Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Let Me Eat Cake

I'm not a water person, I'm discovering.

I became aware of this fact years ago, when the water temple in Ocarina of Time frustrated me so badly I sent a Nintendo 64 controller through the window. Ever since I've had a rocky relationship with bodies of water at best.

I recently spent some time on Nantucket Island, and confirmed that my shyness of water hadn't diminished. Despite my efforts to appear capable and competent in the ocean, the waves tossed around my lanky noodle body like a sack of dead badgers.

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Though on this particular vacation, battling the ocean turned out to be the least of my worries. As I'm almost entirely nocturnal, my experience with the sun's rays are mostly limited, and I always seem to underestimate how much sun is too much sun. It's rare I even get the opportunity to spend time in sunny climes, so I tend to be a little reckless when it comes to UV rays.

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Compound this with the fact that separate parts of my body tan in vastly different degrees and shades, and by the time I bid farewell to Nantucket I looked completely silly.

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Roasting my flesh wasn't the only reason I was trolling the east coast. Late into my vacation I spent an afternoon with my friend Kristin, who has a blog of her own where she bakes cakes that don't look like cakes. Just like on that one show. You know, the one with cakes. The cake show. You know the one.

Anyway, prior to my visit, we discussed what kind of cake we should make. Kristin turned down the majority of my suggestions because she is a lady with tender ladylike emotions.

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Perhaps I'd swallowed too much sea water while lounging on the beach, but I found myself in a nautical mood and ultimately suggested we make a cake with a maritime theme. We settled on a lobster, probably because our cake-making date was fast approaching and we were running out of ideas.

I'd made a cake with Kristin a few months ago, but I wasn't much help. My main job turned out to be eating layers of fondant while she poured her blood, sweat, and tears into making a cake.

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This time, however, I was determined to be cooperative and productive. When I arrived at Kristin's apartment she suggested we make a sketch of the cake beforehand, because that's what professionals do, and Kristin is a professional lady.

The first sketch I made wasn't fantastic:

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"What is that?" asked Kristin. "I mean, seriously. What even is that?"

I gave it a second try:

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"That's nothing. That's awful. Get out of my apartment, Adam."

With our friendship deteriorating in front of us, I attempted a final, more detail-oriented sketch of a lobster.

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Kristin rolled her eyes and declared that sketches are for dummies. Then she called me a dummy and stabbed me a few times with a cake knife, and if this story is going off the rails a bit it's because my memory is a little bit foggy and I'm embellishing, but this is my blog and you're only here for the pictures anyway, so pipe down.

An hour of slicing and rolling and molding later, we had a respectable lobster cake. A blue lobster cake, because Kristin didn't have any red left, which means she isn't actually very professional at all. I made a bunch of accessories for our lobster, because nobody wants to eat a plain old lobster cake, and slutty lobsters who over-accessorize are more fun than regular lobsters any day of the week.

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See that classy necklace? That sexy bow? I made those. I'm a cake-making superstar, just like that one guy on that show about cakes. Both Kristin and I found that baking is easier when you take at least a dozen breaks to watch Paula Deen videos on YouTube, and I feel our cake's success was as much Mrs. Deen's doing as our own. Our favorite by far was this one, which we eventually just put on loop while we caked our hearts out:




Looking at our creation, I began to imagine what kind of awful things this trashy lobster would say. Perhaps it was because I overanalyze everything, or perhaps it's because I knew if I was going to blog about this cake, I'd need more funny pictures.

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I'm pretty sure I'm friends with this lobster on Facebook.

At any rate, take a moment to read Kristin's very funny blog post about our adventure.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

All Your Art Are Belong To Us

Sometimes I have to take a break from cartooning and make serious art. Of course I use the term "serious" loosely, and if we're being entirely honest here, the same probably applies to the term "art." Nevertheless, on occasion I feel the need to break out the paints and do something different just to keep the creative juices flowing. It nurtures the soul. It's my release.

This weekend's release manifested itself in the form of derpy videogame characters, because even when I'm making very serious art I can't seem to be very serious about it.

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Once upon a time I was a great fan of the Zelda series, but somewhere around the turn of the century my interest wavered. I blame Navi. In fact, I blame Navi for most things that go wrong in my life.

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Peach was always top dog, but my heart belonged to Daisy. I feel like she had a dark side, you know? She was a little kinky, maybe. Peach was so vanilla.

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Samus was my hero as a kid, even after I found out he was a chick. I remember one Halloween I tried to make power armor out of cardboard, but I ran out of materials halfway through and went as a cowboy instead (for like the 4th time in a row).

I quit my job last week to focus on blogging full time, and while I'd like to say this will translate into lots more stories for my readers, I'm afraid I might end up utilizing my newfound freedom to catch up on videogames.

I'm just kidding. I'm almost done with a new comic!

Just... have to... finish... this... boss.

In the meantime, all of these paintings are available as prints in the portrait store!

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(thanks, now I won't starve to death.)



Thursday, August 4, 2011

Better Living Through Chemistry

"There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror."
~Orson Welles

I'm flying across the country tomorrow, and it's no secret that I'm a terrible flyer. Up until now I've simply put up with the anxiety of air travel, but there comes a time in every well-to-do Caucasian male's life where he decides he ought to be medicated during life's inconveniences, and my time has come. I went to my doctor and lamented my issue, anticipating hesitation on his part, but instead he simply asked me how strong I wanted my medication to be. I told him I wanted the strongest.

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I told him I wanted horse tranquilizers if they had them, but I had to settle for high-potency benzodiazepines. Fine, I'll take it. He recommended I try out a dosage when I picked up my prescription to make sure it didn't affect me negatively, and sent me on my way.

I expected the pharmacy to give me a few doses, but upon arriving at the pharmacy I was surprised to discover the good doctor had prescribed me thirty doses. Thirty. Did he think I lived on an airplane? But hey, who was I to complain? I had a little orange bottle full of courage, and I felt unstoppable. Never would I fear flying again. I was fearless. I was a GOD.

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That night I followed the doctor's instructions and took a practice dosage. The results were unexpected.

12:25 AM

The meds kicked in, rather suddenly, about a half hour after I took them. I was beginning to think they weren't going to work so I was surprised when I started to feel loopy. I was sitting at my desk reading Creepypasta, because I'm a lazy blogger and that's what lazy bloggers do at night: they waste hours reading crap on the internet.

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12:45 AM

Having exhausted my supply of creepy internet trash and deciding I wasn't sufficiently freaked out, I turned to Netflix. I noticed Eraserhead was streaming, so I wrapped myself in my blanket and instantly fast forwarded to the Lady in the Radiator scene, which proved horrifying in my drowsy and confused state.

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I made it about 2 minutes before I had to turn the television off.

12:50 AM

I decided to sit down at my desk and draw for a bit, but apparently I was too far gone. I'd apparently forgotten how to draw altogether.

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Instead I relocated to the couch, stuck band-aids all over my face, and took approximately five thousand pictures of myself in Photo Booth.

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I don't know how much time I wasted doing this, because if I haven't made it clear yet, I was tripping balls.

1:30 (?) AM

Feeling unstable on my feed, I decided to cool it for a bit. I dimmed the lights, laid down on my yoga mat, and set my iPod to shuffle. At this point I was just curious to see when the drug would wear off so I would know what to expect on my flight. For an indeterminate amount of time I rested peacefully on my back as my speakers pumped tunes into the room, from Little Dragon to Kate Bush, Björk to Dinosaur Jr. When my iPod suddenly and abruptly switched to Lil Mama's "Lip Gloss," I experienced a minor revelation.

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At that point I promptly passed out and woke up hours later, sunlight streaming into the room.

As of writing this, my flight is mere hours away, and I have no idea what to expect. I sincerely hope I have an aisle to myself, because there's no telling how I might react to another passenger.

Wish me luck, internets. This may be the end for me.