*Twitch*

My right eye lid has been twitching off and on for three days now.

This displeases me greatly.

Collections Agency

I am a packrat.

It's genetic, I've decided, because my dad is, my grandpa (dad's side) is, and by all indications, my great-grandparents were, too. Because of this, I collect things. I'm able to fight the urge, most of the time, and limit my collections to things like music (which I have a lot of, but hardly any recent because record labels insist on CHARGING for music, which Bob Dylan says isn't worth anything in the first place), comics (I haven't bought a new comic since 2004, which is very sad for me...stupid no money), and movies (though most of the new acquisitions have been for Aaron, not me). However, I've noticed that it seems I have started a new collection. I'm not really sure how to account for it, except that it was readily available anyway, and, in light of my genetic condition, how long could I really have held out?

I've started collecting writings.

Not books, mind you. I have books, but not that many, most either by Raymond E. Feist or some Star Wars author. The writings I've started collecting are essays. Nothing academic, that'd bore me. No, I've started collecting the little throw-away essays, usually found on the last page of Time or Newsweek. I was rather amused by one on giving Pluto the boot, and one of the newest additions is a tongue-in-cheek essay by Joel Stein on how maybe Jewish people have brought anti-Semitism on themselves (keep in mind that Joel Stein is Jewish).

I don't know that I'd call them humorous, though I do find most of the ones that I actually collect amusing. I think what is actually drawing me to them is that they're well written, yet, completely worthless. Basically, it's the same as what I try to do here, except these guys are getting paid to do it.

That was something another of the authors said (not in reference to me, but to a blogger who was his "arch-nemesis").

I like writing that doesn't take itself too seriously. Academia is all fine and well, so long as you have a phD or your head parked firmly in your hind quarters, but you can keep it. The news has a great deal of value, too. I keep articles that I find interesting so that, some day, I can use them as fodder for Sunday School lessons (I mentioned that I teach the college class at my church, right? I've been doing it for a year now, surely I have...). But, after I use them, I really have no purpose for them and away they go. No, writing that has value for me has no real value at all. It's just shooting the breeze, printed, delivered, and waiting on my coffee table for my wife to "encourage" me to sort it out and get rid of the excess. Besides, after you've finished college, you've already read enough academic nonsense that you really shouldn't be required to put up with any more.

Except in cases, like mine, when you didn't do much of the reading at all.

Blue Thumb

Last night, I put the finishing touches on Aaron's walls. That's my upcoming boy, for those of you with a memory problem. I'm glad to have them done because, frankly, I don't think my eyes can take much more of the leaning in close to get the edges where the crappy tape let the paint bleed through. Still, I'm pretty pleased with the results. Here's a quick turn through the room. Ignore the ladder, carpet pad, and the cat's butt on the chair in the bottom corner of the second to last one...



I'm rather pleased with the end result. I think the whole room will look great once we're done, not that Aaron will care much since, as is true of newborns across the board, he'll only be able to see a few inches in front of his face for a while, anyway.

Oh well.

For some reason, I want to find a t-shirt that says "Coming Soon", like on a movie poster, for my wife.

Where's Sam Jackson When You Need Him?

I believe that I mentioned before how my house was constructed by a madman. Not raving mad, using bonechips in place of ten penny nails (I'm suddenly curious if ten penny nails are, indeed, used in framing a house and such), but still not 100% functional. I believe he was a great-great-uncle or somesuch.

I say this because right-angles are mythical creatures in my house.

There are other irregularities in the house, but many of those are due to the fact that the house now contains a number of features that weren't available when the house was built.

For instance, our toilet is inside.

As such, some things may not necessarily be up to code. I can live with this. However, that means that living, in general, requires a bit more caution than one might normally find necessary in your average home. It's always important to check and make sure a dead (or live) bug isn't in the glass you just pulled from the cupboard, no matter how recently it was washed. 15 seconds, 15 months, makes no difference. This isn't because the house is dirty. Well, not completely. I mean, when you live a busy life and spend most of your freetime painting a bedroom, certain things, like that pile of dishes in the sink, become less pressing.

Washing as you need them is a completely valid method, I say.

Of course, other times, the eccentricities of our house require more than just caution. For instance, the night before last, I had just fallen asleep when my wife, who was doing some reading for a class before falling asleep, woke me. I was not pleased by this, but what are you gonna do? She tells me that something black fell from behind this picture we have framed on the wall. Half out of it, I stand up and stumble around as I make my way to her side of the bed. Indeed, there was something on the ground behind the rack where she keeps her shoes (directly beneath the picture). I had an inkling of what it might've been, but my brain didn't want to believe that inkling, so I cautiously moved the shoes from the bottom row so I could get a better look.

Unfortunately, the inkling was right.

Curled up behind a pair of my wife's shoes was about 12 inches of unhappy snake. I don't much care for snakes when they're content, much less when they've just fallen 5 feet out of a crack around an electrical box. My initial plan of action was this:

1. Move the remaining shoes.
2. Take one of the shoes.
3. Beat the snake until it is an ex-snake.

When my wife saw me draw back with some of her footwear, she objected. Apparently, she doesn't like the idea of having snake brains in her flip-flops. Fair enough, I think. So, I get up and grab one of my Vans. Sturdier shoe, anyway, what with not being solely comprised of a half inch of foam rubber. My revised plan looked like so:

1. Scoot pile of shoes out of the way (my shoe needed a bigger hole to swing through).
2. Take my shoe.
3. Send the snake to join the bleedin' choir invisible.

Once again, I looked the snake in its beady eyes, rared back and...another objection. Turns out that it wasn't just the use of her shoe, but also the public execution in our bedroom.

At this point, my dog, and I use the term "dog" loosely, is thoroughly confused by what's going on. It seems that not only has she failed to learn to utilize her sense of smell to locate things like bits of food that we throw to her, but also her sense of hearing to alarm her when something is happening nearby. Her bed was about the snake's length away from the snake. As I begin to think of alternative methods of ridding our room of the snake, I put the dog outside, since she's obviously not up to the challenge when it comes to avoiding the possibly poisonous snake. Then, I use the next, most obvious weapon in the (non-lethal) war on snakes.

I go to the kitchen and grab some tongs.

Steadying my nerves, I try to push back the thought that these tongs were apparently made for some small child's play kitchen, as they are a mighty four inches from the grips to the...claspy parts at the business end, and not for battling the serpentine menace. This thought in mind, I have to reassess my plan of attack. On the one hand, I can hold the tongs comfortably in my right hand, which has all the speed and coordination. This seems good. On the other hand, though, I could use my left hand and, if it gets bitten, at least it wasn't my right hand, which has suffered enough already. I decided that my right hand was probably quick enough that I could beat the snake's bite and not getting bitten at all beats getting bitten in my off-hand.

I kneeled down, once again, by the shoe rack and begin to pray that Daniel-san still has beginner's luck. The snake was no longer sitting with it's head up against the wall, as if to say, "Please, sir. Help me leave a snake-shaped impression in the sheet rock with your size 12s." Instead, it had its angry face on, which is to say that it was coiled and appeared ready to strike. I believe that it sensed that our final battle was nigh. I made a slow movement forward to see if I could appear non-threatening with my tiny tongs. As its head darted forward, I realized that this was a bad plan, and quickly jerked my hand out of the way. I realize it was time that I tried speed.

No, not the drug. Swiftness, people! Remember, I'm trying to get rid of the snake so I can go back to sleep! Geez.

Anyway, my hand flies in toward the snake. If I miss its head, I'll not be getting to sleep until after I leave the emergency room, which is generally rather slow. Sadly, the snake has no idea what'll happen when I grab it, so its not taking any chances and begins to lurch forward.

Right in between the tongs as I snap them together.

Let me tell you, a trapped snake is an unhappy snake. There is no contentment when your thinky parts are pinned between two pieces of metal coated in plastic. I was pleasantly surprised and certainly pleased with myself. I took a moment to congratulate myself on a job well done. It's not often that Beta males such as myself have to conquer a wild beast. Even if it is just a foot long. The thing had fangs! And poison! Maybe. I'm not up on my snake identification, really.

Anyway, the snake decided that whatever was going on, it still had use of its tail, which it quickly wrapped around the tongs. My exact thought was "Crap. I catch this thing only to have it bite me as I release it." Grumbling, I walked to the front door and did my best to fling it off the tongs and into the bushes. Because of its grip on the tongs, it went about three feet.

"Good enough for me," I thought, and slammed the door. Once again, I was feeling rather good about the whole thing.

Then, as I climbed in bed, Andria asked me, "Did you kill it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Turns out, dead is ok, so long as its not in the bedroom.

You! Yeah, You! Get Out of Here!

ComicGenesis! Your days are numbered.


At least, as far as this comic's address is concerned. You see, we've had the dimbulbcomics.com domain for...what? Three years? Maybe longer, I don't remember now. Anyway, though it's been an option for about a year now, we're dropping the comicgenesis from the address for good. We aren't going anywhere, mind you, just simplifying the address.

And also forcing you to use it, since we're paying for it and all.

Anyway, update your bookmarks and links and also your bacon. Dim Bulb Comics is now found at WWW.DIMBULBCOMICS.COM and only there.

Good to Go...

No, you Taco Bell freaks can't eat it! I mean, dimbulbcomics.com is good for another year, so you lazy bums don't have to type in the epic dimbulbcomics.comicgenesis.com. We took care of that for you! Appreciate it!


I SAID APPRECIATE IT!!!!

Proof!

I offer this as proof that I am, in fact, painting the walls in Aaron (the baby)'s room. This is the first one. So, at this rate, I've only got 3 more weeks of painting ahead of me.


Aw crap.

News and Olds

Well, with my comic fast continuing since December...wow, that's a long time...I suppose I should tell you what's up.

But first, I saw on the news today that Paris Hilton was arrested for driving under the influence and reportedly appeared intoxicated when the officer questioned her.

Honestly. Have you people not seen her on tv? She's retarded, not drunk!

Ok, back to comics. I have a cover for a new comic drawn, inked and colored. I have a title. No, it's not the superhero comic. No, it's not the comic I came up with after that. Is it the comic that I'll actually be doing? I can't say. I've lost momentum, at them moment, due to baby-related circumstances. And also Christopher Moore's book A Dirty Job. It's funny. You should read it (it's about a guy who becomes Death...I think I may've read a comic along those lines *hint hint*). Anyway, I've been painting the baby room, which is becoming a great deal more involved than I had anticipated. Partly because I hadn't thought about how much math would be involved in turning my design into a full-sized painting. Partly because the painter's tape we bought sucks and it does NOT make crisp lines that don't need to be touched up afterwards. And there was a lot of tape used on just the first wall.

On a related note, I think I may need someone to go down to the Duck Tape people's headquarters and set the place on fire...

Something I Realized While Pulling Up My Crappy Socks For the 50th Time Today...

Wow. My feet reek today.

Like, corpse-in-a-pile-of-dead-fish-left-in-the-sun-over-a-three-
day-weekend stink.

Not Again!

So, I was at Wal-Mart yesterday.

It was right after work, so I was still in my khakis (which I have a crease pressed in), a long-sleeved, button-down, collared shirt (tiny blue and white squares), and a red and white necktie with little blue diamonds in the white spaces.

I was walking near the hardware section (on my way to electronics for a new case for my toy phone) when this "southern gentleman" (redneck with a mullet in a beer-stained wife-beater) asked me, "Where do you keep your (some item that Wal-Mart carries that I was suddenly too irritated to hear)?"

I did not use the element of surprise to swivel him around and impale him on the pegs sticking out of the end-cap display beside him.

That's what we call, in these parts, restraint.