I had to move recently, hence the hiatus. If you’re a writer or an artist, moving is extra hell because of all the books. Big glossy ones for the coffee table (if applicable), thick reference tomes, and oodles of little half-finished sketchbooks.
Not an exaggeration.
In 2012, my friend Chay and I worked as audience members for the taping of a popular game show, hosted by Steve Harvey. We helped to provide a diversity that was wholly absent from the proceedings.
A long, long time ago, on a website far away, there was a thing that pulled in page-views like a drunken champion. It was about 50% my creation. The rest was appropriately and totally ripped off.
It was called “Name Your Rock Band”.
For the first handful of years of the 21st century, it was the most popular page on my site, Mike The Pod. In truth, it goes back even farther than that.
When you listen to a professional newscaster, you are hearing an “all-purpose” American accent, very similar to how black comedians make fun of white guys. It’s a mode of speaking designed to be understood by a wide variety of ages and backgrounds. It’s also totally alien sounding, especially when they lapse into a Spanish voice for words like “Nicaragua”.
Outside of America, accents are seldom a focal point.
In 1990, I relocated from New Jersey to Georgia. Originally, I had a curt New Jersey accent, like Jim Norton. My first year, I roomed with a guy from Rhode Island, and when I went back to Jersey for vacation, my friends couldn’t believe what a horror show my speaking voice had become. I was the caricature of the braying Yankee.
Let’s take a look back at 2016. Not in anger. In relief, that it’s done. I beg you all not to tempt fate as far as 2017 is concerned. Spoiler alert: more death.
Get down with your bad self!
2016 reeked so badly that even the lead singer of Motorhead wouldn’t go near it. 2015 was no plum, either, as it became obvious we were living in the alternate timeline from Back To The Future II. 2016 was worse. Continue reading
Deep cleansing breaths.
Some people are fans of something because the person that created it paid them attention.
I’m kind of curt about the fact that I don’t take suggestions from the audience. I don’t mean to be rude, but here’s the issue. If I take a suggestion, I am now beholden to the one who made it.
Not only that, I’ll have set a precedent, wherein that person will peruse my work in perpetuity, hoping for another use of the suggestion. It’s a kind of writer/audience codependency, and it’s unhealthy for either party.
It’s common practice in digital culture. Continue reading
Every so often, somebody inquires as to why the hell I call myself Matty Boy.
To which I affect my terrible Billy Bob Thornton impersonation, and reply, “would you ask Sonny Boy Williamson that?”
“Are you fucking with me?”
Since I’m referencing a radio debacle from years ago between Thornton and the guy from Moxy Fruvous, I receive blank looks in return. So let me clear the air a bit.
Today, a great hamster was laid to rest. His name was Boris.
We must not be sad, and instead celebrate the all-too-brief life of a beloved creature. Boris was curious, friendly, and adored by all who knew him; even the folks who disliked his kind. By some cosmic coincidence, the grey-and-white patches on his back formed a big “B”. Continue reading
Would you like the quality of life to increase exponentially over time? Try this.
Enforce a rule that 50% of the cover of every magazine and periodical must be professionally illustrated. Continue reading
I was banned from Facebook for 24 hours. I guess I shared a .gif of bouncing boobies with my friend, on a private page. I don’t know or care, to be honest.
Go ahead, pull up Zuckerberg’s terms of service. Point out the exact fine print where it says titties are bad for social media. Tell me I’m on someone else’s digital property. Then print those terms out, roll them up, and shove them up your mother’s pussy. Sideways. Continue reading