4th Anniversary

Hi folks,

It's been nearly four years since I officially started AFE, and I've got some good news. First of all, if you've followed the site at all over the past few years, you know I'm terrible at updating regularly. I won't get into the reasons, but as of a few weeks ago I've made some personal changes which will allow me to commit to regular updates. That means a new strip every Thursday, and occasional updates at other times in the week. I'm trying to work up to two a week but I can't promise that yet, so let's just agree on Thursdays, OK?

In other news I'd like to announce that there will be a change in layout. I've had basically the same layout since 2006, and I think I can manage with a newer look. It won't be anything major, no new ads or style shifts. I'm just going to streamline the news section at the bottom of the archived pages, and probably add "intro" and "help" pages. That means when you type in the URL you will no longer land on the latest comic, but instead go to a grid of recent updates. I know this sounds effed up, but trust me, it'll be fine. My main reason for doing this is to make it easier for visitors to see what they've missed, and make internal navigation easier. In the past I've found the breakdown between main strip updates and the "other" section to be a little clunky, and I'd hate for you to miss any new pages I put up. You'd hate to miss them, too. Also, I'm hoping to attract some new readers and I want them to feel right at home when they get here. I'm going to put up a picture of coffee and donut holes, and the word "free".

Lastly, in webcomics news, I went to Webcomics Weekend 2. It was put together by the real-life people from TopatoCo in Easthampton, MA. They put on a really great show in their huge old mill building, and it was swell to see some of the faces behind the art. I got a chance to meet some insanely talented creators, play with toys I can't afford, and laugh and laugh and laugh. I was also lucky enough to meet Ryan North, whose webcomic was what made me want to start my own site way back when. Ryan is the author of Dinosaur Comics, and he also started the advertising program Project Wonderful, both of which were really nice things to do. Although, I must say, I had expected him to be taller. He's only about 6' 8". How tall is T-Rex? Like a hundred feet? Is that something anyone can even answer? Anyhow, forget I mentioned it. Great times last weekend in Easthampton.

I need a lover that won't drive Steve crazy

You ever notice how the radio in my hometown in Massachusetts only gets about three stations? I have noticed. Lots of people have noticed. I'm heading back for another summer and we listen to the radio A LOT. While we're maintaining, when it's leisure time, in and around the shop and when Uncle Vito calls us to prayer. All of these times are suitable for fm radio. Like I said though there are only three stations. One of the stations is terrible, the other one is garbage. The last station is classic rock. This station plays nothing but hits. The way you can tell they're hits is because they've been on the radio since they were released 30 to 50 years ago. Every day, in every way, you are guaranteed a steady stream of classic rocks that you still remember from yesterday, and which you can predict well past tomorrow.
My good friend Derrick Waldo saw this repetition and made a fun game. He turns on his radio, and when he sings along he replaces "me" with "Steve". Holy crap! Waldo you have beaten new life into dead icons! The Beatles suddenly tell you that she's in love with Steve, but I feel fine. What is that about!? Who is this guy? I want you... to want Steve. I would love for you to love Steve. You must have me confused with someone else. Oh really? Is that so? You don't know Steve but I'm your brother. Take that to the streets. Hell, go ahead and take it to the bank. Don't walk, don't run, fuckin' FLY. Like an eagle. Let your spirit carry Steve.
All of a sudden, Boston is in a whole new light. You must understand this; I've watched you for so long that I feel I've known you, I know it can't be wrong. If we just get together, I want to make you see. I'm dreaming of your sweet love tonight, come on and let it be. Let Steve take you home tonight.
Is this frightening you? Are you afraid? Have you fled from your radio dial? Baby, come back. You can blame it all on Steve. I was wrong, and I just can't live without you. The possibilities are effin' staggering, and most of the time it works. Don't believe me? Go ahead and try, go ahead and take Steve on. (take! on! Steve!) I'llll beeeee goooooone/ innnnnn-uUUUHHH day or twooOOOOOOoooo

One Trillion Is Not A Real Number

I heard the other day that Alex Rodriguez came out and admitted to the world that he has chickpea-sized testicles. That takes a lot of courage. Thanks a lot for that, A-Rod. I think what would be nice to see in the news is more cheats and crooks getting paid lots of money. It would be nice to see them never ever perform well in the post-season, too.
My friend Andrew was talking about Superman the other day. He made a pretty good point. He said that Superman can fly, and be bulletproof and shoot lasers and make decisions. Lex Luthor, on the other hand, can't do most of those things. Lex Luthor is Superman's nemesis. He can't even run very fast on account of being a fat-ass. He is just a normal human being who is really greedy and good at business. For some reason he hates Superman, and they fight a lot, and sometimes Lex Luthor almost wins. He almost beats a bulletproof super-good-looking man that can fly and shoot lasers. It's funny because there is no such thing as Superman, but there are literally thousands of Lex Luthors. Thousands of normal, overweight guys who are greedy and good at business.
When I say it's funny, I mean it's funny in the way a good plane crash is funny. But not one of those cartoon planes. I mean a funny, real plane that's trying to land, but someone puts a stupid mime on the runway. And the mime is stuck in a stupid invisible box and he's trying really hard to get out, so he can feed his family.

Goddam Popular Science again

Every goddam month, every goddam cover. Some variation of the question "...is this the future of personal flight?" next to a picture of some kicked-out-of-the-comic book-convention me-tard wearing a photoshopped jetpack/jetcopter/rocket-zeppelin piece of HOOEY. The future of personal flight? Popular Science, you have been asking this same question for DECADES. Read your own goddam magazine. The future is now, and no one is personally able to fly (also, in the future future, jetpacks still won't work for shit. And useful technology still won't be popular).

On the cover of the February 2009 edition is Yves Rossy, a man destined to not usher in the future of personal flight. He is shown wearing his homemade, eight foot wide, 130 pound personal flying wing. He has spent enough "to buy a very nice sports car every year" for the past decade of research and development. I am pretty goddam sure that he doesn't read Popular Science.

Inside the article you can read about his flying machine. Depending on whether you believe the photo caption on page 40, or the article text just beneath it (the future of personal flight is poorly cross-referenced), it carries either 3.5 or 7 gallons of fuel. With full tanks, it can carry a single human asshole 22 miles(!), giving it a fuel economy somewhere between a Ford Excursion with flat tires and a Hess station that is on fire. America is reading this article and thinking, "Finally, someone who understands my problems!".

There is, however, one caveat; you need to start your trip from a goddam PLANE. Seriously. This month's installment of personal flight is only possible if you start "flying" out of a Cessna at 6,600 feet. That's like calling a sidecar the future of personal motorcycling. And then putting it on the cover. And then pretending it's science. Every. Goddam. Month.

I am robbing a bank

This hasn't been new in a long time, and there's reasons why. It's hard to drive and draw at the same time. I've been driving for the longest time lately. I left Fernie BC on the 2nd of May, with all of my things and my friend from NZ. Good dude, helped with the gas and stayed awake in the passes.
We drove out to Vancouver to see some folks, friends from summer camp years ago. If you've never been to Vancouver in May, read something by Dr. Seuss. It is just that palette and proportion. Hundred and one shrubs and bushes, every tree a different impossible color and flowering, weirdos, needles with children around and off-color ham, I'm sure. Really strange place. People move on a train in the sky. Or on the nicest sort of bicycles, but only the adults. You want to yell "Get a job/car!" but you don't, because you can tell they have both. They choose to ride a bike, with a grim resignation to how much fun they are having on nature. Determined. I've never seen such faces on a bicycle. Jarred, my friend from NZ, thought he had a room for the summer in Ladysmith, a town on Vancouver Island. In the capacity of valet I went along, having been to the Island once before and anticipating good times.
Ladysmith is delightfully misnamed. It is a very well kept retirement community on a hill overlooking the water. I secretly called it 'Old Ladysmith' because of all the old ladies. It was a pretty juicy secret and I lost sleep over it. As I said before the lawns and houses were very well looked after. Let's call them plots. Not what Jarred was expecting, so we bailed on the room and tried to hitch it to Victoria. I understand the roads there are paved in wood from the old growth. Maybe there would be young adults and jobs as well. Trouble is, there are no free rides in Ladysmith. Hold up your thumb and a napkin with "VIC" written on it. Wait. Receive free oldangryface. Repeat. Sucks real bad, so we went to the beach, which turned out to be rank and oystered. Or something. They cut my feet. In the capacity of valet, I returned to the mainland with my Kiwi.
Vancouver to San Fran was a good drive, and by now Jarred had planned to fly home from California. Which was perfect, because he'd proved himself comfortable with the CD machine and never hesitated to help with gas. Good dude. As an aside, in New Zealand they drive on the left (wrong) side of the road, so we were both happy to let me drive. After a full day through Washington and into Oregon, it was time to camp. We forwent a fire and instead cooked Subway. A few turns and false starts later and we had found a quiet spot to sleep, on the rocky banks of the Squamas river, shortly after sunset.
The beer tent, as concieved by myself and my attorney on previous roadtrips, is recyclable, portable, refreshing, and easy to install in any light. Unlike a real tent, which protects the physical body from the elements, the beer tent insulates the mind from the physical body. A deft bit of outside the box thinking, thank you very much, and here's one for the mayor. And his wife! Jarred was a little suspicious when I explained my plan to sleep on a twelve pack of icehouse and a tallboy as pillow, but he got into the spirit of things before too long. If you drink your tent fast enough, you can sleep anywhere. Even if it rains a little. Even on rocks.
Driving off a hangover on the highway is a ticklish business, and I don't recommend my mother read about. We made it to San Francisco just fine and Jarred made his flight.
In SF, I had a really good time. I think I might move there. Babes grow there like, jeez I dunno, like avacados. Like artichokes grow. In California. I'm told avacados grow really well in California. My friends Al and Matt had a couch for me, and a puppy for when everyone was at work, and even a friend and fellow unemployed to show me the town. Annie Pants was like a sherpa and a sailor on shore-leave combined. Steeps and cigarettes, all daytime every daytime, no burden at all. I also had a chance to hang out with Al's brother, Zanzibar. He really likes comix too, and I was thinking while we were in the Bay Area, maybe we could track down that ol' Chris Onstad. Maybe we could hot glue googley eyes to all of his mail in his mailbox, or maybe onto his recycling, for like the thousandth time. But I guess adults don't really do that to other adults, unless they know one another, so no.
The second to last night I was there, gay marriage was legalized in California, and Castro had a party. Oh man. You'd open up a bar there called the 'Pot of Gold', make a fortune. That, or "The Thunderdome" (that was Jarred's joke, he said it to me very quietly, about a man dressed in public).
The last night I was there we went to a Giants game and they lost to the Chicago White Sox. There is a player named AJ Pierzynski who sucked for the Giants but now he plays good for the Sox, and no one in San Francisco likes him. We had close seats and we yelled so he'd hear, Al especially. No one knew what AJ stands for but we had some ideas. I really would like to move to San Francisco.
Driving down the coast to LA to see a friend and aspiring actor, and I found I had no AC in my car. My friend took me running, and swimming, and then eating (but not tanning, shopping, or scha-mooozing). LA was nice, but hot, and maybe I gave you a card there? I handed out a lot of promotional materials, and then I left without really saying goodbye to any of you fine people.
My Uncle Brian in Scottsdale, Arizona, had just finished renovating his house and it was nice. Really nice. Full cimate control, fans, linens. For two gorgeous nights I had my own room and bath, and when I told Uncle it was like sleeping in a space ship, he said 'Oh yeah, good sleepin', right?" and I said "Oh yeah!" and I wouldn't lie to family, friends, not this guy.
The next thing I knew, I was on my own way home. From Scottsdale to Western Massachusetts was a short walk under 2500 miles. I drove it in 53 hours, I'm proud to say, and at some points I was getting nearly 40 miles per gallon. It was hard though, going it alone and changing my own CDs. The roads all look the same. The CDs on repeat. I found myself investing in the black swirls of rubber left behind by accidents on the highway. Smooth curves out of control, sharp curves collision, cure and cause combined for daydreams about better ways, better places to die. Than on the highway. Through Tulsa.
I got home about two weeks ago, worked camp maintenance for the week to dent the bills, then headed roadwards again for a long weekend in Halifax. I went to see a girl. I went to listen to a girl. Beautiful beautiful and funny as anything, but as far as voices go, easiest on the ears. On a Friday night she and a friend and I went to the Ale House. The bouncer didn't like my Massachusett's driver's license. I produced my old university ID. Also no good, but luckily and for trump I had my PADI diving license. Color picture, listed me as age 25 and good to 30 meters. So he asked for my passport. His problem was that my driver's license lists my height at six feet even, yet I was taller than the bouncer, who listed himself at six four. I listed him as a short, douchey, balding bag. With politeness to rival consumption we moved downstream, to have a time, and the rest of the weekend escapes me.

When moose attacks go wrong

I saw a moose cross country skiing today. How he got in my pyjamas I have NO idea. Actually, it was a she. She straddled the trail. She ate some sticks. Then some other sticks, on the other side of the trail. Then she peed on the trail, like in that movie that one time. Wow, thinks I, this is getting boring. "Please get out of my way" I ask, to no avail. This being Canada, I repeat myself in French. Flicker of the ears this time. "Movez-vous" I says again. She stays where she's at, but now she's starting to get mean, and angry. I decide to dispense with the politesse altogether.
French is a pretty good language for antagonism, and despite my limited vo-cab I was able to give her my two cents about track etiquette, and would she please stick to the woods besides? Not at all, she looks to think, and with that she rounds on me and makes a full tilt rebuttal. Lucky for yours truly, mooses can't ski worth a damn. No kick, no glide, no refunds. Poles every which way, and on her own yellow snow. Graceful as a bottle of gin she hits the piste, steam fairly shooting from the earholes. She's fumbling at the binders to try and make a run at me but I'm off and past her, laughing a laugh, on my own way. Reminded me of a pet moose I had when I was a child. Wouldn't fucking listen, never came home.

The deli is closed

In Montreal, they give you tickets for parking the wrong way on a one way street after they change the direction of that street in the middle of the night without telling me. In Toronto, they give you tickets for parking because they feel obligated to do so. In Chicago, the post lady's supervisor puts a note on the door after your friend backs into the post lady's parked postal van and then drives away (she figured out where you live, friend, somehow). In Bloomington, Indiana, pursuant to the advice of my attorney, we walked. In West Fargo I slept, in Montana I sped, and in Fernie I now am.

Fernie town, in the Canadian Rockies, is so very nice. I came here on the advice of my uncle Nico, who calls it the tits. And he's not one to mix words. The people here are healthy and outgoing, with thick Australian accents. And the mountains. Rising like the very teeth of the earth, worn to bare granite and covered in snow for my amusement, like white bread on your molars after a sandwich before bedtime. The mountains here are huge. They are humongous. They are stone cold MOUNTAINOUS. My first day here I tried out my cross country skis. Maybe it was the elevation, the month of cake-eating followed by two solid days of driving and peanut butter and bacon, but it was awfully hard, uphill work. "Dog shit slow", to quote my high school ski coach. I may have had a cold at the time. The second day I rested. The third day I rode the downhill snowboard without incident. And now it's drawing time, huzzah.