Lethargic Lad Issue #1

It was created by a group of animators and one teacher within my class at Sheridan College. These were the “cool guys” that sat at the back of the studio who were tight and occasionally monopolized the facetime of the Layout teacher, Brian LaMay. Every so often they would produce a original ‘zines that were 5×7 in size and were filled with sight gags and artwork that would make our life drawing teacher faint, but you could tell the stories (sometimes broad, sometimes laser accurate parodies of current comic/movie/TV happenings) that they loved the medium. And that they didn’t have any girlfriends.

The day their full colour (cover) issue in proper comic book format came out, I was sitting at my desk in third year animation class. Greg Hyland entered the lofty classroom and slammed a pile of them down on his desk. Like something out of a Disney movie, the class crowded around and shucked out the $2 for a copy. As I got mine. Greg smiled and said “Check out page 5.”

LLad - Page 5

That’s me, and my roommate at the time, Ray Larabie (who is now in Japan hawking fonts, lucky bastard). We’re being accosted by Greg’s creation: Guy With A Gun, a ripoff parody of The Punisher. I was happy I got two lines over Ray’s one. Suck it!

I see that Greg has kept Lethargic Lad going all these years and is working as a storyboard artist. Good to see!

It’s Da and he asks if we want to go to Costco one last time.

Huh?

The Bonneville is on its last legs. He doesn’t think he will renew the plates. This will be our last bulk shopping tirp.

That Bonneville. That 18 year old monster of a car that seats 5 with real leather interior. Da’s most luxurious car purchase (most luxurious if you don’t count the Starsky and Hutch style two tone, two door silver Ford LTD back in the late 70s) has ever so slowly become a nuisance instead of a convenience.

The Bonnie is a massive car. It runs 199.5 inches (16.5 feet – the 70s station wagon version got up to 19ft!) from nose to spoiler, 75 inches wide, where the average car length today runs about 10-13 feet. You could fit a couple of bodies back there and still have room for skis (the centre divider armrest in the back seat opened into the trunk so you could do just that). Da’s car is a deep green with fog lamps (the switch for these located cockpit style, just over your head on the roof), dual seat controls in the hump (see video), steering wheel audio controls (cassette tape deck!) and a curious HUD with speedometer/compass.

Yes. A Heads Up Display right on the windscreen that constantly reminds you how much you’re speeding. The single most coolest car gimmick I have ever encountered since the talking door alarm.

Despite the ginormous size of the car and the oomph of the engine, I was never caught speeding in it. Lord knows I had it up around 140-150kph a few trips, but don’t tell Da.

When Da tells me that he’s setting the old girl out to pasture, I recall all the times I borrowed the car for so many trips/tours/hauls. Numerous house moves where I packed my meager stuff into the trunk/back seat – I estimate 9 apartment moves. Is that too much in 17 years? So many Ikea runs with flimsy pressboard furniture strung to the roof. So many campground set ups and tear downs in all sorts of weather. And subsequent car cleanings because of it. So many trips to Brockvegas and back.

I recall picking up SharkBoy with it in our budding relationship for a few dates, just after he gave up his monster Toyota SUV. I think the fact that we had access to a big car, post-SUV, helped him ease the pain of being without car. I also recall a few good night kisses.

In the last year the poor girl’s deterioration was fast and furious: the coolant levels sensor blew out just as SharkBoy and I started out on a trip to Montreal, even though we could see the jug under the hood was full. It stayed that way until Da had his mechanic tear out the sensor. The “area” on the steering column where the horn mysteriously hides suddenly died. My last trip in the old girl wasn’t anything eventful except noticing the exhaust is running a bit loud. The cost of repair and re-certification well exceeds the cost of convenience.

I would love to do a farewell video where shot for shot, we recreate the “out behind the barn” scene from Old Yeller.

Goodbye Bonneville. You’ve been a good friend.

Via BoingBoing

UPDATED: Bret Stewart (via Facebook) found a side-by-each video comparison. It’s truly a work of loveart.

I can hear SharkBoy’s spine compress and extend simultaneously as he reads that so I better explain myself.

On many occasion during my formative youth I had a tendency to attract guys who thought I would be something I completely wasn’t. I would often find myself stupefied at suggestion that would fall from my various date’s lips as the night progressed into the boozy, flirty time. Suggestions of violence or odd behaviour that would kill my desire just to cuddle or have plain, vanilla sex, of which, I’m utterly satisfied to have 90% of the time.

I’ve always dressed a bit rough. I’ve been told I have expressive eyes and combined with a shaved head and goatee since I was 21, I would often have to suggest to my date that discussing my next attack on their genitals while actually clothespinning various flaps of skin, probably wasn’t going to be as much fun for me as it would be for them.

While living in Ottawa, I purchased a motorcycle jacket at Costco. Yes. A full on, Marlon Brando bad ass motorcycle jacket that despite it’s purchasing origins, suggested that I rode a steel horse around town. I didn’t – In fact I was driving a 3 year old rusted out K car for the company I worked for. To add to this image of manlyman testosterone, I purchased a pair of engineer boots on sale at Filene’s Basement in Boston ($60!). Coupled with a tight tee and jeans, I looked pretty bad ass. One night I met a guy dressed similarly, but he was 6 foot, 2 inches, Germanic handsome, blond shock hair and muscular. When we got back to my place (I guess I looked good because he was blinded to the fact that we drove home in a K car) we discovered that we were essentially both wanting each other to do stuff to each other that we wanted each other to do to us each.

In short: we were both bottoms.

Discovering that you’re something you’re not while a god of a man stands before you is pretty tough on the self esteem. I did try, but I couldn’t be the guy he wanted me to be. We had a great friendship after that but I was still very attracted to him, which killed the whole friend thing eventually. I did learn about Bette Davis and Joan Crawford from him, for which I will be eternally thankful.

While working at a leather bar during Media School, these kinds of encounters were commonplace – I recall taking home one guy I thought was tall and handsome and clever but after we messed around a bit he stopped what we were doing (I thought it was going fine…) and said that we weren’t going to be compatible in bed and that the reason why was over in the corner of the room, in an old steamer trunk. I left shortly after that not knowing what was in that trunk. It haunts me to this day. Was I suppose to go open it? Was it full of dresses? Of knives? Weasels?

The weirdest was meeting someone who wanted me to physically abuse him (no surprise there, considering where we met. I was pretty open minded at that time and thought it wasn’t outside my realm of comfort) while talking about the sexiness of another bartender that I worked with (okay, first warning sign) and then crossing the conversation over to a fantasy where he is introduced to my actor brother in a professional, career building manner.

Seriously. He wanted me to twist his nipples off while fantasizing about my brother advancing his acting career.

After this incident I’ve come to believe that S&M and all that sub-culture paradigm was extremely reliant on damaging egos and breaking down self esteem. This was just weird. So as I lay there considering what he just told me I decided that one kidney punch wouldn’t hurt (me) and we were done.

Thing is, in this experience (and others) I’ve drawn from the experiences and molded myself. No, I’m not a bottom exclusively. No I can’t imagine inflicting extended amounts of pain on someone during sex. No I’m not going to introduce you to my brother. Or his agent.

So it’s up to you, dear reader, to advise me on my next venture. Choose wisely!

I thought so.

In all seriousness I found the Twitter comments much more engaging than the show, but I doubt I could have hit refresh, taken in the comments and watched the show at the same time.

Of the 60 some odd Twerps I follow (how can some of you follow 100? 300? A thousand?!) I would say that 90% of you were busy commenting on people’s outfits, eye rolling caught on camera’s cutaways or just basic tomfoolery (or lack there of). Best comment I read summed up the entire evening: From James Urbaniak: “Tyler Perry’s Tyler Perry!”

CB’s comment regarding the oddest dance sequence I’ve ever seen on an Oscar’s broadcast was spot on: “Where the fuck is Debbie Allen when you need her?”

But addinfulleffect summed up my feelings towards last night show: “These may be the worst oscars since the letterman uma oprah debaucle”

So underwhelmed. And was expecting so much more from Steve Martin/Alec Baldwin. Now, if you excuse me I’m going to light a candle for Bea Aurthur and Farrah Fawcett Majors.

I’m doing two hockey bags of laundry across the street and at the same time, trying to set up my niece’s new blog/magazine database.

In 10 minutes I have to go back to the laudromat and pull the two bags from the dryer, come home and fold it.

in about 30 min I want to clean up the living room from the massive chip and movie feeding frenzy we had last night.

In 1.5 hours I need to go get ingredients for a 6 hour slow cooker chili recipe. In 2 hours I have to dump all these ingredients into the slow cooker.

When that’s in the crock pot, I need to set up my salads/lunches/veggie snacks for the week.

In 4 hours I want to play an hour of BioShock2.

In 5 hours we have to go over to Da’s to set up his new TV stand.

In 7 hours, Da is coming over for dinner.

“Sunday is the day of rest” my ass.

Please hold all your Dufferin Mall jokes. I’m sure they’ve heard them all before.

Via Torontoist.

While on the island we discovered two things: Angelina had brought her precious cats with her. Not unlike SharkBoy’s stowaway of Patches. And Roseanne was in her fifties. My mouth hit the floor when I heard that. She looked like she could have passed for upper thirties, real early fourties, easy.

By the third dinner, I wanted to sit by them so I could get to know them better but alas I had to babysit Rudy for the most part.

I hope Angelina is keeping up the stage classes! Knock ‘em dead kid!

There’s a Canadian version out now and the LGBT section is a bit lacking in content (no offense to the people who are there). Of the 6 listed, two are written by Americans living in Canada, one is living in Ireland. Why not nominate moi? That’s deadrobot at gmail end the dot com thing.

What the hell does that mean, “Given up the ghost”?

Anyway. She was trudging along in front of us and we felt sorry for her as she barked orders at her husband and daughter. It can’t be good to start out a vacation with a flat tire.

To our surprise, she and her family were placed at our table. They were from Philly so conversation came easy for them. Especially her, Sue. The thing about Sue wasn’t how easy she could command a conversation (never a dull quiet moment with her – thankfully the content was interesting) but how much she resembled Mrs Puff from Spongebob Squarepants. (Bad video, but the voice and general body size is there)

They were a nice family and I did enjoy their company. She didn’t ask us if we were “brothers” and I suspect she sussed us out within minutes, however she didn’t ask about our relationship until day 10 or so. No matter, she had some doozey stories about drinking, children, cats, food, the army, various family members in the army, their grandson (who didn’t take is face out of his portable gamething all dinner long), hunting, you get the picture. If it happened, she could relate. But she wasn’t one-uppity with her stories.

On the last night of our cruise we all talked about packing and getting to our various homes and such. Depressing conversation about going back to the real world. At the end of the meal, we all stood and said our goodbyes, hugged our waiter and assistant waiter and gave each other hearty handshakes…

…except Sue and her family literally took off. One minute they were there, the next… Poof! No good bye, no nods, no eye contact, no nothing. Gone.

I’m convinced that it wasn’t Mrs Puff we were dining with but the actual Large Marge from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure:

“I was in WWII and we had these Japs come out of the forest and we shot two and then had to bury them right there.”

Huh?

“One grave was a bit short and the Jap’s knees stuck out!”

Pause.

“Can you believe it? We laughed. This poor bastards knees sticking out of the ground!”

Welcome to dining aboard the Explorer of the Seas.

I sat most of the trip beside a tiny 83 year old man by the name of Rudy from (shock horror) New Jersey, who was for the most part entertaining and a great time to talk to. The above exchange was one of our first conversations. I shrugged it off due to his age. But after day 7 he started to repeat himself unabashedly, prefaced with “I think I told you this…” and would still recant the story I heard a couple days before. Rudy spoke as if I knew his family intimately. His first story I learned of how his grandson’s neighbour’s son had come over and cleaned out his driveway with an old snow blower that he borrowed from someone and then the next snowfall Rudy offered the kid $40 (by the end of the cruise it was up to $60) to do it again but then Rudy went and got out the old snowblower in the garage that hadn’t been turned on in years and it started on one go. One go! And then he gave the kid the snow blower. Or something.

You get the gist of the thread of Rudy’s conversations.

He would start each conversation the same: leaning in to get your attention (he was nearly deaf on my side) and with hand to mouth as if to tell you a secret, Rudy would impart some beautiful gem of wisdom. Though the fingers by his mouth were splayed open, killing any hope of audio directional help or audio privacy, he kept his hand up by his mouth. It was a weird gesture but funny none the less. After he made his statement he would make a “Feh!” tip of his hand which today would be misconstrued as a symbol for gayness but to him it was a non verbal “Fuggedaboutit”. It was cute.

But Rudy had his set ways and seemed to be trapped in a post-war patriotic dream. One night we were discussing trips to Hawaii and the subject of the sunken memorial of the Arizona came up. A dinner guest mentioned that even today, a Japanese couple were ostracized during the sub ride down to the wreckage. Rudy went off on that:

“You have to watch what teachers are telling our kids. One time my daughter, who was I think 15 at the time, came home and said ‘what a horrible thing it was that we dropped the bomb on Japan’. I was so mad! I told her that if we didn’t kill those Japs, she wouldn’t be here today. I mean really! What are teachers telling kids today, huh? I’m glad that couple were treated that way, what with all those dead kids down there in the wreckage.”

I looked down at my napkin and I think I was wringing it so hard I nearly tore it in two. I didn’t say another word to him that night. I couldn’t. I think due to my silence he sensed that he stepped over some sort of conversational line and didn’t speak the rest of the dinner. The next night he was his old self again and the last night’s faux pas was forgotten. The rest of the cruise he was civil and the final memorable exchange was this:

Rudy: (leaning in) You know what’s a killer?
Me: No. What?
Rudy: Sugar! (Fugeddaboutit hand gesture). You know with all these medicines we’re living longer. I swear we’re living longer.
Me: We’re living in a modern world, Rudy.
Rudy: (Pause) Then again… (leans in closer, faux hand secret over mouth with splayed fingers) I haven’t had an erection for years.
Me: I think there’s pills for that.
Rudy: (Laughs)

Rudy’s wife was a pip. Even though she sat on his right and we never really spoke that much I could tell that she was sharp as a tack. SharkBoy told her that she had exact hair as Rita from Coronation Street. but she didn’t know the show.

(Fugeddaboutit hand gesture)