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March 3rd, 2008

March 3rd, 2008
08:08 am [Link]	The New Strip: My Name Is Might Have Been So, um... Y'all were wondering about the new strip? Well, welcome to the apocalypse. Again. That's right - it's called "My Name Is Might Have Been," and it's not just written by me - it's co-authored by World Fantasy Award-nominated Orphan's Tales author Catherynne M. Valente (a.k.a. yuki_onna)! (Just as "Home on the Strange" was co-written with Roni, but nobody ever seemed to believe me there.) The artist, Avery A. Liell-Kok, is brand-new to webcomics, but she is made of purest awesome - check out that gorgeous linework and detail! (She's also on LJ as tooth_and_claw, and has a Deviant Art account.) It's the first day for a strip, which is always awkward. (I always said that there was precisely one comic strip which got its tone perfectly on the first day, and that was Peanuts ["Good ol' Charlie Brown... How I hate him!"].) And, of course, given that this is a story-driven comic, it's kind of like going, "Wow! Here's the first page of Lord of the Rings! Isn't it wonderful? Woo hoo, this is gonna be a RIDE!" And it's also extremely different from the easily-digestible nerdcore humor of HotS, so those who loved HotS may not love this new brain-baby at all. But you have to start somewhere, and here is the first step on our long way to the top. (And if you'd like to continue this journey with us, you can catch the RSS feed on LJ as mynameismight, which has a couple of odd entries thanks to LJ's strange caching system [which refuses to remove scrubbed test entries] - but it's all good. You'll get there.) Various features of the site will become available as the strips go on. This is a planned feature. We have much to do here. Thank you for your patience. Oh, yes, and if you wanted to link to the strip to alert people that it exists, that too would be made of wonderful. Google loves inbound links, especially for starter sites. (46 shouts of denial | tell me I'm full of it)
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12:12 pm [Link]	And It Was So Good For A While! I forgot that the continual correct spelling of my name came to pass only after a year and a half of "Home on the Strange." But now, in the wake of this other "Ferret" guy being credited in at least three places as the co-author of this new webcomic with Catherynne M. Valente, I now remember how often this happenses. Welcome back to Ferretland, little weasel! Enjoy your stay in the station of a single "t". And theferret, enjoy the people dropping by! (I know, I know - I chose the weird spelling. It's my fault. But I'd been so spoiled for a while.) (58 shouts of denial | tell me I'm full of it)
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07:06 pm [Link]	*pant pant pant* NEW *pant pant pant* I've had some recent incentives lately to get a little more in-shape. Truth is, jogging's good at keeping the weight off, but the only thing it gives me are slightly better stomach muscles (which are still hidden underneath a cumulonimbus layer of fat) and great calves, which nobody ever sees because I always dress in slacks. Lifting weights doesn't work. I get bored. And so yesterday, I embarked upon the program that I knew would get me in shape, giving me ripped arms at the same time it humiliated me with the neighbors. Drumming. No, not Rock Band drumming. Actual drumming. Gini says that I'm hot when I drum, and years of playing in front of crowds have taught me not to disagree with this. I know that my drum faces are terrible, approaching some odd mixture of slack-jawed yokel and surprised nut-kickee, but the fact that I always do lay into the drums with maximum effort seems to impress them. "I am a he-man, bashing these cymbals!" something appears to say. "I can make love to you the way I pound these instruments!" Which doesn't seem at all appealing to me, but who really understands women? But the humiliation comes from the fact that lo, I am pretty rusty on the ol' skins. And unlike guitar, which can be practiced quietly at low levels, playing the drums at a volume that won't declare to the neighbors, "BOFFO HERE STILL HASN'T GOTTEN HIS FILLS BACK IN SHAPE YET" is nigh-impossible. Yes, you can lay rubber over the drumheads, but then it's hard to hear how you're playing when you play along to music. Yes, you can pay a lot of money for electronic drums, but a) I don't have a lot of money to space, and b) at least a decade ago, the feel of said drums was nothing like actual drumheads, hard and plastic and achy on the wrists. So I went downstairs and played. Alas, I discovered that my old CD players didn't play burned CDs, and weren't loud enough anyway to be heard over the din of drums, so I splurged and bought an extra 370-watt system that is incredibly potent. (And I still sometimes lose track of the audio when it's a crashy ride-cymbal rhythm with a lot of splash to it, but it's better than the headphone experiments I tried.) There was a $480, 740-watt system I ached to purchase, since whenever the bass drum hit at top volume there was a little puff of air that ruffled my shirt like the beginning attempts of a Small Bad Wolf, but I was terrified what it might do to the infrastructure of La Casa McJuddMetz. Of course I whipped out all my nerd favorites. Sure, there are probably better anthems than "School of Rock," but fuck 'em. And I'm smashing rhythm to "Still Alive" with sheet happiness, and trying to master the disco erratic stop-n-go of "Dragostei Din Trei," and why the hell not? But I can also try to get the not-so-subtle melodies of "I Don't Wanna Be In Love," and thud along to "Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy," and I was grateful to see after only a day that the complex customized bell-and-high-hat alternative rhythm I'd devised for the solo to Boston's "Peace of Mind" was mostly back. But man. "Angry Inch." I say I play hard, but that's a lie; I always despise the people who flail at the drums like they're trying to crush them. I play firmly, and certainly loudly, but there has to be some finesse. For "Angry Inch," though? Christ, that's the most furious song I know. I fucked up my hands something huge, crushing the latent blisters and spreading the goo all over my palms, and still I refused to stop because dammit, this is Hedwig's rage. And when I was done, I sat there panting, one of the cymbal mounts collapsed from my incendiary style, panting and feeling the sweat rolling off my hair onto the floor and feeling good. Fine rhythms are not quite back yet. "Sea of No Cares" sounded so ugly that I couldn't bear it. I need to get my rolls and taps back. But I will. And I will train my body again. And I will have good arms again, ones I'm not afraid to roll up my sleeves on. In the meantime, I will do a little dance of joy. And then collapse. (25 shouts of denial | tell me I'm full of it)