This is the Answer You’ve Been Looking For. Or Perhaps Not.

Indecisiveness kills creativity.

…or maybe it’s procrastination. Or lack of concentration. Or constantly changing the goals. Or not knowing what you want, but knowing that when you see it that you might want it. It could be indecisiveness, after all. Or perhaps poor communication. Or even weak technical proficiency disguised as managerial prodding. Or some design-by-committee thing. Or not having a predefined idea of just where any of it is going in the first place. Or some time-management thing, maybe?

It’s a lot to think about, really. What if it’s just too damned many choices, or comfort in doing things the same fucking way they’ve always been done, and then knowing that no matter how much of a let-down it will be when the results are always the same, that the feel of that safety net always gives some reassurance in an odd way? Like being cuddled sweetly with a noose.

It brings us full-circle: Indecisiveness kills creativity. …or perhaps over-thinking the indecisiveness kills it. I’ll ask my team and get back with you.

Thought-Process Thursday

custom car rendering illustration

It’s been a while since we’ve touched upon the actual theme of this blog, that being the drawing of hot rods and all…

That in mind, I thought that you may enjoy a peek at a current project, which is nearing completion after a few years on the board and in the shop. It’s a full-custom 1970 ‘Cuda, and I literally threw everything I had at this one, working with a very skilled builder who shared my vision, and really made it a fun and collaborative project to play a part on.

The Ever-Lowering Opinion on Spider-Man as it Relates to Black Widow’s Breasts

My Family’s Dinnertime Roundtable Discussion Presents:

Spider-Man

“Why do they keep making Spider-Man suck so bad?”
“He sucks so bad his parents left.”
“And why is he like twelve in Civil War?”
(In mocking falsetto voice) “Hey, everybody! These pants are waaaaayyyyyy tiiiiiiiight!”
“He’s SUPPOSED to be young.”
“Not THAT young. He’s in High School, right? That dude hasn’t hit puberty. School must be rough.”
“Especially with such a hot Aunt. And big head. And 35 year old facial features.”
“Maybe that’s why he cries all of the time.”
“That guy quit. And he was like forty.”
“Anyway… This relaunch crap should stop. All of the other characters are progressing in real-time, right? So like Tony Stark is aging and losing his marbles, the Captain has out-lived his hot nurse friend, and the Hulk has a receding hairline. Why not age Spider-Man?”
“Black Widow may need to shift that neck line a bit.”
“Wait….WHAT??!”
“So why isn’t Spider-Man left to age and move on?”
“What about Black Widow? Are you saying that her, uh… you know. Might be sagging?”
“Yes. But Spider-Man is defying age. He is the Oil of Olay of the Marvel universe. That bastard has been sitting dormant for years. They should show the effects of that.”
“So Scarlet Johansson is looking worse for wear?”
“Be like the Hulk and get off of her.”
“Well, now…”
“If the Hulk and Black Widow could have kids, they’d need second jobs to buy all of those purple pants.”
“All I’m saying is that while every other character has done pretty well and moved on in life, Spider-Man is caught in this weird loop of suck. He hasn’t ever really had a good movie. They should portray that. Self-deprecation worked for Deadpool, right?”
“But Deadpool wasn’t some whiny douche. Between the cancer and the self-healing and whatnot, his brains are all scrambled. Yet, he moves on.”
“Exactly. He accepted his fate. Much like Black Widow and her ever-lowering boobs.”
“Enough of that.”
“They should assign her to an Avenger Space Station to help her out. Like some form of long-term disability.”
“I said ENOUGH OF THAT.”
“That’s what the costume department keeps saying.”
“Anyway… By now, Spider-Man should be a little overweight, move slowly, and show signs of depression. That mask should be hiding a huge beard, and the back of his suit should have a panel or two stitched-in to make it fit.”
“And mustard and pit sweat stains.”
“And cat hair all over it.”
“…or the bottom half of the mask is just cut away to make sliding a pizza in there easier.”
“And stretch marks from his man-boobs.”
“…but like higher on the suit than Black Widow’s.”
“Is there dessert? I hope so. We have a lot more ground to cover.”

Kylo Ren and the Unviable Sperm Theory Whitepaper

Giving this much more thought than it probably deserves:

Kylo Ren.

The guy is a shit-show. He’s a fan-boy at best, and comes across as some spoiled douche who picked up a few Force tricks on YouTube, and has some ghetto-looking cosplay thing going on (“I’M NOT DARTH VADER!! I AM AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER!”). He’s like a third-rate swordsman…? Light saber… ist? Anyway, he’s the equivalent of a kid trying out the lightsaber toys at Target after just having the casts removed from his experimental arm-lengthening surgery and having spent several months on a Tilt-a-Whirl. He may have been better to go with a blaster (consider the genius of a sun lamp-powered Endocrine Blaster: BRILLIANT FLASH OF LIGHT. “Skin cancer, motherfucker!!”), or maybe just have a few henchmen… I mean aside from the Stormtroopers. Like a couple of guidos or some shit. SPACE GUIDOS. I’d buy the shit out of those action figures. But I digress. Han Solo was carbonized in Empire, and that got me thinking about how that event may partially explain just why Kylo there is such a mess. It comes down to two words:

Damaged sperm.

I’d imagine that Han’s boys didn’t have time to creep fully into a safe zone when he was dipped into the freezer. I mean, physiologically-speaking, I’m sure they were a little closer to his taint at the crucial moment than, say when he was shooting Greedo in the dick (which broaches another of my long-standing theories regarding hands being lopped-off NUMEROUS times across films, and Greedo being shot in the – where I’d be led to ASSUME it to be, anyway – dick, and the incredible undertones of Han’s post-freezer blindness and the Ewoks having arms just a touch too short to well… touch, and how all of this ties into Jedi Masturbation)… After all, he’d be pretty stressed, I’d imagine, and in fight or flight, the balls tend to move inboard and all (ironically for protection and ease of movement when running), but still, the whole process went quickly, so I’d have to imagine that there was some damage. That considered, even after a couple of years between movies (I’m thinking he and Leia probably hooked up in the treehouse at the end of Jedi, as it puts the timeline fairly close, considering Kylo’s age and whatnot… I’d bet there’s a fucking treasure trove of fan fiction out there describing that night, especially the use of more parts from IG-88), those boys were probably swimming a bit, but still relatively fucked-up. Kind of like when you just stand up after laying around for a while, or when you’re super cold, and your extremities move all slow-like. Consider that nearly twenty percent of sperm frozen in a proper sperm-freezing setting don’t survive undamaged. Now multiply that by a factor of third-tier characters in a stockroom playing with a machine manned by some rodent-faced midget things.

My hypothesis then, is that Kylo Ren, aside from having a mother with some serious daddy issues, and probably also suffering a bit from the interrogation with Darth Vader (not to mention all of her drinking in the years since… I mean holy shit, her head is easily three hat sizes larger in the new film), is probably a bit off due to Han’s genetic material, messed-up when improperly frozen and thawed. Not to mention the stresses on DNA from all of that light speed nonsense, and always fiddling with leaky reactor cores and other shit. Kylo isn’t some malleable plaything for Voldemort’s third cousin Snooky; he’s a marginally-functioning bag of skin, filled with some jambalaya of horrifically-mistreated, loosely-coiled-at-best genetics. This certainly doesn’t absolve his parents from their poor work raising the dickhead, but it could potentially go a ways in getting him some disability pay and much-needed therapy. I’d assume that the Empire has some coverage, not to mention a few advocacy groups. I offer a solution because I’m a giver.

I had gotten too busy, and neglected to post this theory in a fan forum on the fourth as a sort of digital wedgie for that crowd. Lucky for you, I decided to type it all here. And while I should have really posted it on the fifth (“Revenge of the Fifth” and all), I figured it may be even creepier to post it today, as it’s the birthday of Renz Kyle, a YouTube personality, which may be the channel that our pal Kylo got his sweet moves from, bringing this whole shit-show full-circle.

Let’s see Fallon try something this advanced.

It’s Nothing Without the Paper

An interesting thought I’ve been pondering in the background for quite some time:
 
I’m sick and tired of hearing people bash digital artwork and conceptual work as being something less than a sketch on paper. Absolutely done with it. And I’m talking about the work involving creating that which doesn’t exist, not hacking two photos you found on Google together to put another pony car on a set of off-the-shelf rims. I’m talking pure conceptual work here.
 
Let’s consider a pencil and marker sketch versus one created on a tablet using pixels, or even a photograph: It’s not as though a photograph is providing you with a small, actual landscape or an 8×10-inch person to tote around; nor does the marker rendering, or even the digital sketch/painting. All are artistic REPRESENTATIONS of something, and require a certain set of skills to create with any success. Don’t get me wrong, there is a HUGE gap between the good and the terrible, and that comes down to knowing the tools (doubly-so for a digital artist seeking to emulate a traditional tool or media, as that artist needs to have experience in physical AND digital media) and using them as a craftsman should. There is good art in any medium, be it sculpture or painting or drawing or photography or motion pictures and more. Ability and drive and vision aren’t limited to one tool, and if you think that they are, then you are severely limiting your outlook.
 
The digital stuff suffers because it’s created using a bunch of ones and zeros and can be wiped from existence with a key stroke, but it has the ability to exist everywhere. You can scan an analog piece and share in that instant, global sharing, much as you can with a digital photograph… And you can lose the original by spilling coffee on it as well.
 
Oddly enough, each is nothing without the paper it’s presented upon. So do tell me again where digital art is some lesser form because doesn’t exist until it’s on paper. And good luck sharing that original analog piece on social media without scanning it into bytes of data. Tell me how digital “ruins” the art. Go right on ahead.

Editor’s Notes. Again.

Excerpt from the editor’s email, Sunday Morning Mood Killer/Everyone is a Critic/This Really Goes Against the Whole ‘First Day of Spring’ Deal edition:
“I have taken the liberty of once again removing the line: ‘Having only been recently exposed to the English language makes his appointment to United States Poet Laureate (Southwestern Limerick Division) all the more impressive’ from your ‘biography,’ as documentation of the alleged appointment appears to be little more than you responding that the ‘burden of proof is on your ass for questioning such an accomplishment in the first place,’ and that if I would like to ‘continue enjoying the lavish lifestyle that the retainer fee provides, along with the gift subscription to Cat Fancy Magazine‘ that I would ‘recognize my place in the universe’ as being ‘little more than some chubby girl whose poetry is so bad that she has to eek a living by proofreading the work of others’ would probably not stand under close scrutiny.

Also note that the twenty-seven page footnote regarding an ‘asparagus-like pee with no recollection of having eaten the vegetable in the previous day or two’ and it’s apparently ‘having something to do with the old lady that sneezed near me’ and your subsequent reference to yet ANOTHER footnote describing some psychological disorder which ‘the olfactory-borne memories of mothballs, boiled cabbage and Lemon-Scented Pledge, along with the visual of doilies’ has left you with (and that you are “currently self-medicating as a remedy for” using the “remainder of the Enzyte free samples crushed into a fine powder and mixed with flat Coca-Cola to form a paste” which you then explain – in excruciating detail over the course of sixty pages – the process of “spreading the paste over your mid-section, paying close attention to the belly button region” because, and I quote, “that’s where the little bastards put the probes to avoid detection, and the resulting wound provides a faster path to the bloodstream,” which I can only assume is a reference to Chapter 7.4086.3.6.1 – which many may point out appears PRIOR TO CHAPTER TWO – ‘Abs of the Space Gods,’ in which you have drawn a diagram of your penis with the notation ‘Belly button actually appears slightly higher, but was too difficult to draw in detail considering the pushy nature of the Editor and her alleged ‘schedules’ and ‘other such bullshit’ so you drew it ‘hidden ever-so artistically just behind the head, which almost makes it look as though it has an afro’) has absolutely NO basis in scientific fact nor merit. We have been over this numerous times, and the publisher will not accept your “Belch That Tasted Like Bologna Even Though You Haven’t Eaten Any” conspiracy theory — used in a prior revision to support the previously noted ‘asparagus pee footnote,’ and now again here, even after our assumed agreement that it be stricken from the final copy as mere conjecture — as proof of it being a “natural phenomena that some hack like Bill Nye could explore in his down-time between flights to hippie conventions with that other sack of shit,” as it will surely lead to some legal action from his people (although I do agree that they may be, as you so eloquently pointed out in the elevator in which we stood but inches behind them, “moderately-functioning brain donors, and if not that then some inbreeding experiment gone both wrong AND right in some respects”). You are a difficult man to dislike, and for that reason I will continue to read and attempt to edit your work here. Please renew the subscription to Cat Fancy. And also, why not consider a nice gift box of chocolates for this chubby girl to enjoy while she crafts more bad poetry?”

Touche’, Editor Lady. Touche’.

Welcome to Hell: That’s a Triple Word Score!

Words are your friends. Especially when you take the time to spell the fucking things correctly.

I’d imagine that Hell, for many people anyway, is just a never-ending Scrabble tournament. Or in many cases, a round of “Wheel of Fortune” featuring only palindromes with silent consonants, or phrases with an apostrophe.

Overdub-a-dub-a-dub

Mid-Week Motion Picture Blockbuster Idea Time!
 
In today’s pitch, we examine an alternate dimension/time travel story which may work even better as a YouTube channel, as the Copyright issues are more inexpensively solved by simply shutting it down, versus paying a lot of royalties and licensing fees; not to mention saving time in meetings and all of that crap. That said, I present to you another of my “BILLION-DOLLAR FLASHES OF BRILLIANCE.”
 
In this concept, we have a film studio mogul, Fred Lerner, who is on his last dime, and desperate to help not only his studio, but that of his adopted, half-twin brother Marjeesh, whose Bollywood studio is about a half-century ahead of its time.
 
In the grand tradition of colorizing classic cinema, Lerner has this idea to concentrate on the sound of films, namely Westerns and Cowboy films, by overdubbing the Native American voices with those of actual Indians (from India). Imagine films like Stagecoach being adapted not only for profit, but to ease College kids from their safe spaces by replacing the threat of an Apache attack with something far more pedestrian:
[insert wavy filter, a-la a “Brady Bunch” dream sequence]
 
Cavalry scout: These calls are full of Windows 10 help desk scams. They’ve called every number in town.
 
[referring to Indian scout]
 
Cavalry scout: He had a brush with them last night. Says they’re being stirred up by Dave in Houston.
 
Capt. Sickel: Dave in Houston? How do we know he isn’t lying?
 
Cavalry scout: No, he’s a white guy. They hate telemarketers worse than we do.
 
…or watching Two Chicken Vindaloo for Sister Sarah, or even more modern films like Cowboys and Undocumented/Questionable Visa Status Workers, or Brokeback Call Center. That last one will be a triumph in OUR film, as Fred Lerner will call upon the talents of his colleague Jorge Dukas to assist in digitally remastering and adding a CGI sidekick, Jayjit Chirkut for comedic relief. The seventeen prequels will introduce a host of action figures and mini mall play sets.
 
In any event, the films are a success (that is, the films within OUR film… That’s not to say that they wouldn’t be better than the shit that Hollywood – or Bollywood, for that matter – crank out now), and Lerner actually jump-starts the entire Bollywood thing, which, as it turns out, was all a dream in the secondary subconscious dream world of Marjeesh, having accidentally ingested too much curry while bathing in the Ganges. It’s like “Inception” but with more poo.
 
Next time we’ll explore the fertile and as-yet unspoiled genre, the “Documentary about the Making-of Documentary Disguised as an Expose’ Wrapped in a Tribute and Served as a Converastionalist-Style Monologue Between the Multiple Personalities of a Movie Blogger Who Only Watches Sci-Fi Trailers on a Sketchy-at-Best Airline Wi-Fi Connection.”

Enslaved by Zero

“You haven’t done enough Math-type stuff lately,” you say?

How about this:

Being Tuesday, let’s look at dividing by zero, and what it does to a Facit ESA-01 mechanical calculator. Neat (and a fine impression of a car I had in College that ate lifters as a steady diet), but what does this have to do with Tuesday? I mean aside from the fact that the resale value of that car I mentioned was precisely zero dollars.

Consider that Tuesday in many languages has connection to Mars, which, having exactly zero oceans, it has zero elevation with regard to sea level.

More? Consider that it was Merton Davies who selected a line along the crater Airy-0 a the Prime Meridian 0.0° longitude as the reference point for determining geospatial coordinates on the red planet. Davies was born on September 13, 1917, which was the 286th day of the year. Two minus eight gives us negative six, and adding six to that gives us… Zero.

All things are delicately interconnected, kids.

Spirit Animals and Blows to the Cranium

Transcendental Tuesday: Sleep Deprivation-Inspired Spiritual Hallucination Edition:

Anyone else find it statistically improbable that not one vegan who goes on some psychoactive-fueled journey EVER returns with news of their spirit animal being a Tiger Shark? I mean, as a carnivore, I once had a vision (following a pretty violent blow to the melon by an open cabinet door) that my spirit animal was broccoli, and it awakened a feeling of solidarity with the majestic green beast, and I began to wonder if tiny little birds built tiny little (well, slightly-bigger-but-tiny-in-proportion) nests within the broccoli branches, and that kinda freaked me the fuck out because accidentally chewing an itty-bitty beak would be like when you eat a clam and get some sand, and the grit is all like “CRUNCHACHRUNCHA-GRIND-GRIND-GRIND” and you have to spit it out. Only beaks would be worse, so I decided to never again eat broccoli. Also, I started a foundation (read as “tax exempt venture” or “Al Gore”) to keep zoos from displaying broccoli. To this day, not ONE municipal zoo has captive broccoli in their collection, thanks to the billions of supporters who read our propaganda, and failed biology in grammar school. But I digress.

I mean, consider that over the millennia, there had to be at least ONE vegan who craved a burger, or perhaps one Tiger Shark who, while munching on a hapless swimmer thought “you know, I need to stop this, because humans have feelings and lawn chairs that somehow wind up in the reef have a lot of fiber.” And, according to new age mumbo-jumbo, their souls must have crossed in the ether…

Food for thought the next time a bunch of you pile into Braiden’s Prius to head out to the festival: Your underarm scent may trigger an awakening in them, and then they’ll eat you. And probably your shoulder bag. And the floor mats. I mean those fuckers will eat anything, regardless of what color its aura may be. And if you have a friend named Aura, she’ll probably incite this shark-hippie hybrid much faster, because that’s how names work, so you’re best to just bike there anyway.

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