of the day, he might be doing more good than you assume. Call the guy what you want, but you can't call him boring. Or an eft, because that's just a low-blow.

#274: Splendiferous Diggs: Czar of the Kaleidoscape

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This post is horrendously late, but I did want it to loosely coincide with the anniversary of a little-known album called Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band next month, so that kinda makes it more on time. Three cheers for technicality!

     Fun fact: I'm alive! More alive than usual, I'd venture to say. Because, while I've been heavily slacking on my posting duties for the past few months, I have been chanelling my energies into working backstage at my school's play (among other things)! 9th Grade has been treating me well, folks, and I'm pretty jazzed. Tired, but jazzed nonetheless. I'll update you all on my year in projects and social gallivanting when summer starts, but for now, it's time for a new character. Humans, aliens, and any additional nondescript entities with internet reception, I present to you . . . Splendiferous Diggs! Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies. Pretty nice visual, right? This sort of mind-bending arcadian candyland sounds pretty groovy in small doses, but when you actually live there 24/7, the novelty wears off pretty fast. One can cope with this fatique in a number of ways. Start a blog to air your discontent, contemplate wistfully while playing chess with yourself on a mountaintop, or establish autocratic rule over the region and begin kidnapping unsuspecting humans to be your loyal subjects. The last one I don't personally condone, but that just happens to be the choice option of Splendiferous Duplex Diggs, ethereal feline and self-proclaimed czar of a trippy alternate plane of reality called the Kaleidoscape! Charismatic and notably more cognisant than the taffy toucans and butterscotch bandicoots he called citizens, Splediferous grew sick and tired of spending the better half of a millenium with no one to keep him company. Absolute sovereignty is only so fun without scintillating conversation. So, for the past few centuries, the gaudy grimalkin has been prowling the material world, popping up at sketchy carnivals and desert-based music festivals in search of fellow cool cats to help him put the "party" in "one-party state." (Most of said loyal subjects never return from their stay in the Kaleidoscape, but if they do, they usually write conceptual rock albums about it afterwards.)

ADDITIONAL DOODLINGS (SHORT STORY COVER + NOCTROOPERS UPDATE)

     In the meantime, until the JC-Verse is so kind as to spit out another live offering, allow me to tide you all over with some non-character creations I've made as of late. Firstly, I have some jazzy cover art that I made for my sister's short story. Sadly, since the author isn't game to share her poetry with the world wide web yet and I forgot to save the drawing and writing as different layers on Photoshop, the bare bones version will have to suffice. I present to you, "FLOATY.png":

     Next up is a continuation of the post directly below this one, the Noctroopers. I thought the corner of the JC-Verse that that post introduced was especially cool, so I wanted to explore it more by fully-realizing their gaseous aboad, Kreken-V. If any of you fine folks weren't clear on what exactly a industrialized gas planet is, here's your visual. Enjoy!

#273: Noctroopers

    Dreamworks Animation LLC is a quandry. Seriously, I watched Bee Movie for the first time in gosh knows how long on Friday night, and I'm still reeling. One minute they're hitting home runs, and the next they're making a movie where they honest-to-goodness name a character Bee Larry King. BEE LARRY KING, DANGIT. This is the type of stuff that drives a man to the brink. But *ahem* on a less maddening note, it's time for some good ol' fashioned new character(s)! I proudly present, the Noctroopers! Of the many common comic book archetypes, the intergalactic police corps is one of my personal favorites. Whether they be identified by their sheeny green rings or gold helmets, they tend to be one of the coolest parts of any given universe--and with this blog, that's no different. Toss that trope in the blender with another recognizable comic staple, dressing like a bat to scare the common riff raff into submission, and you get the JC-Verse's own brand of cosmic coppers: the Noctrooper Corps! Serving the wartime government of Kreken-V, an industrialized gas planet in the Bathr system, these officers enforce local law while the formal Krekenese army are fighting abroad. With trademark helmets and handy-dandy Model-O7 energy-pistols, Noctroopers work to hold together the chaotic homefront of Kreken-V's empire, shutting down riots, investigating fishy spacecraft, and otherwise keeping things under control. They aren't exactly the long-eared luminaries that they're made out to be in everybody's eyes, but that's a story for another post. (Full disclosure, I've been on a bit of a Star Wars kick as of late, so that's the primary reason the character before you exists. That cape is basically Lando's. I hang my head in partial shame. Don't sue me.)

"JACOB FIGHTS A T-REX" AND OTHER TALES (Wondercon 2017 Recap)

     Look alive, ladies and gents. Spring has broken! The same, however, can't be said for my fever, as I currently have a cold. In the words of a wise kettle-wearing kiddo from a jamming miniseries, ain't that just the way. It's not all bad news, though. Because once upon a time when I could still fully breathe out of my nostrils, I was at WonderCon on Saturday! WonderCon has been a staple of my existence for almost as long as this blog has, and for my 4th go-round, I chose to cosplay as my own comic-accurate rendition of the Joker. So, on Saturday, amidst the swarm of Letos and Ledgers, me and a few other brave souls across the con took to the floor in our tailcoats and baggy striped pantaloons. I can't speak on behalf of the other Jokers, but as for me, the experience was worth all the over-the-top grinning. Let's recap:

ACCOUTREMENTS

     My dad and I put together quite the treasure trove of gag gadgets and gizmos to compliment my costume. Granted, we had to disassemble one of them at the entrance because it was too pointy for con guidlines, but all-in-all, I got some good use out of them:

THE FULL SHEBANG

    Factor in some spiffy attire brought to you by the wubbulous world of online shopping and a really nice tailor, and you have the finished product:

     HIGHLIGHTS OF THE DAY

•  Being bluntly judged by a pair of girls at the entrance for my inclusion of the crowbar.
• Being begged by a giddy stranger to pose with his buddy dressed as Jason Todd while pretending to "beat the living [redacted]" out of him with the crowbar. (The crowbar was a hot topic.)
•  Fighting a T-Rex. Seriously, this was a thing. My mom wasn't quick enough on the draw to get it on film, so you'll have to use your imagination. Picture the inflatable ancient beast below, but roaming the food court of the Anaheim Convention Center whilst wildly wielding a pair of lightsabers. And me engaging it in combat. And losing. I walked into a fight I was unprepared for, that much I'll admit.

• Indulging in some banging ice cream.
• Buying this ridiculously high-qual poster for a ridiculously high-qual movie called Kubo and the Two Strings.

• Additionally buying a glow-in-the-dark Ant-Man pop doll that I'll be using to add some extra pizzazz to my school's black light dance in a couple weeks' time.
• Having my simple photo op with the Flash commandeered by a really hyped cameraguy and ending up shooting a three-picture story arch:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
•  And lastly, eating a multitude of yummies at my third favorite place on the planet: Denny's.
       WonderCon '17 was quite the blast. As far as 4th installments in series go, I'd give it a solid Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix. I'm not gonna go throwing around Mad Max: Fury Roads, but for the record, it was pretty dang close to earning one. If you fancy more shots of the Jacob-brand Clown Prince of Crime in action, below is a big ol' gallery of pics for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy, folks! Now, if you'll excuse, I'll be doing absolutely nothing. Gosh bless Spring Break.

  

  
  

  

  
  

  
  
  

  

  
  

  
  
  

  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  

  

  
  

  

  (A round of applause for my sis doing two things that come naturally to her: being Mabel Pines, and kicking me in the stomach.)

#271 & #272: Kelsey Preez and Asper Ushe: The Disappointment Twins

     I'd like to preface this post by saying that the art style of today's characters is ever-so-slightly inspired by the snappy illustrations in my Spanish textbook. Not my favorite class, per say, but gotta give credit where credit is due. Shout-out to you, ¡Adelante! Uno by Vista Higher Learning. Kudos for breaking up the hard stuff with stylistic sketches of cheery Spanish-speakers. Props. Now, without further ado, I present to you the Disappointment Twins! *ahem* For years upon years, they've been an enigma. Documented reports of their attacks have been slim, and claims have rarely matched up. A handful of details, however, have remained consistant: deathly pale skin, sullen expressions, unrelentingly sarcastic demeanors, and varying degrees of flannel. As well as their names: Kelsey Preez and Asper Ushe, or as they've been fittingly deemed, the "Disappointment Twins!" Urban legend has it, these omnipotent punks have been burdening people with aggravatingly lackluster luck for over two decades. Some say they're disenfranchised demigods from the god of mischief Loki's brief marriage to a barista in Seattle. Others say they were once average 13-year-olds until they were put under an eternal curse for their disrespectful tones by a black cat in a cute little witch's hat. Regardless of their origins, the duo have become infamous for dragging people down to their levels of irritability by force, and they seem poised to continue doing so for, like, literally forever. Fun fact: prior to being struck with bogus luck, most alleged victims reportedly either a) gave their students an egregious amount of weekend homework, or b) claimed that the Smashing Pumpkins are overrated.

A POSTER + Update on the American High School Experiece

     This week was a very social week. So social, in fact, that I think I may have overshot the end-goal of not being a hermit and accidently become a social butterfly. So, I guess we can consider the dehermitization process a success! High fives all around, team. This a community accomplishment. Anyway, since I don't want to leave the poor posting archive for March in the nude while I finish the next character post, I present to you my Open House poster! My school's Open House happens to have been one of the main events of the aforementioned social week. The theme was "Books: Food for the Brain," and I think I conveyed that quite affectively. Other highlights of the week include, but are not limited to:

• Being rewarded the "Cape of Wonder" and a snazzy bag of candies for my work on the theatre crew, namely my overzealous set design.
• Talking about graphic novels and qustioning the existence of hick-hop with my crewmates while painting boards and such.
• Getting to see a book that was printed before 'Murica was a thing, as part of a cool presentation at Open House.
• Going to Teen Pajama Movie Night on Friday and almost crying in front of my peers while watching Big Hero 6. (You try keeping it together when a boy abandons his puffy robot in a portal, pal. It's not a cake walk.)
•  Winning a cake at the Open House Cake Walk. (Accidentally great segue.)
• Overall continuing to make friends with people I've been going to school with for up to 10 years.
• Eating said cake.

(CLICK TO ENLARGE)

#270: King Tuplet

     Happy March, everyone! I don't know if I've blabbed about it sufficiently yet, but Wondercon 2017 is coming up at the end of the month! I'm going as my own version of the Joker, so that's bound to be ridiculously fun. Fingers crossed that I'll be able to stand out in the sea of Ledgers and Letos that awaits me. (In a world of Ledgers and Letos, be your own Joker. That's the best advice I can give you.) Now, let's get on with the character. Ladies and gents, King Tuplet! In 1999, while everyone else was busy being disappointed by The Phantom Menace and partying likesaid they would, a team of archeologist found a tomb in the Bygonean Forests. Inside, they found a bona fide treasure trove of scrolls and carvings detailing the lives of four different kings. However, they only found one casket. Awe quickly turned to confusion, but since then, the full story has been unearthed. Those fine folks just so happened to have discovered the final resting place of King Tuplet, the JC-Verse's first and only(?) shapeshifting king! Fearing the reprocussions of going full-conqueror but yearning for his own empire, King Tuplet found a way to put his gods-given gift to good use. Crafting the alternative physical forms of "Sornin the Slender," "Haggert of Erk," and "Bundee the 1st," the morphing monarch slowly seized control of four massive kingdoms, as four different kings. Before long, he'd built one of the greatest empires in all of pre-history--without a single chump being the wiser. That is, until ol' Haggert suffered a fatal blow in battle with Gristbite the Ghastly from the north. When all the other kings went missing simultaneously, that's when people started to get the picture. (You'd think that 3 out of 4 kings always being on "royal retreats" whenever the one left over was doing something important would've been enough of a helpful hint.)

(CLOCKWISE FROM THE BOTTOM: King Tuplet in his natural form, Sornin the Slender, Haggert of Erk, and Bundee the 1st. Feel free to click in order to get a closer look at all the kingliness.)

#269: Pitchy Sesquipedalian

      Salutations! Aloha! Other way of saying hello! I was supposed to be gallivanting across L.A. with my dad today while my mom and sis were at Cookie Con 2017. The whole deal ended up getting switched to tomorrow, though, so today I'm essentially free to be the lazy son-of-a-gun my weekend instincts compel me to be. However, my desire to be productive/inner Phineas Flynn overpowers those instincts, so here we are. Alrighty, let's get to the character. Ladies and gents, Pitchy Sequipedalian! Sucky rappers are in no short supply. In an imperfect world, it's only logical that not every tape that is mixed, nor every rhyme that is spat will truly be "fire." And all you have to do to tell the wannabes from the real deal is to give said rhymes a listen, yes? Maybe in this universe, pal. But in the JC-Verse, one such sucky rapper found a way to cheat that system. Unsuccessfully peddling his tapes on the streets of San Juan Soso, California without a penny to his MC pseudonym, Pitchy Sesquipedalian was dismissed by many people as a hack/con/certifiable loon. Those people happened to be right, but that's besides the point. Because, one fateful evening at Scratch-Daddy Stan's Discount Record Rental®, he stumbled upon something tucked inside a circa-1994 Bombästic Cräftsmen album: a wrecked sheet of paper detailing the "Incantation of Enticed Ears." And just like that, he went from delusional wannabe rapper guy, to delusional wannabe rapper occult practicioner guy. Using the spell to endow his cruddy mixtapes with hypnotic powers, Pitchy became the Pied Piper of putrid rhymes, drawing in a devoted fanbase of listeners/worshiper regardless of the quality of his verses--and now, he intends to bring his work to a larger audience. What that could mean, we can only fear.

(Fun fact: that little trinket hanging from around his neck is a broken old handheld PlayPal from the '90s. He found it abandoned in an alley way and thought it make a great "statement.")

A ROOM.

     Apologies for the recent character delay, but there is an excuse to be had. Two, in fact. Excuse #1 happens to be a secret secret akin to that of one Mr. Roboto, so I can't really use it. Excuse #2, however, is very shareable. One step of my plan to de-hermit-ize myself and take the AMERICAN HIGH SCHOOL  EXPERIENCE by its reigns was joining my school's stage crew this year, and we're doing Shrek the Musical in the spring. First order of preparation was creating a mock-up of Fiona's room, and for something created over two drawing sessions and a night/morning of Photoshopping, mine turned out pretty nice.

(Photoshopped but w/out color)

(Photoshopped w/ color)

#268: The Curators

     Guess who's got two thumbs and some inflamed bronchi? *points to thyself* Fear not, it's been three weeks and I'm essentially better at this point, but the cough's still sticking around. But then again, Kubo and the Two Strings is up for the Oscar, so what the heck am I complaining about? Anyways, enough about me. Time for the first official character(s) of 2017: the Curators! Museums are fun. Nowhere else can you see the skull of a neanderthal and have a distinguished animatronic pelican teach you about bird anatomy in the same building. They show you the past, and that lets you predict the future--but when push comes to shove, how efficient is that? Wouldn't it be so much easier on our part if museums cut out the middle man and let us look tomorrow straight in the eye? Agree with it or not, that is the philosophy of the Curators, a class of hyper-intellegent rodentia from the planet Crasifilon. Using their advanced knowledge of 4th dimensional physics and snazzy architecture, they've set up shop on good ol' Planet Earth and founded the Transgalactic Reverse-Museum! Come one, come all, and get an up-close gander at a variety of artifacts, archival footage, art, and more from the future of ANY planet of your choice. Storing up to a thousand years of futurey goodness at a time across its ten floors, the Transgalactic Reverse-Museum has all the charm of time travel, without the risk of becoming a molecular smoothie. Most tickets are usually reserved for worried rulers and heroes from across the cosmos looking to prevent future calamities, but there are still plenty up for grabs. The only fee is the "divine knowledge of the museum's existence," so, you're already set. You're welcome.

(Fun fact: that handy lever in the back is the Century Alternation Switch, which allows you to shift between century-specific sets of rooms without the main hall--or you--moving an inch. Suck on that industrial-sized lemon, elevators.)

A.D. 2017

     A new sensation fills the air. An inexplicable urge to sustain tourism possesses you, and Spider-Man, Thor, Wonder Woman, and a semi-geriatric Wolverine wave at you in the distance. Could it be? Yes, it could. And it is. Because we are now living in the year 2017! *stirring fanfare* We're already a week in, and the year's looking pretty spiffy, all things considered. Also, today's 1/7/17, which I find incredibly entertaining for some reason. Something about number coincidences, dangit. They get me every time. Anyway, now that all that's been established, let's start off the new year with a little 2016 send off that I whipped up. Made me pretty proud going through my year in posting to make it. Farewell 2016, and here's to the next 358 days of making the world a weirder place! Hasta la pasta!