Hymn to the Silence
Hey folks. Sorry about my silence and Wednesday's lack of a real comic. Things've been hectic the past week or so, getting ready for classes to start up again, working, and visiting my grandparents for the weekend (which was fun). But yeah, I'm back now, and should be on top of things for Friday and from there on out. I hope. If not, well...um...I'll post more filler. Soon, this'll be like Megatokyo, only the art won't be as pretty.
Up All Night
Lately, I've suffered from some mild, annoying insomnia. Operating on three or four hours of sleep a night is something I can do, but usually I wait until the END Of the semester to start that sort of behavior, not the beginning.
Anyway, not really a whole lot worth talking about right now. Lots of important things going on, just none that need to be talked about or discussed. On a sad note, I do wish to say goodbye to Nicholas, Wendy's cat. He had to be put to sleep Wednesday because he suffered from FIP (Feline Infectious Peritonitis). I had the pleasure to meet this kitten last August when I visited Wen, and even I (who am not an animal person in general) couldn't help but love the rascal. I'll try to find a couple of pictures to post of him this weekend. My heart goes out to Wen. Nicholas will be sorely missed.
Now that I've thoroughly depressed everyone...eesh.
Saturday, August 30, 2003
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
View from the Halfway Point (I Didn't Make it to the Top)
The Force is Strong with this one
For the record, Adam, I have three lightsabers. Just so you know.
Peak Performance
I'm not sure what happened to it, but I'd posted a rant about my trip to Pikes Peak last weekend on Wednesday...I think Adam accidentally erased it when he uploaded his post. Oh well. I'll give you the short version--I didn't make it to the top because of altitude sickness (not because I was out of shape, oddly enough). A word to the wise: when you're preparing to do a hike that's 13 miles long, starts at 7,000 feet and goes up to 14,000, and you're from a flat state like Oklahoma, do some preparatory hiking first. Do a few short hikes in the area, then go hike the Peak. You'll throw up less, I promise. But aside from that, the whirlwind trip to Colorado last weekend was fun, and I'm now more determined than ever to get to the top of the Peak next time. But first, we're going to the Grand Canyon (next summer...wooo!).
Beatlemania
Anyone who really knows me and my obsessions knows I am a huge Beatles fan. They have been, are, and will always be my favorite band. Their music and their sense of style and composition are amazing, and really nothing I could say here hasn't been said before by people much more eloquent than I. Thing is, I was watching the Beatles Anthology DVD last night (on loan from Uncle Randy, aka Gert [short for Gertrude]...I believe the nickname was my grandfather's way of telling him he needed a haircut). Now, as stated, I love the Beatles. Their music is the consistantly the best there is. I can sing along to virtually every single song they ever released, I can name any song of theirs that you can play, and nine times out of ten I can tell you which Beatle wrote it. The word "obsession" very accurately describes my passion for this band.
But what I've never understood was the phenomenon known as Beatlemania. Don't get me wrong, I love their music, I cheer at the 1964 Tribute shows, and I sing along with every song (a woman behind me at the show this past February actually commented on that fact). But what always gets me is seeing the old footage of the Beatles' live performances, and watching all these girls screaming constantly throughout the songs, sobbing, fainting, etc. There's always the old rumor/myth/possible fact about the girls even experiencing sexual gratification just by listening to the band. Now, I've said I think they're the greatest band ever. I don't think I've ever needed to change my shorts after hearing a Beatles song, though. And I've always wondered about the screaming. I mean, how could they hear the music? Cheering is all well and good, but what's the bloody point of going to a concert if you can't actually hear the music? Really, I want to know how four men could have such power over a good percentage of the world's population like they did. I want to know how they did this, and then I want to bend that power to my own nefarious schemes...that is, make people fall in love with Cross-Eyed Yeti. C'mon, tell me "Yetimania" doesn't have a nice ring to it.
Proudest Monkey
Adam is, in fact, in love with himself, and just doesn't want anyone to know it. The thing also is, he's also the laziest person I know, in a special, sad sort of way. This is the man, after all, who was too lazy to take a hand out of his pocket to scratch his nose once. He's the guy who created Slacker Nirvana. He also must clean really freakin' slowly, because it really shouldn't take all week to clean your house, I don't care how messy it is. It's the sort of job that takes maybe fifteen minutes, tops, not including the bathroom. And from the sound of it, he's already done that. Anything lying on the floor that's not something you want to keep goes in a large trash bag. Everything you want to keep is put in stacks and shoved into a corner of the closet for organizing at a later date. C'mon, Monkey, you are but one man--how much of a mess could you possibly have made? I mean, it's not like you're Vander Leest.
For the record, Adam, I have three lightsabers. Just so you know.
Peak Performance
I'm not sure what happened to it, but I'd posted a rant about my trip to Pikes Peak last weekend on Wednesday...I think Adam accidentally erased it when he uploaded his post. Oh well. I'll give you the short version--I didn't make it to the top because of altitude sickness (not because I was out of shape, oddly enough). A word to the wise: when you're preparing to do a hike that's 13 miles long, starts at 7,000 feet and goes up to 14,000, and you're from a flat state like Oklahoma, do some preparatory hiking first. Do a few short hikes in the area, then go hike the Peak. You'll throw up less, I promise. But aside from that, the whirlwind trip to Colorado last weekend was fun, and I'm now more determined than ever to get to the top of the Peak next time. But first, we're going to the Grand Canyon (next summer...wooo!).
Beatlemania
Anyone who really knows me and my obsessions knows I am a huge Beatles fan. They have been, are, and will always be my favorite band. Their music and their sense of style and composition are amazing, and really nothing I could say here hasn't been said before by people much more eloquent than I. Thing is, I was watching the Beatles Anthology DVD last night (on loan from Uncle Randy, aka Gert [short for Gertrude]...I believe the nickname was my grandfather's way of telling him he needed a haircut). Now, as stated, I love the Beatles. Their music is the consistantly the best there is. I can sing along to virtually every single song they ever released, I can name any song of theirs that you can play, and nine times out of ten I can tell you which Beatle wrote it. The word "obsession" very accurately describes my passion for this band.
But what I've never understood was the phenomenon known as Beatlemania. Don't get me wrong, I love their music, I cheer at the 1964 Tribute shows, and I sing along with every song (a woman behind me at the show this past February actually commented on that fact). But what always gets me is seeing the old footage of the Beatles' live performances, and watching all these girls screaming constantly throughout the songs, sobbing, fainting, etc. There's always the old rumor/myth/possible fact about the girls even experiencing sexual gratification just by listening to the band. Now, I've said I think they're the greatest band ever. I don't think I've ever needed to change my shorts after hearing a Beatles song, though. And I've always wondered about the screaming. I mean, how could they hear the music? Cheering is all well and good, but what's the bloody point of going to a concert if you can't actually hear the music? Really, I want to know how four men could have such power over a good percentage of the world's population like they did. I want to know how they did this, and then I want to bend that power to my own nefarious schemes...that is, make people fall in love with Cross-Eyed Yeti. C'mon, tell me "Yetimania" doesn't have a nice ring to it.
Proudest Monkey
Adam is, in fact, in love with himself, and just doesn't want anyone to know it. The thing also is, he's also the laziest person I know, in a special, sad sort of way. This is the man, after all, who was too lazy to take a hand out of his pocket to scratch his nose once. He's the guy who created Slacker Nirvana. He also must clean really freakin' slowly, because it really shouldn't take all week to clean your house, I don't care how messy it is. It's the sort of job that takes maybe fifteen minutes, tops, not including the bathroom. And from the sound of it, he's already done that. Anything lying on the floor that's not something you want to keep goes in a large trash bag. Everything you want to keep is put in stacks and shoved into a corner of the closet for organizing at a later date. C'mon, Monkey, you are but one man--how much of a mess could you possibly have made? I mean, it's not like you're Vander Leest.
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Anatomy 101
Hot Legs
Brief background--I work at the Athletic Department here at the Univeristy of Oklahoma. My title is Writing Consultant; my job is to help the athletes with their papers, because 90% of them write as though English were not their first language (or one they'd even bothered to learn as a second or third langauge). In fact, it's rather amusing that the atheltes for whom English is a second language generally speak it better than those for whom it is their first and only langauge (unless you count athlete, which is a sub-dialect of English and very difficult to understand unless you've had a lobotomy).
Right, where was I? Oh, yes.
See, I was leaving work this afternoon. As I was walking out, I noticed that the Girls' Volleyball Team was in uniform for team pictures. Let me paint you the picture--over a dozen athletic, tanned and toned young ladies (most of them blonde), all wearing very skimpy shorts and shirts that seemed to be a size too small. I think the walk through that room was the happiest minute of my week. Granted, none of them had the proverbial "legs right up to [their] neck," but the legs were certainly long enough for my cares. I've always kinda wondered about that, anyway. I mean, who'd want legs that go all the way to the neck? I'm thinking that Rod Stewart (or his lyricist or whoever) had two things: (1) an odd fixation on legs, and (2) a very poor understanding of basic human anatomy.
All of which is really irrelevant, because those girls were hot.
"These Aren't the Droids You're Looking For"
Like the Monkey, I recently had the (all too brief) opportunity to play a little Knights of the Old Republic, and that game alone was almost enough to make me buy an X-Box (if I had the disposable income for that sort of purchase, I would have. But I don't, so I didn't). While my lust for RPGs is perhaps not as strong as Adam's, my affinity--dare I say my unbridled wild passionate monkey love for all things Star Wars--probably far exceeds his. Hell, I'm currently sitting in a Star Wars-themed room. So the game grabbed me by the throat, kicked me in places best not mentioned, and left me a gibbering idiot...which is only different from my normal state of being in that I was now laughing like Yoda...okay, even that's not really all that different. But the point is, that game was fun, and now I really wish I had a real lightsaber and the Force. Though it's probably good that I don't, because I would so use the Dark Side:
Me: Want to go out?
Hot Volleyball Chick: No, I don't.
Me: You do want to go out with me.
Hot Volleyball Chick: No, I don't, and stop waving your hand in the air like that, you freak.
Desolate Country
I believe I have come up with a term that will describe so-called country "music" accurately and without abusing our sensibilites by referring to it as "music." Ladies and Gentlemen and Monkeys, I give you "country noise." It's like real music, only crappy and twangy and with too much fiddle and pedal steel guitar. And stuff. Best of all, it can be used as a gauge to judge how crappy other forms of music are. For instance, on a scale of country noise to classic rock, rap would rate lower than even country noise. Hip-hop, if it's decent, might rate a point or two higher than country noise (though the Gorillaz, with their bizzare fusion of hip-hop and rock, would rate honorary classic rock). Sure, there might be some bugs in the system to work out, but I think the idea is sound.
Brief background--I work at the Athletic Department here at the Univeristy of Oklahoma. My title is Writing Consultant; my job is to help the athletes with their papers, because 90% of them write as though English were not their first language (or one they'd even bothered to learn as a second or third langauge). In fact, it's rather amusing that the atheltes for whom English is a second language generally speak it better than those for whom it is their first and only langauge (unless you count athlete, which is a sub-dialect of English and very difficult to understand unless you've had a lobotomy).
Right, where was I? Oh, yes.
See, I was leaving work this afternoon. As I was walking out, I noticed that the Girls' Volleyball Team was in uniform for team pictures. Let me paint you the picture--over a dozen athletic, tanned and toned young ladies (most of them blonde), all wearing very skimpy shorts and shirts that seemed to be a size too small. I think the walk through that room was the happiest minute of my week. Granted, none of them had the proverbial "legs right up to [their] neck," but the legs were certainly long enough for my cares. I've always kinda wondered about that, anyway. I mean, who'd want legs that go all the way to the neck? I'm thinking that Rod Stewart (or his lyricist or whoever) had two things: (1) an odd fixation on legs, and (2) a very poor understanding of basic human anatomy.
All of which is really irrelevant, because those girls were hot.
"These Aren't the Droids You're Looking For"
Like the Monkey, I recently had the (all too brief) opportunity to play a little Knights of the Old Republic, and that game alone was almost enough to make me buy an X-Box (if I had the disposable income for that sort of purchase, I would have. But I don't, so I didn't). While my lust for RPGs is perhaps not as strong as Adam's, my affinity--dare I say my unbridled wild passionate monkey love for all things Star Wars--probably far exceeds his. Hell, I'm currently sitting in a Star Wars-themed room. So the game grabbed me by the throat, kicked me in places best not mentioned, and left me a gibbering idiot...which is only different from my normal state of being in that I was now laughing like Yoda...okay, even that's not really all that different. But the point is, that game was fun, and now I really wish I had a real lightsaber and the Force. Though it's probably good that I don't, because I would so use the Dark Side:
Me: Want to go out?
Hot Volleyball Chick: No, I don't.
Me: You do want to go out with me.
Hot Volleyball Chick: No, I don't, and stop waving your hand in the air like that, you freak.
Desolate Country
I believe I have come up with a term that will describe so-called country "music" accurately and without abusing our sensibilites by referring to it as "music." Ladies and Gentlemen and Monkeys, I give you "country noise." It's like real music, only crappy and twangy and with too much fiddle and pedal steel guitar. And stuff. Best of all, it can be used as a gauge to judge how crappy other forms of music are. For instance, on a scale of country noise to classic rock, rap would rate lower than even country noise. Hip-hop, if it's decent, might rate a point or two higher than country noise (though the Gorillaz, with their bizzare fusion of hip-hop and rock, would rate honorary classic rock). Sure, there might be some bugs in the system to work out, but I think the idea is sound.
Monday, August 04, 2003
Post for August 4, 2003
Welcome
Crooked Halo is the featured comic for Monday over at Stripper's Corner (no, not that sort of stripper, you dirty person, you), so I'd like to welcome everyone to Dim Bulb Comics. We hope you enjoy your stay. Browse the archives. Join the forums, tell your friends. We actually have three comics here for your viewing pleasure. There's Crooked Halo on Monday/Wednesday/Friday, which I draw, and Vapor Lock on Tuesday/Thursday, which Adam Askins (the Noise Monkey ranting to my left) pens, and on Saturdays we have the post-apocalyptic epic Troubled Times, which Adam draws and I write.
Anyway, we hope you enjoy what you see here, and that you'll return six days a week to be entertained and all that jazz. And now for something completely different.
Old Man
So my father turns 50 today. This really has no relevance on anything, I just want to wish him a happy birthday in a place where about a half dozen people who don't even know him will see it. So yeah, happy 50th, old man--here's to 50 more.
King of the Mountain
So this weekend, my brother, father, and I are going to climb to the top of Pike's Peak. I am excited, to say the least. After spending an entire summer in Yellowstone National Park last year, then spending the subsequent year in Oklahoma, I'm rather tired of flat, boring, hot places, and could do with a change of scenery...and elevation, both of which I'll get at Pike's Peak. Woo! I'll be heading out Saturday and getting back sometime late Monday, but don't worry--I've already got comics uploaded through that Monday, so there won't be a pause in updates...unless the Monkey drops the ball. Naughty monkey.
Crooked Halo is the featured comic for Monday over at Stripper's Corner (no, not that sort of stripper, you dirty person, you), so I'd like to welcome everyone to Dim Bulb Comics. We hope you enjoy your stay. Browse the archives. Join the forums, tell your friends. We actually have three comics here for your viewing pleasure. There's Crooked Halo on Monday/Wednesday/Friday, which I draw, and Vapor Lock on Tuesday/Thursday, which Adam Askins (the Noise Monkey ranting to my left) pens, and on Saturdays we have the post-apocalyptic epic Troubled Times, which Adam draws and I write.
Anyway, we hope you enjoy what you see here, and that you'll return six days a week to be entertained and all that jazz. And now for something completely different.
Old Man
So my father turns 50 today. This really has no relevance on anything, I just want to wish him a happy birthday in a place where about a half dozen people who don't even know him will see it. So yeah, happy 50th, old man--here's to 50 more.
King of the Mountain
So this weekend, my brother, father, and I are going to climb to the top of Pike's Peak. I am excited, to say the least. After spending an entire summer in Yellowstone National Park last year, then spending the subsequent year in Oklahoma, I'm rather tired of flat, boring, hot places, and could do with a change of scenery...and elevation, both of which I'll get at Pike's Peak. Woo! I'll be heading out Saturday and getting back sometime late Monday, but don't worry--I've already got comics uploaded through that Monday, so there won't be a pause in updates...unless the Monkey drops the ball. Naughty monkey.
Sunday, August 03, 2003
Curse of the Stupid People
I like to think I'm a fairly easy-going, tolerant person. I like to believe that I can deal with lots of crap before I finally snap and chew someone's head off, or go into a blind rage and only come back to my senses when the ground is soaked in blood and so are my clothes. But even I have my limits, and I'm getting really tired of dealing with the overwhelming number of stupid people I seem to encounter on a daily basis.
For instance: the other day, I was out taking my daily jog. Some kids--couldn't have been more than 15 or so--are riding around on their bikes. This one kid is riding without using his hands. That in and of itself does not bother me. When I was young, I not only rode without using my hands, I rode without pads or helmets of any of that other crap that parents think makes children safe (back when I was young, you made the kids safe by actually teaching them how to ride the damn things well. If you fell off, it was your own damn fault--you ought to be able to ride better. My elbows and knees possess the scar tissue that attest to this method of learning). No, what annoyed me about this kid was that he was riding without use of his hands because one hand was busy holding a cell phone up to his ear. Now, I understand that cell phones are pretty much here to stay. Much like computers, television, and radios before them, cell phones have taken their place in American culture. Everyone seems to have them. But I don't think children really need them. Honestly, when you're still young enough that you have to ride a bike to get everywhere you're going, do you need a cell phone? Are you that important? I doubt it. To make matters worse, the moron was crossing the street across oncoming traffic. The saddest part of this whole debacle was that the moron wasn't run over, which would have insured that his stupidity was not carried on to the next generation. Not that it would've mattered much--there are still plenty of stupid people out there that his ceasing to be would not have had any sort of statistical significance.
About Friday's Comic
Just so I don't receive an angry email about this or anything: I know it's a stereotype to portray women as wanting to go clothes shopping or whatever. Yes, it is unfair to say that all women just love to go out and spend money on clothes and other such frivolous things. But bear this in mind--most of my close friends are female. With but a few exceptions, I think I have been out clothes shopping with almost every single one of them. Remember--stereotypes exist for a reason, and if you look far enough back, there's probably a basis in reality for them...sometimes.
Demographics Check
So I was thinking yesterday about our readership (I mean our readership beyond Adam's mom). If what I am led to believe is correct, we actually have readers across the country, coast to sunny coast. I know there are people in Virginia, Washington, DC, California, Arkansas, Texas, Oklahoma, and even New Jersey who at least tell me they're reading the comic. Granted, I only have their word for it, and in the past folks have often only told me things to keep from hurting my feelings (granted, people've told me things specifically to hurt my feelings before, too. Which just goes to show that people can be dicks, regardless of gender and whether or not they happen to have that particular part of the human anatomy. Dickness knows no gender lines). So perhaps we do have a stake in this Arnold for Governor thing. As the voice of such a diverse group of people, we here at Dim Bulb owe it to our readership, limited as it may be, to bring to you the latest and most entertaining BS we can possibly craft.
Note I said nothing about accuracy. If you want accuracy, watch CNN...wait, no, don't, you probably won't find it there, either.
For instance: the other day, I was out taking my daily jog. Some kids--couldn't have been more than 15 or so--are riding around on their bikes. This one kid is riding without using his hands. That in and of itself does not bother me. When I was young, I not only rode without using my hands, I rode without pads or helmets of any of that other crap that parents think makes children safe (back when I was young, you made the kids safe by actually teaching them how to ride the damn things well. If you fell off, it was your own damn fault--you ought to be able to ride better. My elbows and knees possess the scar tissue that attest to this method of learning). No, what annoyed me about this kid was that he was riding without use of his hands because one hand was busy holding a cell phone up to his ear. Now, I understand that cell phones are pretty much here to stay. Much like computers, television, and radios before them, cell phones have taken their place in American culture. Everyone seems to have them. But I don't think children really need them. Honestly, when you're still young enough that you have to ride a bike to get everywhere you're going, do you need a cell phone? Are you that important? I doubt it. To make matters worse, the moron was crossing the street across oncoming traffic. The saddest part of this whole debacle was that the moron wasn't run over, which would have insured that his stupidity was not carried on to the next generation. Not that it would've mattered much--there are still plenty of stupid people out there that his ceasing to be would not have had any sort of statistical significance.
About Friday's Comic
Just so I don't receive an angry email about this or anything: I know it's a stereotype to portray women as wanting to go clothes shopping or whatever. Yes, it is unfair to say that all women just love to go out and spend money on clothes and other such frivolous things. But bear this in mind--most of my close friends are female. With but a few exceptions, I think I have been out clothes shopping with almost every single one of them. Remember--stereotypes exist for a reason, and if you look far enough back, there's probably a basis in reality for them...sometimes.
Demographics Check
So I was thinking yesterday about our readership (I mean our readership beyond Adam's mom). If what I am led to believe is correct, we actually have readers across the country, coast to sunny coast. I know there are people in Virginia, Washington, DC, California, Arkansas, Texas, Oklahoma, and even New Jersey who at least tell me they're reading the comic. Granted, I only have their word for it, and in the past folks have often only told me things to keep from hurting my feelings (granted, people've told me things specifically to hurt my feelings before, too. Which just goes to show that people can be dicks, regardless of gender and whether or not they happen to have that particular part of the human anatomy. Dickness knows no gender lines). So perhaps we do have a stake in this Arnold for Governor thing. As the voice of such a diverse group of people, we here at Dim Bulb owe it to our readership, limited as it may be, to bring to you the latest and most entertaining BS we can possibly craft.
Note I said nothing about accuracy. If you want accuracy, watch CNN...wait, no, don't, you probably won't find it there, either.
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