#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.)