Friday, September 30, 2005

Today's inspiration:

I've recently started taking Chuck Jones framegrabs from some Looney Tunes DVDs I got last Christmas and I've rediscovered the wonderful little "Baby Buggy Bunny." Of course, it's got the standard-fantastic staging and timing of the best Chuck shorts, but I've fallen in love with this cartoon for a pair of princely priorities:

1. The attention to detail in the bg layouts. Altho Bugs always plays himself in his cartoons, we rarely get the privilege of staying this long in his rabbit-hole, and the way his home is decorated is a sthpectacular view into the nibbly nuances of his character: from the modern frames on the walls to the carrot arrangements on the table to the map-design carpet, some elements are surprising, some are familiar, but all feel like Bugs. Noble, Jones, and co. really hugged the unicycle on this one kids.

2. The surprisingly brutal violence in this cartoon that's a brilliant blend of funny and "OH DEAR GAWD!!!!" Granted, Warner Bros. shorts are known for their ruckuses, but for those of you who have access to this film, check out the scene where Finster takes the bat to Bugs. There really isn't anything funny about the realistic way Bugs crumples up as he's being bludgeoned, but somehow you're forced to laff at this shockingly all-too-honest portrayal of a bat-beating. Even more disturbing--the way Bugs shakes the baby like a British nanny after discovering his convict secret. The voice track by Mel Blanc here is just so.....angry that, thru his voice alone, you feel every last jostle as Bugs ruffs the crap outta the infant. I can almost picture Chuck sitting down with his animators and lecturing, "Um, yeah, I kinda let Mel go a little too far with this in the booth. Eh, can you guys bring it down a little thru the action?" Ahh. Good times, gooood teyemes.

"A cartoon character only lives when the whole drawing, as well as the parts, reflect the attitude, the personality, the acting, and the feeling of the character." --Frank Thomas

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Hi there tilt-a-girls and manwiches. Yes it has again been a bundle since last you've heard from moy, but rest assured I have not forgotten my responsibilities to this blog or to the exploits in global conquer that it chronicles as frequently as my jai alai tournament schedule allows. My absence was not outta neglect, nay, but rather due to assignments from my mentor, minor prison time, a dead bonobo, two AA batteries, a pinch of Cholula, overuse of the phrase "got any cheese?," and an addiction to what's called "dumpster freshening." Sadly, it's still gonna be a long whistle before Garrett gets to glimpse himself drawn "full mast" as the pirates say (I know, Garrett, I know--a pregnant pause doesn't mean you should literally have to wait 9 months for the next page). But I wanted to post to address a few specs:

If you haven't already, check out the blog of my friend, frijole hydrant, and Number 2 henchman, Eric Gonzalez at The Gute Spot-- Eric works at Cartoon Network on that show, eh, you know, about those, uh, make-em-up pals. With the bacon? He doesn't have much posts now, but once he gets rolling, he's not quite a mop, he's not quite a puppet, but man can to answer your question I don't know. Oh. You didn't ask a question? Well in that case let me just get you to look over there as I--NUHLAVEN!

Also, for those of you who missed, never heard of, or just ignored it, Drew Carey's GreenScreen Show is now being rerun on Comedy Central! So if you wanna see all the happy fruits of my scanning, clean-up, painting, and (miniscule) inbetweening kitchen-office labor for that show, check it out while it's back dudemeisters! (FDA warning: this show is proven to cause phantom pregnancy, ingrown earlobes, and genital diabetes in lab donkeys. Viewer discretion is advised)

And why the SHIT do I watch Lost?! All this screwy season thus far has done is remind me how that show just utterly screws and screws and screws and screws again and again and again with my mind like a tasmanian devil stuck in neutral. I would boycott this mindfrig of a show if I could just stop watching it!

And hey everyone--SERENITY!!!!!!

"Even a broken clock is right twice a day." --H.L. Mencken

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Is it time for a new post already? For some of ya, it's been too long. For others, it's been too much. And for others still--GET OFF MY LAWN! Well it's not exactly my lawn (altho my rent does contribute to its maintenance). The point remains, however, that a magician's yard is no place to shave a lamp. Oh, look at this--I'm wasting everyone's time with yet another trademark, go-nowhere tangent. Well I like attention so let's make it two--what is the DEAL with admirals? Do they actually think those huge-puge hats make them look all bad-ass and kewl? RIGHT! Napoleon is not cool--he was a frumpy midget who had to ride a great dane into battle and he smelled like post it notes and string beans and died of raucous venereal disease because he was a filthy skank. What's that? Your dad likes Napoleon? Yeah, well your dad's lame! How many lines has it taken now to get to the "point" of today's post? Who cares--I'm having a wonderful time!

Okay, fine. By popular demand (and by popular, I mean the two voices of outcry from last post's comments column), here is Page 4 of the comic where, finally, we enter the Garrett. Now I don't know if it's because I know what's to come, but when I was redrawing this page, every time I redid a Garrett, I just started laffing and shaking my head, which was actually quite refreshing seeing that I usually don't laff at my own stuff (with exceptions to adorable caricatures of Chris Allison, Alex Deligiannis, and Greg Rankin, esq.s). I even contemplated in dressing little Garrett up in a mocap suit, but not only am I not that heartless, but I didn't want to deal with drawing his "pudding pop thighs" in a black leotard with motion bulbs dangling to and fro. But just because Garrett's arrived doesn't mean his cameo is over--why'd he come? What's in his mouth? What's he gonna do about it?--but don't pout from gout, dear readers, for all Shitake-ma-related queries will be answered in Page 5--stay tuned for the unsettling results! I ain't afraid a no ghosts!

"Is it the wicked leaders who lead innocent populations to slaughter, or is it wicked populations who choose leaders after their own hearts?" --T.H. White

P.S.--This post is dedicated to NBC, for making television worth watching again Tuesday nights with the return of The Office and the new, surprisingly wacky My Name Is Earl. And when did Ethan Supplee lose all that weight? Goodnight nurse!

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Let's see. What topic should I use to avoid getting to the point (if any) of today's post? Penguins and typewriters? The miracle of fish protein concentrate? The fact that matricide is only legal in Honduras when it happens under the bleachers of a bullfight? Oh I know! Dexter the Last Dinosaur! A show I don't remember at all so I'll just say this instead--Scarborough. Ha ha! I am such a clever little fellow. I have no idea why they won't let me back into Holland. All I want to do is taste their snow! Lousy anti-mail order bride laws. Oookay then. So my big recommendation for youse guys, my dearest of dear WDW readers, is by using mostly spoons, a viewmaster, and a discarded beanie propeller, construct yoself a makeshift crowbar to jimmy your thighs off your computer chair so that you may get up and out and buy the wonderful Serenity visual companion and screenplay (pictured above). Altho I'm waiting until after September 30th until I even GLIMPSE at the screenplay portion, the first 40 pages are an enthralling Q&A with Joss as well as "Joss On" sections where he explains his decisions on camera, lighting, and music and Sweet Pirate Lincoln it is impossible not to devour every last shred of insight Joss throws on the page! FANTASTIC, FANTASTIC, FANTASTIC book!

And as far as today's image, I've taken just about 500 framecaptures from the four seasons of Futurama, but this capture from "300 Big Boys" is by far my favorite. I think it's interesting yet simultaneously discouraging that the shows with the best ensembles tend to get souped on. Don't get me started on the losses of Newsradio or Firefly (or even the dismal ratings for Arrested Development), but in the case of Futurama, the "big boys" episode is the perfect showcase for the sitcom's dynamic character line-up--EVERY character has their own subplot, even infrequent regulars such as Scruffy the janitor. There are shows out there that don't know what to do with even their main characters, and yet Futurama spanked the rooster at utilizing its whole cast to comedic effulgence with the simple premise: What would each character do if they were given $300? The result: a uniquely hilarious rainbow of situation comedy. Plus a whale getting gastro. My ancestors came from Ireland.

"If it takes a million years for a fish to become a reptile, has Man, in our few hundred, altered out of recognition?" --T.H. White

Friday, September 16, 2005

So I am currently right crack in the middile of having 3 days off from work and I must say, it is GLORIOUS! And it's none too soon--I've never noticed this before, but (this year anyway) there's sumpin about the passing of Labor Day that turns people criznozzy. Don't believe me? Here's just a few of the kooks I've observed this week: let's see. There was the racist grandma who hated Koreans because they are, to quote, "filthy and packed with disease." There was the little boy that whenever he had the urge to cough, he would only do so into his mother's hand (and no, he was not Korean--so much for YOUR thesis old lady). There was the guy I saw jogging with a pipe in his mouth. There was the magician's wife whom I caught washing a sink full of rocks last night. And of course, there were the two little girls who played the following game: they stand front to back. The girl behind the other clenches her fist and uses it to rap on the skull of the girl in front.
Behind Girl: Knock knock.
Front Girl: Who's there?
Behind Girl: (any nonsense word will do here) Shmoofle.
Front Girl: Shmoofle who?
Both girls then quickly face each other and start dancing and squealing in gibberish, then reassume their positions and take turns knocking on each other's heads.
Before I can question any of these fascinating people, I quickly remind myself that I live 20 minutes away from 3 different ecosystems (the mountains, the desert, and the ocean). Nearby hillsides sport mansions that neighbor illegal immigrant pup tents. Freeways are for parking, not driving. I work in a place where Belle and Cruella deVille put on their make-up side-by-side while discussing how all the princes are actually gay. My college diploma is signed by Arnold Schwarzenegger. I think of all these facts and they remind me, none of these people are really crazy--they're just in California, reality's Wonderland.

And now, jokes that don't make any sense:

What did the cyclops say to the astronaut?
2 scoops will do it.

Where does cheese come from?
Look in a mirror.

What's the difference between a sock and a polar bear?
When I eat a sock, I don't get a FULL ERECTION!

Sorry about that last one, but you'd be surprised at how often it scores laffs (yes, sadly, I've actually used that one before this post).

Anyhowser, we're now up to Page 3 of the comic. It is here that the story "structure" definitively decomposes under its own accord meaning nothing will make a spiff of sense ever again in these panels. And yes, Page 3 also marks the last shred of quiet before we're hit with the inappropriate hullabaloo caused by a surprise guest star (yes Garrett, your spotlight shines soon). Welcome to Gattaca, sons.

"There is absolutely no inevitability as long as there is the willingness to think." --Chuck Jones

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Today's blog is dedicated to my good friend and WDW reader Emmanuel Deligiannis whom I just found out scored a super huge happy fun size internship on Spongebob Squarepants. Congratulations Emmanuel, Nickelodeon is where the action is. Not to mention the money, the women, the power--OH THE GLORIOUS POWER!!!! Tell me how the champagne room is there and I do fully expect you to join our blogging community with your "The Daily This Guy," recounting your daily encounters with everyone's favorite manchild, George Rincon Jr. Why did I just get a visual from Of Mice & Men? Maybe because I like my flamingo well-done and nothing cooks tropical waterfowl better than a Steinbeck novella. And that makes the kind of sense that's not--goodnight nurse!

In other news, showing off what a pillar of maturity I am, I actually got scolded at work today for writing the word "poop" on a commission sheet that is to be sent to our corporate office in Florida. Granted, it was whited out before being sent, but my boss Holly just wanted to make sure she wouldn't have to white out two "p"s and two "o"s on a daily basis.

Other than my sketches of Deena from Powers, here's page 2 of my "24 hour" comic. Now for those of you who think that this "story" is going somewhere, let me put out the warning now that every page gets more and more content-abstract and disturbing than the last, so viewer discretion is advised dear readers. Seriously. I bet you smell like a pirate.

"I definitely feel that we cannot do the fantastic things based on the real, unless we first know the real." --Walt Disney

Saturday, September 10, 2005

So here's a slightly overdue story:

I work with a few romance-ridden gals who have made it their obsessive hobby to find me a girlfriend. Last week, one of these gals offered me an attempt to end the hunt by trying to introduce me to her cousin who, as she put it, "will really like you." Needless to say, I was quite skeptical but nonetheless she showed me a picture proving the cousin to be a cute blonde so I agreed to talk to her on the phone. A couple of uneventful conversations later, I was foolish enuf to keep an open mind. But then I found out about the four strikes. First, I learned that she lives two hours away in the high desert which would make for a very distant, inconvenient relationship. Strike one. Then, I learn she already has a boyfriend. Self-explanatory strike two. Next, I learn she is very cruel to sed boyfriend, verbally causing him to quote-on-quote "gape." Very solid strike three. So now the lid is on the coffin--we just need to nail it shut. And that nail comes the size of a teepee when I discover that this cousin, no joke now, is a member of the American Nazi Party. As much as I'm sure attending a white supremacy rally would make a fascinating first date, eh, I'll go with strike four instead. So now I've had to lay some ground qualities on my hapless matchmakers: If you insist on hooking me up, then make certain the girl

1. is a local.
2. is single.
3. doesn't have a tendency to "gape."
4. doesn't have a toothbrush mustache.

So now I'm pretty much waiting for these gals to find purpose in their lives beyond my love life. I'm sure they'll find it. After all, I once thought my purpose was to wrestle donkeys under the sea. And before that, to become chancellor elect of Polynesia by means of hypnosis. But I found myself. Eventually. Also, in a topic that is in NO way related, Thomas Kinkaid stopped by the caricature cart tonite (and he's a little chubby!).

And concerning today's image, I've decided to pull a Mark Andrews and rehaul my infamous 6 page 24 hour comic. Here's page 1. Stay tuned for more!

"We're going to conquer that mountain and, God, I can't wait to see what the view's going to be from up there." --Andrew Stanton

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Well, I suppose I have some explaining to do, don't I dear readers? So I, not being one to lie, am just gonna patch up the spatula and thank the pig for the box tops. Granted, the story of my whereabouts is a long one, but it's one filled with intrigue, fisticuffs, and mattress coolant at that, so cover up your car and relock your chastity belts 'cause we're going thru the looking glass on this one, Spartacii. Now, those of you who are regular readers of both World Domination Weekly and local Alta Deena dairy cartons have noticed that I've been missing for nearly two weeks now and I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Hey. Goober. Where've you been?" First off, don't you ever get off calling me a goober again or else I'll fix your ass for you! Second, yeah, I've been out. So shoot me. Ow! My heart! Ah! My ass! Ow my heart and ass. How did you do that anyway? I'm typing via internet, eh? right now and that doesn't even make sense. Well by golly I'll show you. You and that boy of yours. Anyhowser, it all started a couple weeks back when I was on a covert expedition to the Antarctic pole to check the efficiency of operations on Project: GWAR (which is nothing more than a radar-dodging lab dedicated to harvesting frozen mastodon tusks and converting them into an inexpensive rickshaw fuel--hey, just because I'm bent on global superiority doesn't mean I don't care about things like outdated Chinese transportation) when a "hammock-out-of-nowhere" as I like to call it coccooned itself amongst the protoblades which ruptured the electroionic stranifiers which reneged the ethalpy responsible for lubricating the dual turbopropellucular pistons and in short, caused my gyrocopter to crash in the frigid recesses of the subsouthern tundra. My pilot, Bosco Shabaz, also survived the blistery handshake with death, but as for little Short Round (or "Cody" as the Antarctic aborigines were so fond of calling him), well, he actually died two months ago in a band mishap involving a lethal overdose of triangle. So the "Baz" and myself aimlessly wandered thruout the glacial badlands with nothing to eat but wolverine hooves and melted hair. Our situation improved, however, once a rescue copter found us and flew us away to safety. Unfortunately, it turned out that the copter was nothing more than a hallucinatory mirage and even more unfortunately, we didn't realize this until we were well in the air and we freefell four stories into the yellow snow as the copter dissipated around us. So our situation worsened. But then in bettered. For the better. We stumbled upon a Laplander village, where I was able to trade the "Baz" for an ostrich. I wasn't able to ride it long, however, because apparently, ostriches aren't native to the Antarctic, and it froze to death and then posthumously died. But, being a student of the mad sciences, I was not only able to bring it back to life, but I created and added spare parts to bring it back as a mutant husky, a mutant pedigree with the bobbed tail of an Alaskan canine, the powerful thighs of an African running bird, and the full pouting lips of Tony Curtis. I was able to ride the huskrich to an abandoned weatherstation, but by that time I grew bored with it so I built a new huskrich, bred them both, and then slaughtered the whole pack to live off their radiant, mutant meat. The only thing to stave off "station fever" was a rusty telegraph press that smelled like an iron butt (if trains could fart...). Someone from another outpost kept contacting me on it, and even tho I am unfamiliar with Morse code, I was able to surmise from the rhythm and frequency of the telegraph beats that this someone was actually an illiterate Nazi abandoned and forgotten in Antarctic exile since WWII and he was using the telegraph to attack my manhood and incessantly call me "totally gay." Well was I really gonna sit there and take that from a bratwurst-scented douche dear readers? Reich hell I was! I thenceforth demolished the weather station to turn its pieces into a pair of crosscountry skis, but decided to throw them away when I realized I built them with too many wheels. So I began my ski-less hunt for my German adversary, imagining how I was gonna melt his face off with a hose. A two-night hike and seven Napoleon sightings later, I found the bastard's lair--an igloo constructed of cinder blocks, novelty mugs, and back issues of People magazine. It was time for a lesson you won't soon forget, Germy--McSonogram-style! I then knocked on his door and ran into the night giggling. But my giggling was cut to a muffled short when I ran guffaw-first into the back end of a polar bear. Once I peeled myself from its furry nethers, it reared up, but in such an adorable way, I never guessed that it did it to slash off my superfluous nipple. Oh no! The carnival would never hire me for that summer job now! I then realized I would have to fight back to survive. I was gonna punch the polar bear right in his polar face. Now, I don't know if you've ever fisted a polar bear to the jaw, dear reader, but it's hard. I mean, it's a jaw so dense you'll shatter every carpal in your hand hitting it. It's like trying to punch a tree in the abs. That's exactly why I punched it using a nightgown I had on my person. Luckily, it did the trick because the bear ended up being allergic to female evening wear, and it swelled up and died. Even luckier, the bear had been "tagged" by an environmental group and when they came to monitor it with a fresh tag the next day, I stowed away in its mouth as they drove its body to Antarctic civilization for a proper Christian burial. Once I clawed myself out of the bear's grave, I hotwired an environmentalist's jeep, drove myself to GWAR HQ, boarded the nearest gyroplane, and hopped on the good foot and did the bad thing. And now I'm back. And as you can see, I'm pushing blogspot's capacity for a "Links" column.

Real quick:

Best line from Simpsons Season 6: "What's a Chachie?"
Best (approximate) line from Woody Allen's "Love & Death:" "Socrates is a man. And if Socrates is a man, then all men are Socrates. Therefore, all men are homosexual. Wait. I'm not homosexual."

I also highly reccomend The Office with Steve Carell on DVD--each episode has so many deleted scenes, that by "playing all," you're pretty much playing six new episodes all as hilarious as the originals.


"We're proud of the fact that Pixar makes cartoons. We're not trying to replicate reality. We study reality and then we caricature it." --Ralph Eggleston