Steak and Eggs

28 09 2009

If there is any better meal 0n this planet better than steak and eggs, I have yet to taste it. Some men eat ham steaks with their overeasies; some even mix it up with a little sirloin. I don’t mean some IHOP why-yes-it-IS-beef-sir sirloins. I mean the real damn thing where you can feel free to sop up all that delicious yolk without being afraid of the E. Coli trots ruining your slacks later on. That’s a man’s meal. A man eats a meal like that with any regularity and he is ready to lay bricks with his peter.

Being fresh out of steak I opted for just fried eggs, which helped to cut some of the gloom off of this fine September day. September is my least favorite month, so it’s no wonder I get the Funk around this time of year. There aren’t enough fried eggs in the world to fully revive me though, so I’m going to sign off here and go take a damn nap.


3 PM

27 09 2009

Okay you jerks this is the day. I don’t know the first thing about casting people other than what I’ve seen on the internet, and that mostly involves tricking Russian girls into blowing you on camera. ┬áThere are several reasons why I believe that is not the case for today.

There are really only two roles of importance, and one has been filled by some dude I don’t know. His role is that of the basic American wiener. There is a twist at the end that I don’t much care for, but mostly he’s just a dude who has trouble getting by in life and at one point he falls on a beer bottle with his face.

So in about thirty minutes I’m going to go help decide which bitchy brunette girl fits the other role the best. Sitting in the audience all judging some girl when I can’t even remember most of the dialogue, saying things like “her innate caring nature is too obvious for her to play this role convincingly” and keeping a straight face. Maybe I should go find some Adderall so I can muster some interest. Can’t even sit up straight. Damn man but this is very lame.

Man is it ever time to stop fucking around

27 09 2009

Many of you may have noticed this blog has been more or less abandoned in recent months. This is incorrect. I have almost a hundred unposted drafts on this blog that only I can see, and that most anyone couldn’t make any damn sense out of, including myself. One of them just says NET NEUTRALITY FUCKED YOUR AUNT SELMA like fifty times. It doesn’t even have a title other than a bunch of swears hacked up and stuck together end to end to make some sort of unholy portmanteaux that may very well be illegal here in Texas.

There is no viable excuse for me not updating this mother, other than I’ve been in a full-on Bad Funk for going on three straight months. Can’t write, can’t draw, been picking at the guitar like I’ve never seen one and am angry at its appearance. Smoking bad hash like I’m training for a decathlon wherein one of the events is who can cough up the weirdest looking thing.

The girlfriend doesn’t get the whole depression gig, which is probably the best possible way to be. I explained it in my usual scientific way like “it’s when you can’t make yourself do anything and everything sucks”. She seemed satisfied by that answer.

Somehow I managed to write a short screenplay which is being made into a real film to be shown at SXSW, which is like the Warped tour except for people who pay for their own iPhone data plan. 3pm tomorrow I have to go sit in an empty auditorium and watch people try to say lines that I wrote without fucking up too much.

Actually, I didn’t even really write the script. My buddy The Captain showed it to me over the summer while we were watching Watchmen and asked if there was anything I could do to help it. There wasn’t. I ended up rewriting what some college-educated ponce had written down like he had a bet going with a friend about who could make the lamest gay jokes. If he lost that bet, man I don’t ever want to see the winner.

So now I have to go add my .5 cents on the female lead in the picture. All I know is she has to be brunette and a total is-she-gonna-blow-me-or-stab-me-type bitch. If you know anybody like that and can describe that sentence to her without being stabbed, send her our way. Texas State Theatre Auditorium at 3pm. I’ll be the sad dude who smells like bad hash.

The technical aspect of technical support

25 08 2009

I want everyone reading this to do me a favor. Just bear with me a moment and everything will become clear.

Pretend for a moment you’re an imbecile. If you have no prior experience in this field, then imagine your brain as a pair of hands encased in mittens wrapped in duct tape and covered in tiny red ants. The biting ones.

Now, imagine the rest of the world, the rest of life, is a delicate, intricately fashioned puzzle. Or maybe a violin. Okay, imagine the rest of the world as a violin that’s made entirely of miniscule interlocking segments that you have to assemble before you play it. Also, the pieces are made of roughly cut glass filaments.

Finally, imagine that every single day of your life takes place in a huge amphitheater. And that you must play an impossibly complicated solo or risk a most unpleasant demise. Now would be a good time for you to remember that your hands are essentially useless, sticky clubs no better suited to playing violin than a bear is to playing cribbage. Also, you’re still covered in biting ants.

That’s what it’s like to be an imbecile. The only difference is that they (the imbeciles) don’t realize their gluey mitten-hands are unsuited to violin playing. They believe the conductor is to blame for their wretched performance, and that the audience’s inability to stop bleeding from the ears is entirely the fault of the audience. I guess in this horribly mangled metaphor the ants are the thousand everyday annoyances that turn the soloist into seething, incoherent rage machines. The duct tape is probably capitalism or something.

Now imagine you’re the conductor of this God-awful caucophony of idiocy. You’re the capable, inspired mind behind the podium waving your white-gloved hands in hopeless arcs all the while praying for God to strike you dead where you stand. Imagine it’s your job, your duty, to extract a coherent and euphonious pattern from this doomed scenario. You are expected -nay, required!- to guide the blunt, senseless hands of the shouting, illiterate buffoon through the entire piece of music, no matter how complex.

Have you got all of that? Excellent. Let’s continue.

Now, take everything you just patched together from that incoherent tirade and translate it into a technical support scenario. That’s what I do for a living. I’m the conductor and you -yes all of you- are the the soloist.

When you can’t string together a three-note melody because it’s clearly not your job to know how to operate your own instrument, I am your instructor. When your face, neck and taint are so agonizingly blistered and seeping from the wounds of thousands of aggressively attacking ants, I apply the balm. When you are unable to read your sheet music due to loss, excessive jelly stains or plain old illiteracy, I hold your useless paw and sound out every passage. When you can’t even so much as find the other end of the stage, I guide you through the footlights to your proper place.

Not to worry, though, because you aren’t expected to do a single thing. Just stand there in your oversized Tweety Bird t-shirt and your shapeless velcroed shoes and complain about how long it’s taking me to find your bow. Don’t strain yourself – it isn’t good for the heart, you know. And whatever you do, don’t ever learn a single thing about your craft. You are absolutely correct in your assumption that I am required to do everything for you. I mean, I practically held a gun to your head and made you buy that violin. How dare I! To go so far as to completely wipe your mind of any trace of coherent understanding of the instrument was beyond cruel. I should be ashamed of myself.

Another Fat Dog? WHAT THE SHIT

11 08 2009

Holy shit, new comics!

10 08 2009

Here are a couple sweet-ass comics I’ve been working on. Recently, I acquired some fantastic advice on creating comics from the brilliant Jay Pinkerton and the venerable Nedroid. Since then, I’ve been on a roll.

The first one is an all-color addition to the Fat Dog series:

This other one is something I’m very excited about. Rather than focus on characters and interesting storylines, I’m going for cheap thrills with zombies and huge guns:

That’s right, it’s called Shit, ZOMBIES, and that’s pretty much all it is. I’ve got a few scenes in the works right now, as well as a turn-of-the-century noir comedy thing that’s turning out to be awesome.

I am the worst person in the world.

18 06 2009

As some of you may know, I’ve recently started an exciting new career as a technical support representative for a local ISP. It’s actually an enjoyable job–interactions with the physical public are virtually nonexistent and the work itself borders on interesting–but has its low points: one is the boredom–it’s all well and good when you’re on the phone helping someone with either a problem you can solve in a timely fashion or one that’s new to you and therefore mildly compelling. It’s quite another beast entirely to sit on the phone for fifteen minutes while some elderly, slightly deaf Alabaman tells you exactly why she believes her “internet’s broke” as she tries to hold her upper denture plate in place with her tongue.

Then there are the people who call you, a lowly peon working for a middling company that was contracted out to provide tech support for a larger company that provides high-speed internet services, to complain about how much your company sucks and how you, personally, are the worst person they have ever spoken to on the phone. Forgetting for a second that competent customer service is a sadly neglected luxury these days, there’s still the fact that the tech support help desk exists solely to politely solve problems in a speedy and cheerful manner. It is not a font of sadistic, money-hungry fuckery.

We don’t make money off the customer by forcing them to call back after three unsuccessful attempts to set up their shiny new DSL hardware. In fact, the more a customer calls back, the less money the ISP pays the tech support company for each call, until eventually we’re not making any profit at all. We’re trained to do our jobs in such a way that the job stays done, at least for a reasonable amount of time.

In the whopping ten days of my official employment, I have had six separate, unrelated calls from people telling me just how awful I am. In no way were these calls related to shoddy service or incompetence on the part of the tech support desk. More often than not, they were simple cases of cheap, angry misers calling the first number listed on their bills and yelling at whoever answered.

The occassional abuse one takes from a customer is to be accepted, even enjoyed, since most of the time it’s so obviously misguided and forced that you actually have to bite your knuckles to keep from snickering. That doesn’t make it any less irritating, though. If I didn’t know my calls were being recorded (including the five seconds following the customer’s hang-up, just in case you want to call them a twat under your breath) I would probably say quite a few unfortunate, tasteless things to certain people.

Also, if one more person mispronounces “Linux”, “ethernet” or “Linksys”, I am going to fucking scream.