Captain Vaguetastic

There's something magical about comics. They can transport you to a whole different world. Or at least so says Michael Chabon. And all the inkers at Marvel/DC. But there's also something magical about comic parody, and Captain Vaguetastic is here to transport you to that world of his...maybe. But isn't that wonderful, sort of?
I'm also a big fan of his sidekick, Squmonkeracoofrog. One can't get more vague than hybrid sidekicks with questionable appendages. Is it an arm, a leg, or a tail? (Click on the picture for a more readable version.)

HVD 2007!!!

For those of you fortunate enough to have a Valentine this month, well, aren't you special. You think you're so great, with your "love" and your "affection". Humbug. Enjoy the wintertime romance and I hope you get lots of expensive candy that you can share with me. I thought about posting a purely black square as tonight's post, as it is the antithesis of the red heart, but I decided on at least some anemones on a black background. I'm also reminded of a Valentine's Day Poem that I wrote in third grade, and it got published in the special school-wide Valentine's Day issue of our Gowanda Elementary School Journal. It went something like this:

Valentine's Day.
It's hearts and flowers.
And parties and cakes.
That's so nice.
Blah, blah, blah.
Blee, blee, blee.
What's so special about Valentine's Day?

I'm pretty sure that's word for word accurate, and some of my classmates still remember that poem to this very day. It's good to know that some unfondnesses never change.

Moths

You know that that moths have a very different world view from us humans, right? Moths couldn't be more different from people. They think that my clean clothes, all neatly organized by some very-specific-but-not-recognizably-so system of tee-shirts and fabrics is actually a tasty treat waiting to be sat upon. They spend all day waiting for the chance to...Oh, look, a bright light across the street! It's so beautiful! It's so warm and brilliant and yellow and makes me feel all happy inside! I'll be right back.

Flipflops vs. Steel-Toed Wolverines

Welcome winter, Pittsburgh missed you. Today I was forced into wearing my winter boots outside, as it finally feels seasonally appropriate. Donning those big, heavy, brown, impenetrable Wolverines made me recall a lighter, more vulnerable time back in September. I took my trusty laptop to the computer Help Desk at my school, and was patiently waiting for my computer to be updated. I stood there, standing awkwardly but patiently for someone to tell me that I was virus-free (I get checked regularly, of course, for all malicious content...), and might I add that I was wearing a good outfit that day, too. A Harley Tee-Shirt, probably, and my gray 3/4-length pants (capris, of course, but I'm a man so the Gap called them '3/4-length'), and my flipflops. And wouldn't you know that as I stood there in my flipflops, a female computer science professor, working in her rolly-wheeled chair, decided to careen across the room while sitting in her chair and proceed to run completely over one of my bare flip-flopped feet.
How she managed to clear the bump of my tall arches and continue on her chair journey to the other side of the Help Center is beyond me. But what really blew my mind was that she didn't even realize that my foot was all red and scraped up because and mangled by the wheels of a chair, and that I had blatantly said 'OW..' in a loud enough voice that someone might hear me and pity me. The event didn't even register on her MS-DOS-sy face. Then it dawned on me that she wouldn't have realized she ran over my foot, because she's a computer science professor, and probably in her own little C++ world all the time. CS Lady, or should I say DOSsyface, I hope you know you ruined a perfectly good fashionable day by bloodying my toes, as Band-Aids do not a glamorous outfit make.
It's a good thing I've been virus-free ever since.

Back 2 School! I need to buy pens.

Going back to classes and having homework always makes me feel like I should be in 6th grade, where my fascination for pens with funky designs was at its peak. I had them in a little pink box, and my favorite one had aquatic animals on them. My second favorite was a pen whose plastic shell changed colors with your body temperature. Naturally I'd clench the pen for dear life to make it all bright green, and it would slowly fade back to black.
Ah, the good old days. Of course, I've repressed all the torturous sixth-grade moments with the bullies, the asthma, the puberty, and girls wearing neckties and boy's dress shirts with vests (oh, nope, I still remember that.)
Nowadays 'school' seems more like rush rush rush, gotta get to my assistantship, gotta drop this nonsensical form into a nonsensical box, and gotta find five minutes to eat a S'mores granola bar. But I am loving being in a learning environment again, and I just heard today that my octet will be performed by a contemporary chamber ensemble on their first concert. Very good news, indeed.
I've also posted this collage, which has nothing to do with Bic Pens, or dodgeball bullies, or Octets. It's actually the cover to a box that I covered inside and out with hand-dyed papers, but its images are abstractions of music performances. If you look closely you might be able to spot me as the pink blur. Just kidding. That's probably Jake Shears, from the Scissor Sisters. He and I wear the same shirts from time to time. Maybe we once had the same pens.

Dumpster Butterfly Boy

There are a couple things that come to mind now that I'm posting this tiny collage that I made in August of 2004. First and foremost: why do I do this stuff that nobody finds particularly interesting but me (I know what would be so cool- let's glue this picture of a butterfly next to a paint chip and a magazine cutout! Rad. And simultaneously, this is not going to get me into MoMA, this I know.) but also 2. If Joseph Cornell could make his super awesome dioramas and assemblages full of wonderful dreamy nonsense, than so can I. And 3. I'm picturing myself as a hip fashion photographer for a hip menswear-streetwear-funky screenprint company. And I know, let's get this hot guy to pose outside. Now where should we go...I know! How about these old smelly dumpsters! Paarfect! But wait. Ok, now go straddle them, but don't fall in...but look all abdominal-y and casual, like you just landed there.
Click.
Shoot's over, let's get out of here so Nathan can glue this baby down to a map of the Nile.

Rooster/Rootster

What's the difference between a rooster and a rootster? One little 'T'. But as much as one tries, 'rootster' is not in the Scrabble dictionary, and will not get you a great triple-word score. (I have never met a rootster I didn't like. And look at those beautiful strong legs! Contrary to roosters, which are just annoying, like alarm clocks permanently set to 5.30am.)

Taboo and Family Holidays

As a final post for 2006, here's a look into a Midnight Shoveler Christmas.
I love going home to my family for the holidays. We usually play Scrabble, make inside jokes, and complain about being loved too much, therefore getting overspoiled in number of presents (I've never seen the point in this last one.) This year we even sang songs as I played piano. No joke. First, Hark the Herald Angels, and then we moved on to Pocahontas and the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but it was family singalong nonetheless! We also read The Little Match Girl on Christmas Eve (a spoiler: it doesn't end well- Hans Christian Anderson ends the delightful Christmas tale of a poor Russian street urchin with the words frozen and corpse.).
But the best part of this nontechnological time at home was playing the 2-person version of Taboo. It's the game where you see a word on your card like 'Elephant' and you have to make your teammate (my sister, the only other player in our version) guess the word 'elephant', without using gestures or motions. The tricky part is that you're NOT allowed to use certain words, also on your card, which would usually be used in describing an elephant (say, 'Africa', or 'tusks'). But our sibling bond is often stronger than words. Our dialogue went like this:
"Napoleon Dynamite's favorite thing, not a liger, is..."
"Numchucks?"
"No."
"Ninjas?"
"No."
"Unicorns?"
"Yes!!!"

"Hawaii."
"Hives?"
"Yesssss!"

And my personal favorite:
"____-beaters."
"Wife?"
"No. Egg. Eggbeaters."

Happy New Year, all, and thanks for reading. See you in '07!

My Room is Alive

Every time a strong wind blows on my poorly built, poorly maintained, and poorly storm protected windows, the plastic sheeting on it puffs out and the blind opener stick takes on a life of its own, moving out into the room about a foot. I also have a toilet that likes to talk to itself all day, and a door that growls every time it's opened (like my stomach, it is never satisfied). So I have come to decide that my apartment is alive, and it's trying to tell me that I'm getting what I'm paying for.

Ginkgo Vomit

It's hard to be mad at a tree. Trees are what makes a town feel cozy, make us paper so we can draw comics, and the world should have many more of them. A tree looks fashionable and chic in all seasons, and doesn't even have to dress in layers in the winter. Winter snow on a maple tree? So hot right now.
But when it comes time for the ginkgo tree to drop the fruits of their sex, I want to run for my life. The berries fall off the trees and squish on the sidewalks, and then emit the most disgusting rotting smell. What's sadder is that not all ginkgos have to drop fruits, but some do, and it seems quite voluntary and random on the tree's part (maybe the other trees have to help memory loss and menopause...or is that St. John's Wort?). And it so happens that all the ginkgos of Pittsburgh live all around my house, so I have to cross the street back and forth about five times on my way to class and work just to avoid getting their rancid ovaries all over me. At least I think they're tree ovaries. I could be wrong, but the plant gonad reference was just waiting to be set up there. They've been periodically dropping fruits since the summer- there is no one 'fruit' season for the ginkgo. They're EVERYWHERE. Sometimes I don't even feel like walking someplace new in fear that my shoes are going to get covered in gingko fruit. And then I'm that guy at the grocery store that everyone thinks has dog poop on his shoes. When will the deciduous insanity end? Tree, tree, stop sexing on me.

Art Scraps

One woman's test photography is another man's treasure, so the saying goes. In fact, I turned this lovely test strip of some pebbles underwater into a geometric study with just a few pieces of Scotch tape (very classy) and some magazine cutouts. It's even mounted three dimensionally on foam. Ooo. It was so popular with the celebs that I had to hurry up and make a couple more for Dennis Quaid and Sarah Jessica Parker, who had been shooting a movie down the street. They saw me working on this little number for my friend Sally and barged right in the door or her apartment, practically forcing me to hand over my collages (and fifty dollars) into their hands! But now that I think about it, maybe they were really just burgalars with paper cutouts of Dennis Quaid and SJP taped to their faces with the eyeholes cut out. I am missing a substantial amount of my precious jewel collection.

Dennis, if I see you wearing my tiara on the set, you're in big trouble.

Misinterpretation of Signs

Some days are curiouser than others. Wednesday was a day like any other: go to classes, save the world, sell ceramics, watch gays on TV, go to bed. But today, Thursday, was off. It feels like a day where you look through someone else's reality glasses and your picture of the world looks a little like looking through a liquor bottle. To the right: A view of a Smirnoff bottle: does it say something about how one man's alcohol is another man's art?
I was also stung by a bee today. On a bus. In mid-November. And this is the SECOND bee sting I have gotten in a month. Aren't bees supposed to be sleepy at this time of the year? Maybe they're also having a weird day.
And then, the cake topper: There's a laundry/dry-cleaning store a ways up the street that has some process called 'Martinizing'. As in, some guy named Martin does something cool with your clothes and they look good as new when he's done with them. (Perhaps. I don't actually know how you Martinize your clothes.) But what did I read? Martini Zing.
As in, a drink with a zippy olive in it. Or, perhaps it's a new, trendy bar/lounge! I have to go there sometime soon and find out.

Once You Poop, You Can't....Stoop?

I can't believe I haven't posted this comic yet...because there's nothing quite as funny as poop. And when you combine that with an elderly interacting with a stoner kid (note the dreadlocks, camo pants and, as my father would say, 'ghettoblaster'), you've got grammatical genius. Normally I believe the phrase is 'POP it like it's hot'. As in 'Turn your polo collar up, children, because it is just so in fashion right now'. In the 20's they might have said, 'The popped collar is the bee's knees!' and in the 1950's it might be 'Be-Bop-a-Hepcat Pop-a-Collar Zing!, Daddy-o'. But today it's a bit simpler.
I have too many stories and puns in my brain that all deal with the topic of a great four-letter word. And no, the word is not 'Cats', or 'Asps', or 'Acne', or even 'Butt' (all great words, though), poop probably takes the cake. See, just now, I can envision another comic being formed, a cake being stolen off a wedding table by some brown...Cats! Butt! Acne! Nevermind.

Bush-Diving

It sounds naughty, but it isn't, really. Tonight I saw two people about my age dive into some tall bushes, hoping that I didn't see them trespassing in the yard of an abandoned historical mansion (clearly marked with 'Get The Hell Off this Private Property You Asshole Frat Boys' signs, or something to that effect). There was a small exclamation of an expletive, and then some careening into the hedges. Followed by something like a whispered 'Ow! Sharp!'
The lesson of the week will be short and sweet: once you're spotted where you shouldn't be, don't head for the nearest shrubbery.

Dead celeb spotted on Halloween!

Someone at a Halloween party I was at this past week was lucky enough to snap this shot of Andy Warhol, who appeared briefly next to my friend Jess. He left as quickly as he arrived, with a flash of white wig and silkscreens for everyone, and then he was gone. Who knows where he came from (well, he was from Pittsburgh, that we know) and where he was headed on that unearthly night, but the party was a bit more glamourous for the rest of the evening thanks to him. And thanks to Poison Ivy, the Pied Piper, and a Rook (my, how our chess set has grown) for creating the fabulous atmosphere for such a ghostly visitation to occur.
If only I could conjure Peter Saarsgard for the next party. I'm going to go practice my seance-ing.

Homestarloween

Halloween, one of the best holidays of the year (except for maybe Take Your Daughter to Work Day) is quickly approaching! Some of you dear readers may already be in the midst of your costume parties. I do love a good Masquerade- I always wanted to be invited to Martha Stewart's house for Halloween, 'cause it always looked so glamorously home-made spooky. Other people at this time of year might even take a moment to remember the dead, or tell some ghost stories, or cook a harvest feast. Maybe there will also be hot cider and dunking your head in a tub of icy-cold apples. How wonderfully quaint. But for the kiddies among us who grew up in a generation of video games, Halloween means carving an internet character onto a pumpkin (in this picture we see HomeStarRunner at the Pumpkinfest in Boston), and getting a two-pound block of chocolate in your trick-or-treat bag. Gone are the olden days of checking for razorblades in your caramel apple (flirtation with danger! death by sugary weapon!), and receiving one tiny piece of candy at each house. "What, only one KitKat?"
Wear reflective clothing, children, and be home by 8.

Dance Parties of Olde

I was a witness to this woman at a vintage-outfit-wearing dance party a couple months ago, and boy, did she have the Lord of the Dance in her. This is a very accurate caricature, by the way, not a gross overinterpretation. Notice her strangely contorted right leg, as if it were not attached to her hips the normal way, and the hair which seems to project horizontally from her scalp. (Can anybody but quasi-Asian people pull this off? I don't think so.) She was a diva, perfectionist in her attitude, ensemble, and energetic struttin'. I also added a major visual aspect of the party, the construction/automechanic lightbulb, which was used to light our boppin' feet on the dancefloor. Sure, the music wasn't as cool as I would have picked, but if I picked the music, I don't think anybody could find the beats ("What is this music? Tin cans and Cat Meows? Rad.") And the lighting left a bit to be desired, but aren't most good things in life craptastic?
I'm aware that Pittsburgh is not the city for crazy asymmetrical haircuts (that's Reykjavik) or disco lighting and one-piece glittery black bodysuits (that's Xanadu), but I'm hoping that I can bring a little glamour to this Mid-Atlantic town. Point being: if you see me in my black bodysuit underneath one lonely exposed lightbulb, don't stare, join in on some sweet beats.

Full Time Crackheads

I thought I might let you viewers in on a little historic landmark in Pittsburgh, the Smithfield Street bridge. Very historic, I'm sure lots of celebs have passed by this very spot. Why, it's practically the red carpet of Pittsburgh. I just saw Peter, Maggie, and New Baby Saarsgard there the other day being photographed in front of these three commemorative plaques. (I hope I got a good shot of them- I tried to get a view of the Incline in the background, too. Send me a copy, m'kay?)
I'm so glad that someone had the ingenuity to add an additional plaque for the real people who surround this bridge when the celebs aren't around. Frankly, there wasn't any more room on the pillar to add more text, so they had to make do with the very bottom. Crackheads of the world, unite! You work hard for your honey.
I'm off to write something involving a vibraphone, two bassoons, and percussion (what that something is, I have no idea right now). But perhaps I'll call it 'Crackhead Bridge'.

Steve Irwin Tribute

Even though I never got any cable stations, I still managed to see Mr. Steve 'Crocodile Hunter' Irwin on many a talk show. He usually brought with him some rabid animal (who is deathly afraid of talk-show audiences, of course) in the name of promoting awareness about, say, lemurs. The lemur then sits on Rosie O'Donnell's head, pees on her, goes crazy and eats some paper, or maybe a microphone, and is raced off the stage by a helping cameraguy. I feel bad for everyone involved. Here is me (or a Harry Potter version of me, I guess) interviewing one of the many crocogators that Steve has touched (in so many ways). Thankfully this croc was too emotionally overwhelmed to snack on my arm, but I have a mace in hand. If only Steve would have carried one of those babies when he took his last scuba dive. Goes to show you, if you're going to have a jostle with stingrays, always carry your medieval defense weaponry! Practical advice for everyone, really. I'll miss you, man.

I can empathize with the chicken killer

After hearing about a recent news headline involving a woman shooting her husband (not fatally, fortunately) after he killed her pet chicken, I had to make a comic. My first sketch I abandoned, as I thought the shotguns looked more like hairdyers, and the man's potbelly just makes him look a couple months pregnant. But it looked so funny I uploaded it anyway. The second image, now this is more personal. I can picture a note left on the counter that says 'Dear John, you killed my beloved birdie. Prepare to die. Love, Sally'. However, my tone has changed today after hearing these two yippie dogs bark continuously for an hour while their owner is not home. The dogs don't even live next door, they're around the corner and on the opposite side of my shanty- I mean well-lit studio- but the sounds reverberates nonetheless. Suffice to say, if the chicken in the backyard was squealing like these two little doggy sausages, I'd want to bust out the semi-automatic, too. There'd be nothing but a pile of feathers left. Or, in my case, two collars with the words 'Spanky' and 'Rex'. Just don't let my wife find out it was me.
(Thanks to Kate for the link.)