A Liberating Foolishness on a Cold Winter's Day

I’ve never been much for Christmas. For reasons I won’t go into here, my mother’s side of the family didn’t celebrate. They had alternative fests. Much like pork, it was the sort of thing I never quite got a taste for. It isn’t that I dislike the holiday, it just wasn’t important. All Christmas really meant was spending time with friends and/or family, and sometimes, the giving and receiving of gifts. Any religious or traditional significance beyond those acts is more or less superfluous.

This Christmas, however, had a certain uniqueness thanks to the weather. Oklahoma rarely has white Christmases. The snow and ice tends to come more in January, and usually in the form of crippling sheets of ice and sleet rather than in the white, powdery snow children dream of playing in. This December 24th, however, the snow came down hard, laying down more than four inches in an evening, and trapping myself and my friend Russ Trippett inside what was, for another week or so, my house.

Earlier in the evening I’d driven the half-block to his house to see him, and we decided to go back to my house for dinner. I had leftover pizza, and there was fun to be had with good company. Coming back to my home, it had taken a herculean effort to move my car into the inclined driveway. In the end, it was stuck and barring a change in the weather or a concerted act of several physically capable individuals it would remain there indefinitely.

When it came time for Russ to leave, he called his folks to come get him. This was at about 10 in the evening, and we rationalized that the roads would be good enough for them to reach my house and drive back, so long as they didn’t attempt to navigate the inclined driveway that trapped my own car.

After about ten minutes, Russ’s iphone rang.

“I’m stuck.”

I could hear a bit of the conversation from across the room, through the tinny, muffled speaker of Russ’s cell phone. His father had gotten stuck in the snow. We had to mount a rescue.

A lack of typically snowy weather tends to equate a lack of snow-ready clothing. I threw on a long sleeved knit shirt, donned my coat, thick socks, my sneakers, an extra t-shirt wrapped around my neck like a scarf and a pair of work gloves to keep out the cold. I topped it all with my only winter hat; a bright orange toboggan with “hat of shame” knitted into it. A gift from my college days, it was a drunk hat, to be worn by the person in the dorm who was, at that time, the most inebriated.

Thus, Russ and I set out in the cold. The snow had stopped coming down, but the wind still blew. The white snow and the thick clouds reflected the city’s light into an unnatural twilight and our vision was no more obscured than it might be on a cloudy afternoon.

Anyone who has ever been a boy can tell you that there is an exhilaration that comes only from doing amazingly stupid things. In the false-twilight of the winter snow I felt it in my bones. I laughed with each step, relishing the crunch of the snow and the tingle of wet and cold. Yards and streets were blown over with an even coat of snow. One footstep would sink a few inches, another almost a foot. We came up a rough hill, and saw Russ’s father in his car, stuck on 29th street.

Russ’s father was trapped in a six inch drift of snow that made street, curb and yard all into one unbroken plane. The cold and the absurd situation conspired to bring out the best in me. I laughed as, digging with gloved handsm we cleared the snow away from the tires. Braced against the ground and the bumper we shoved the car until it moved backwards, only to find it trapped again. Back and forth we pushed and shoved the vehicle, sliding it slowly down the hill.

Partway through our adventure, Russ’s mother appeared. She had walked from their house with a bag of kitty litter to provide extra traction. Again we pushed, shifted, and pulled. The car rolled slowly downhill.

“Keep going, don’t stop.”

It stopped and was stuck again. More digging, more pushing. I fell down as the car pushed out of my hands and rolled backwards. As the car drove slowly backwards I waved my arms and jumped about as though I were directing planes on an aircraft carrier. The wind snapped my pseudo-scarf into my face, blinding me as I shouted muffled directions. The shirt was hard as cardboard, layered with ice crystals and flecks of snow.

Finally the car was far enough back it could turn around and return home. Russ’s mom handed me the kitty litter to help me move my car and, not knowing what else to do, I took it and started walking home.

As I walked home, I thought of old stories I read in school. Most notably, To Build a Fire. Overcoming an obstacle with raw force and wit brings to life a feeling of power and accomplishment. Awash in the adrenaline high of the physical exertion and the tingle of the now everpresent cold and wet I trudged back home. Our footprints were already gone, reduced to small ruts by the sweeping wind that carved steppes and valleys in miniature in the shadow of electric reindeer lights and argon street lamps.

If this weren’t a city, if I were in the wild I imagined, I wouldn’t have found my trail back to camp. I imagined myself the archetypical hero in one of those old stories. I imagined the mundane, essentially silly set of circumstances, into a romantic adventure, complete with a beautiful girl waiting in some far-off place, wondering if I’d ever get home. ‘If I fall down and succumb to the cold right here’ I thought to myself, ‘would I have time to send a call for help, or perhaps my goodbyes, in a text message?’ I wondered if that would be poetic enough, if it would make a good enough story. If you die doing something stupid you ought to at least leave everyone a good story.

Thankfully, this adventure was a small one, a simulation of a larger man-against-nature struggle. While capable of stirring a form of nostalgia in the ‘racial memory’, it wasn’t capable of threatening my life. I wasn’t going to fall down and die in the snow. I wasn’t going to get lost and seek shelter in a fallen tree or an abandoned suburban. I could see my house from there, my car barely pulled into the driveway. Still, I felt like a man, brave and powerful, as the failing light glanced off the snowflakes that happened to face me.

The whole world sparkled like a snapped piece of white quartz.

In retrospect, if we’d just walked to Russ’s house, the problem would have been solved and the whole affair concluded with hot chocolate. We had done something foolish and soaking wet, encrusted with snow and blind from my glasses fogging up, I felt alive.

The Video is Complete! Behold FROGSTAR!

We finished it.

Our first music video, for the Darkest of the Hillside Thickets' music video contest. I've got a good feeling about our chances. At long last you can see what we've been slaving over, and see me as the terror from space.

The Kids Are Losing Their Minds... the BlitzWING Bop!

My 9th official Transformers prose tale, Blitzwing Bop, is now up in the members-only area of the Official Transformers Collector's Club. It's a Shattered Glass "mirrorverse" tale done in the style of the old 80s cartoon. My Co-Writer, Greg Sepelak, and I put in a lot of hard work on it.

Since Blitzwing Bop is members-only, you'll have to join the club to read it (and you should!). If you want to read some of my other TF fiction, however, the New World and Force of Habit are both available for free.

Check it Out.
-Trent

Flea Market Adventures

This saturday, Travis and I went to the flea market, as we often do. Once upon a time, the core of my Transformer collecting was the flea market. Around 1996, when I started collecting again, the line was lucky to produce 26 figures in a given year (for reference, the first wave of figures for a given line now approaches those numbers. Thankfully, I'm not a completist). And there was a lot of older material to pull together. So the flea market was a great place to go for TFs. It was also before a lot of nostalgia collecting hit hard, so figures could be found relatively cheap, and I had the sort of time on my hands where I didn't mind buying six figures in crappy shape to combine the good parts off them into one, good condition figure.

Now, the flea markets are primarily a source of raw material for the Pete Promethius film production. I buy a lot of helmets and nerf guns and broken electronics that wind up being costume parts, ray pistols and control panels for an imaginary spaceship.

Well, this weekend I had one of the better 'classic' Flea Market runs, wherein I go and I find stuff that I like for a great price. In this case, I found what amounts to about five sets of Heroscape, for four dollars. For the whole set.

All this in addition to three new nerf guns to make into ray pistols. A good haul indeed.

And now, to counterpoint that rather dull brag at my ability to find nerd-supplies on the cheap, I give you a routine by Dara O'briain:

Slacking: I excell at it.

Ok, apparently, I've let the blog thing slide.

I'll preface my apology with an excuse. I've got a lot more on my plate lately. Video Projects (Actual Video you can watch will be up soon!), more comics (more details to come, Yo Joe!), secret projects (darn NDAs) and all the old stuff on top of that.

And yes, Champions Online.

To this end, I've been letting things slip and I'm sorry for that. The IP policing at work has been stepped up, so a lot of my 'type while bored' projects have been torpedeoed. If you've been feeling neglected, its not you, its me, and I'm going to be trying to keep up.

I promise an angry rant or three sometime soon, as well as the self-congratulating braggartry you've all come to know and love.

-Trent

It's beginning to look a lot like Trent-mas...

Greg arrived in town yesterday, and we're geared up and ready to embark on a quest... A quest to find the true meaning of Trentmas, and to put an end to Snarflawq, the dragon of vaguely-defined despair.

The second element of this quest is made more difficult of late, however. Since Obama's election, Snarflawq has taken up residence at Fox News Headquarters, as it is now all all-you-can-eat buffet of vaguely-defined despair for him. Also, its well known that Snarflawq supports tax cuts for the rich and gay marriage.

Now, long trips are always a point of panic at their earliest stages. Everything must be gathered up, checked, doublechecked and then stowed in some fashion that makes it able to be located. And if you forget it, its miles away by the time you remember. As someone who operates poorly with this human 'memory' thing, the essence of panic is tangible. I think I've got everything packed away and ready to go.

For those who are keeping tabs, today is the first day of Trentmas. As such, its time for you all to set up the wreath of regrets, in Trentmas tradition. For those of you waging the War on Trentmas (and I think you know I know you know who you are), a wreath of regrets is a wire hoop that you fasten your regrets to (in the form of notes scribbled on grocery store receipts you saved for Science-knows what reason). Throughout Trentmas, as regrets come to you, banish them to the wreath. At the end of the holiday, the wreath is burned or fed through a woodchipper to be used as pet-cage liner.

This symbolic act has a noticable placebo effect and will keep you regret free the whole year long.*

Today's Trentmas Carols are Livin' in a Box, the dirge of Keyboard Cat, and Bananaphone.

Well, its that time. I'm gathering up my +2 sword of stabbing and we're going after the dragon that's trying to eat Trentmas. Merry Trentmas to all, and to all a robot-filled night!

-Trent

*This blog post does not consitute medical advice. 'Year' as expressed may refer to a literal year or one of the following: cat years, dog years, horse years, mouse years, tapir years, fruit-fly years or capybara years. By reading this blog you have surrendered your right to sue in favor of arbitration. All aribtration will be delivered through an angry bear. Offer void in Wisconsin.

Today is: Surreal and Somewhat Depressing

Today, we do not have a new winner...

However, I did get a call on the Online Services tech line I work at. It was from a guy named Matthew. See, Matthew works for Circuit City as an on-site tech, and was asking us if he could come work for us.

That's... weird and sorta sad, really.

I can only take solace in the wisdom of my good friend, The Phantom Dictator of the Planet Krankor. "I will arrive tomorrow night at precisely eight o'clock. At that time I shall make my wishes known to you. You will obey them... or die! Have a pleasant night's sleep... HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA!"

That Krankor! What times we had.

Hindsight is a Three-Act Play

I don't remember events, I remember stories.

I find that the past, as represented through my retellings, becomes increasingly altered over time. I have a strong sense of the narrative. I am a story-teller at heart and my world view 'digests' (for lack of a better term) life into narrative. Real life has no narrative structure. It is a random series of chaotic events stemming from billions of independent causes. Beginnings, middles and ends are all defined in hindsight and are relative to the person or persons experiencing them. There are no morals, few soliloquys, and far too little ironic resolution.

But that's not how I remember things.

Warped by my writing bug and a cavalcade of fiction, I don't remember disconnected events. I remember stories. The involved persons become the character cast. The events become the major plot points and challenges, and different events are emphasized or ignored to form the traditional western narrative skeleton: prologue - introduction - buildup - conflict - climax - resolution - afterward. Lessons to learn are introduced and literary themes expanded on.

And I do this without intending to.

I wonder, are there painters who see their own pasts in terms of a gallery of finished and unfinished paintings? Sculptors with memories in clay and marble? Do senators see their own childhood in terms of politics? Are programmers even today shuffling high school recollections into organized lines with hosts of if/then statements and commentary hidden by brackets?

Or do we all just turn our history into stories?

Whatever the answer, I intend to embrace this process. When I rewrite my teenage years it will be a truly epic tale. I strongly encourage the supporting cast to simply enjoy their new history, as it is going to be much more interesting the second time through.

-Trent

Spore or Less

Everytime I want to post about Spore, the temptation to do a bad pun for the post title is too much and I back down. But not this time.

I won't go into a big time review of Spore. Its simplistic in some ways, but is really fun in others. I've started a 80's Nostalgia Sporecast, which should surprise all of nobody. Its big, but it still needs expanding. He-Man has helped, what with the swarm of monsters and vehicles, but there's still more to do. Some stuff, the Popples, the Carebears, the Gremlins, I'm holding out on until the Creepy and Cute parts pack hits, but other stuff is just dependent on me getting around to it. I'm debating whether I want to go with Thundercats or MASK for my next big update push. The goal is that, eventually you could theme a game after my Sporecast and encounter nothing but a hallucinatory swarm of mis-matched 1980s cartoon strangeness.

In the meantime, look upon my works, ye normal, and despair:

A minor thought.

I promise to fall in love with the girl that sings to me the way Natalie Merchant sings.

There is a 70% chance of similar results when one substitutes Stevie Nicks for Natalie Merchant.

October in Essence

Today, I walked out of work and felt the first blast of cold wind of the year. The sky was shrouded with clouds and all my senses were overwhelmed by a vague sense of nostalgia. I touched something deeply beautiful and infinitely bittersweet, a comforting swirl of sadness and contentment. In a brief moment I touched thirty Octobers that preceded this one, and felt a sensation that might well have been a rapturous religious experience in another context.

I stood for a brief moment and absorbed what I know as October, a sensation and an experience that is more than a point in the annual marking of time.

My only regret is that you weren't there.

EXCALIBUR!

At long last I have found it... The perfect blue-line pencil!

I like sketching in blue-line. Its easy to drop out during scanning and you don't notice the pencil lines as much so there's no ink/pencil confusion during the inking process. But the problem is that most blue pencils are terrible.

Prismacolor makes almost all of them. Oh, they work, in that they are blue and they are pencils, but the leads are, for lack of a better term, greasy. They're soft, lay on thick, smear easy, and worse: they repel water, and thus, ink. So you go through the process of inking something, but the ink doesn't stick. It fades when you go in to erase something or it just beads up.

I found a better blue-line pencil, though it took buying one each of all the blue line pencils offered by an online art supply store (it wasn't that extravagant, they cost about 50 cents each and there were only three varieties). Of the three pencils I obtained:

Pencil 1 is a Prismacolor Verithin 761 1/2 Non-Photo Blue/Bleu Inactinique. Same old story. Greasy, thick, soft as my midsection. Practically worthless!

Pencil 2 is a Prismacolor Copy-Not 1298 Non-Photo Blue. Getting warmer... this is an actual hard-lead blue-line pencil! The telltale sign is that this pencil has a real eraser on the end... one of the crappy pink ones. This pencil was made for architects rather than artistes (in my experience the architects get all the coolest supplies). On normal paper, this thing would rock. Sadly, I don't use normal paper for most of my sketching. I've fallen in love with a #234 Paris Bleedproof pad from Borden & Riley... the pages are like velvet and ink doesn't bleed on them, at all... but our Copy-Not's lead is too hard to leave much of a mark at all on the almost tractionless surface of the page...

Pencil 3 is our winner. It is a Staedtler Non-Photo-Blue 108 30 / 0 31901 10551 8. First off, its from Austria... which means it was made with that sort of Schwartzineggerian Knockoff of German efficiency. Its sales barcode is printed right onto the pencil in negative space between white lines for Genius' sake! No crappy sticker wrapped around the haft for this pencil! Moreover, the lead is the perfect balance of tone and hardness. No greasiness, not to light, not too dark and the line quality is beautiful.

All hail the new king of blue pencils!

As an aside, I've been considering posting art to the blog. Would anybody want to see that?