Sunday, February 26, 2006


Goodnight you Prince of Pleasantville, you Majesty of Mayberry, you Royalty of The Regal Beagle.

"I think a lot of people are a lot lazier than I am. I really do believe this." --Milt Kahl

Monday, February 20, 2006


So we finally get to see the dramatic conclusion to my 24 hour comic--a little late, granted, but since I'm obviously living in a "way back machine," let's tackle other retroactive issues as well: what's the deal with that Wang Chung I've heard so much about? Have you seen that new show Melrose Place--I sure hope it makes it and becomes a representational staple for the 90s. Is Gerald Ford the president now that Nixon resigned? Have you seen the previews for that movie Tron? Apparently the special effects are done with these things called "com-pew-tors." And oh yeah, I apologize in advance to the Hispanics, Irish, Belgians, grandmas, and well, just everyone. You'll know it when you read it.

"If you don't have satire, you've lost eighty percent of the basis of humor." --Ward Kimball

Friday, February 17, 2006












Well stuff my toes with corn cobs! Due to my caucasian lack of rhythm, I left an item off of last post's Inspiration-Down!. Of course I only remembered it whilst away on one of my moonlighting missions of gluing all of Castro's spoons together while still in the silverware drawer in a conspiratorial effort to drive him insane (and so far, point Osgood) and there being not an ounce of internet in all of Cuba, I had to abort this mission mid-glue and catch the quickest raft back to the states so that I didn't leave anything unfinished. Well, except for that latest Castro mission. Frig! Curse you Joseph Heller! Curse you for inventing the Catch-22! Anyhow, the missing item is as follows:

This week's episode of Lost! I know, I know--this must seem wig after months and months of me saying this show can suck my butt tentacles, but this episode was actually really good! Of course, it didn't hurt that it was about Sayid who's the only worthwhile character the show has besides Hurley, but it was a rare occurrence that the flashbacks were just as interesting as the island. I also lend my McSonogram-brand of approval to the ending--Sayid's arc was subtle but still popped home with resonance, plus, it gave us some interesting happenings (i.e. the clock reaching zero) which were ambiguous enuf for us to get curious, but weren't mind-fuggity enuf to dangle a colossal carrot in front of us then repocket sed carrot, give us the finger, and leave us dangling for two weeks like they usually do. So J.J., keep the rest of the season going like this, and I might actually enjoy your show again. And if you wanna make me especially happy? Gradually kill off everyone but Sayid and Hurley.

And today's images are various cafe sketches I did at Santa Barbara a month ago but put into color. Sure, they'd look ginchier if I took the time to clean them up (or knew anything about color) but since time hasn't been my friend lately, take it up with him.

My hotplate is fine.

"There was more stuff to be done than I could possibly do, and things still to be done that I should do." --Frank Thomas

Wednesday, February 15, 2006


So, I thought I'd do thangs differently this post and talk about the image first, and THEN venture into scrumpty rumpty (also the name of Kirby Puckett's calico cat) ramblings. Therefore, if you're a girl and I know you, you were e-mailed this on Tuesday. Everyone else, now you get some spooney love too.

With that being sed, on the global conquest front, I spent last weekend shaving the Yukon in preparation for Project: Donkey Girdle when one of my nightgowns went off without warning. After the vapor and bacon bits cleared, I spit out my own haircut to realize that, without even trying this time, I had been witness to the mass extermination of two species of Appalachian flamingo and the Laplander people. It's no big jig tho--after all, they're poor, smelly, they haven't contributed anything to this world of ours (except triangular-grid waffles) and most nobody has ever heard of them, therefore most nobody will miss them. I'm talking about the Laplanders there. I'm only clarifying because you got this look in your eye that--you know what, forget it. But if you're of Laplander heritage and you haven't been home in a while, now's a good time to tell you your mom's dead and my nightgown killed her. Oh man. Did I just deja vu John F. Kennedy? You can never go home again, but I guess you can roast your marshmallows there. The Appalachian flamingo, on the other hand, now that's a loss. Truly a noble, majestic creature. A shame. Just, it's just a shame. Aw, don't tell me I'm gonna cry now. Uhp. Nope--it's just the juice running down from my new jerry curl. Now I look like an Irishy Billie Dee Williams (that "D" stands for Dublin!).

INSPIRATION-DOWN!:

The Aristocrats on DVD: Altho nothing's changed in my adoration for Sarah Silverman or South Park, this movie has provided me a newfound respect for Bob Saget. Forget comparing his performance to Full House--the question to ask is why wasn't he this funny on America's Funniest Home Videos? Oh that's right, the complete LACK of submissions containing tampons and fecal rape! Moving on, loaded with swell special features like other favorite jokes and contest winners, this DVD is the funniest, most desensitizing experience I've had since I found half a mole cub in that box of Golden Crisps!

Wallace & Gromit: Curse Of The Wererabbit on DVD: FINALLY! I'm watching it over and over and STILL can't figure how they get so much out of Gromit with just two glass eyes but damn if it isn't amazing. Heath Ledger can pull up his high-heeled boots and ride back into the pink sunset for all I care, Gromit's my pick for Best Actor of the year! Plus a commentary that reveals Nick Park and Steve Box to be utterly giggly over their process and featurettes on how to build a plasticine bunny, how W&G literally saved the Wendsleydale industry, and is it just me or does Jeffrey Katzenberg look more and more like a mummy in Gap clothing? Oops, I just submitted a portfolio to Dreamworks, maybe I shouldn't have sed that. And maybe I can patch things up by sending him 35 lbs. of Vitamin C....

Scrubs: I am a total DARSHBAG!!!!! This show, this brilliant and marvelous show, seemingly written just for me, has been on for HOW many years and I only discover it NOW?! This is the silliest, guffaw-getting show on television and I am in love! I used to describe Stella as what creation would be like if I were God--well, the same rings true here. If I thought a hospital like this actually existed, I would promptly become a hypochondriac and max out my PPO plan quicker than Aquaman on laundry day! And it only figures that I get into it just as it's temporarily pulled for the Olympics. Pff, thanks A LOT, stupid world unity. The only global cohesiveness I want to see is under my Dracula stare. But until then, I'd settle for the whole world sitting on the couch together every Tuesday night for Scrubs. I've also seen recently that the production's looking for interns and, if I were still a student, I would totally go for it if only to meet Sarah Chalke, who I think I might be in love with, but that's another post unto itself. Anydookie, seasons 1 & 2 are on DVD and, with my 25th birthday next month, I know two gifts I'LL be asking for, and they don't rhyme with rollerblades Uncle Ebray!

So, until next time, do I smell a midget burning? Oh no! MY HOTPLATE!!! Gotta go!

"When is 'not yet' going to end?" --Wolfgang Reitherman

Sunday, February 12, 2006


In my newfound tradition of also posting writings, I just wanted to post this project I did for a cartooning class three years ago before Hoodwinked 2 gets under way and steals my cred and ruins the story.

"You absolutely cannot ever, ever, ever make everyone happy. All I can do is tell the stories I need to tell and tell them with total conviction." --Brian Michael Bendis



The city. Once upon a time it was an okay place. The kind of burg where if Little Bo Peep lost her sheep, she’d know just where to find them. Nowadays, it’s hard to find even an apple that won’t put you into a coma. Not to say that I’m outta place here. I fit this slum like a florist in a puddle. Wait. That doesn’t make sense. Then again, I don’t get paid for my analogies. The name’s Wolfe. B.B. Wolfe. I’m a private eye. I used to have an eating problem—I had a rap sheet a yellow brick road long---pigs, grandmas, children, certain species of plankton—slap some guacamole on it and I’d eat the poor bastard. But that’s behind me now. Partly because of the current food recession due to jealous Queens poisoning nearly all the food, but I’m also a member of Overeaters’ Anonymous—seven months now of only curds and whey. Which reminds me. I should call my sponsor Juanilius. He owes me a banjo. Damn how I could go for a giraffe right now.

But my craving was interrupted by a rap-tap-tapping on my door, like a tommy-gun firing macaroni. Hey. I told you. Analogies aren’t my forte.

“Doorknob works,” I quipped through the glass. Hmm. That’s clever. I’ll run it by Juanilius later.

That’s when she ankled into my office. A tall drink of cocoa with a behind you wanted to eat lunch off of, and a chest that could rival the local dairy. The kind of sultry dame that could forge her foot into a glass slipper and if you called her on it, she’d crush your balls with the six-inch stiletto and then exercise the prenup and take one home with her to add to the collection, making you enjoy it all the while. She was followed by a puppy on a leash, a.k.a. her mark of a husband. Mmm. Puppy on a leash. That sounds good. Aww crap. Focus. Focus!

Her name was Vikki Zen. Her husband’s name…I don’t recall. He’s a woodsman, but I only know that because he hit me with an axe once. In my hungry days. He didn’t remember me, and I think that’s best.

It seemed Ms. Zen’s stepchildren—a runt named Hansel and a scamp called Gretel—were missing, presumably ran away. Although the weak-sister-of-a-puppy-dog-woodsman seemed distraught, even malnourished, Ms. Zen didn’t look at much of a loss for her vanished kinder. In fact, considering her dolled-up hair, oyster fruit necklace, and shapely glad rags, she didn’t seem at a loss for much at all. The bim was buncoing this family with the Chinese squeeze, and considering that the kids disappeared around the time the food recession began, my canine senses howled that I was heading into soylent trouble. Mmm. Soylent trouble. I could sure dammit! No. Be strong, be strong.

The kids were last seen going into The Woods, which is a dangerous place for kids to venture. The Woods is the roughest nightclub this side of your steering wheel. Inside the clip joint, I put the screws on the usual suspects. No bites. Humpty Dumpty apparently had a great fall. He led a hard-boiled life and now a death to match. The Magic Mirror is currently giving someone seven years bad luck. And Snow White, well let’s just say someone put her golden heart to sleep. This was no coincidence. I had to be getting close to the little ragamuffins. Oooh. A raga muffin sounds delicious right about—No! Okay, good thoughts in, bad thoughts out, I’m a kitten, you’re a kitten….

Needless to say, I was a tad concerned that I was tripping for biscuits. I planted myself by the captain’s court, tipping back the hops to calm my dancing paw, when it caught my eye. A bread crumb. And behind it, another one. And behind that, another one. And behind that, another one. And behind that, another one. And behind that, another one. And behind that, another one. And behind that, another one. Oh sorry. Let’s just call it a lead.

The crumbs stopped at The Gingerbread Projects, low-level housing made of candy and broken dreams. And the area was recently broken by riots from the food recession leaving many a poor sap homeless on top of starving. Only one building seemed to remain entirely intact. Did the rioters spare this candy cottage or just know better than to mess with its hinky peppermint architecture? I was gonna crab this one out.

I rap-a-tap-tapped on the front door. An eye cover slid open and a girl’s voiced screeched, “Password?”

“Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Nice try—NARC!” and the cover slid curtly shut.

I’d show her. I’m not one to wear iron. But when you have the lungs I do, obstacles sort of blow outta your path. I huffed and puffed that door ‘til it fell like a straw shanty. I went inside and instantly knew I was in trouble, trouble spelled with a capital “OH GAWD I’VE BEEN SHOT IN THE FACE!.” Yeah. That kinda trouble. This was the hide-out of The Little Red Riding Hoods, a gang of little girls in red-hooded jumpers who ruff up people for their picanic baskets. It’s not like I was wearing rival colors or carrying a picanic basket for that matter, but the girls didn’t appreciate me letting myself in. I was behind the eight-ball, and they flew off the track, dry-gulching me with The Broderick.

I threw a Joe, and when I came to, my head was pounding like a pickle in a doorknob factory. Mmm. Pickle. I looked up to find a crazy tomater standing over me with a red-jumpered Gretel. And if her bulge wasn’t enough of a Chinese angle, behind them, lay little Hansel caged like a mockingbird.

I wasn’t unpeached for long—the crazy tomater had a mouth like a Presbyterian at a sonar convention. She was the witch Bruja Hoodooni, ultra-feminist cannibal and lovechild of Willy Wonka and Courtney Love. Driven insane from toxic spell inhalation, she spear-headed a radical faction of the Red Riding Hoods luring girls into her gang with the enchanted candy from her house. The gang believed that in this current grocery recession, picanic baskets weren’t comparable to eating men. Bruja had gotten to Gretel and they were plumping Hansel up with Crisco and zucchini which actually sounds pretty darn delicious when you think about it. But I wasn’t there to think. In fact, in Bruja’s mind, I was there to be the second course. Of course, I couldn’t let that happen. Not only do wooden kimonos not go with my tie, but no one eats before I do.

The Wiccan chippy sicced her hoods on me. Literally. The roundheels closed in on me, my heart pounded, my head throbbed, but wait. My stomach growled. That’s when my salvation hit me like periwinkle off a lemur’s ass. I could fight my one weakness, or finally employ it once again to buck the Dutch.

I won’t lie to you. Those little girls were delicious. I may have even felt remorse if Bruja hadn’t abruptly tried to skewer me with a Harlem sunset. (Bruja draws candy cane swords from her hair.) But I was already a head of her. (B.B. draws head of Rapunzel and uses it as nunchuks.) Rapunzel let down her hair, and I let Bruja fall into the oven. Darn! If only I brought a doggy bag.

With the witch blipped off, her hold over Gretel was broken. I made Gretel apologize for making her brother obese and trying to eat him. It just seemed like the right thing to do. I took the peewees home making their woodsman pop as pleased as illegal floss. Oh, and Vikki apparently took it on the heel and toe and left them. Oh, and Hansel stopped being fat. Oh, and I got a new hat. Oh yeah, and the food recession ended, why not. Yeah. That’s the crop. I’m gonna go get something to eat. I’m sorry if that sounded anticlimactic.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

















I 'eight 'im and I 'eight the mess 'e left on me rug! Ya heard Me!

"Characters on the screen appear to be most real when they can be animated to have personalities, and this only can be done when there is potential for movement in all parts of the body." --Ollie Johnston

Sunday, February 05, 2006





I know, I know. My posts are getting sparser--but it's not my fault! I had to take some time off to wrestle donkeys under the sea (the Baltic if you want specifics) and then viciously seize the governorship of Ottawa by means of nasal hypnosis. So, oh, yeah, I guess it is kinda my fault then, huh? Durp.

Well, anypoodles, peering around the internet lately, I've noticed that good friend, Miyazaki buff, and pelted global conquest intern Brian Growe has come under a lot of criticism lately for his controversial views regarding "highlights and heritage." His heated rivalry with defective animation opinionater Smigel Bearier aside, I have come to realize that much of poor Mr. Growe's controversy has rooted from this very blog. So, to make it up to him, I am hereby declaring that February 5th is now and officially Dr. Brian Growether King Day! So there you have it--each last of you now has the authority to skip work every February 5th with a Hallmark-patented lamb browe-rito in order to better reflect on the accomplishments and treasures of Studio Ghibli and the 9 Old Men while watching muted Nickelodeon to your favorite Carl Stalling records and ironing your bestest Strong Bad t-shirt to prepare yourself for an evening of cafe sketching at The Block. You're welcome. Everyone.

"I have come here to chew bubble gum and kick ass, and I'm all out of bubble gum."
--Rowdy Roddy Piper