Adventures in Animation: The Legend of Korra

You look at my blog over the last few months, and I think you'll see that I tend to post about the same things, over and over again. New recipes. New drawings. New little stories I've written. And, of course, cartoons. Lots and lots of cartoons. I don't want to say that all I do with my time is cook, draw, write, and watch TV, but to say anything else would likely be dishonest, and the Internet has no room for liars. Still, I've been thinking I need to make a more concerted effort to get out and socialize more. After all, I've really neglected a lot of dear friendships recently, and...

Wait, the sequel series to Avatar: The Last Airbender is on sale at Target for $10? Well, I can always make friends later...

So Avatar (no, not that one) was pretty awesome. I loved the beautiful, fluid animation. I loved the well-rounded, lovably human characters. I loved the fighting. BOY did I love the fighting. So I got all excited when I heard that there would be a sequel series, starring the next generation of heroes. Eagerly I awaited the series premier of The Legend of Korra, and then, when it finally arrived, I promptly ignored it for about a year.

What? I was busy.

Korra takes a lot of what I loved about the original series and improves it. The animation is even better - you'd be hard-pressed to find a better looking show on television. I can't think of anything that looks even half this good. Korra's got the same mysticism as the original series, now set against a steampunk backdrop. And that makes for some absolutely fantastic visuals.

And then there's the main character - Korra is quite possibly THE BEST.

I love this character design - she's got all the costuming of the arctic region she comes from, and yet it's stripped down to hang about her waist. This shows not only that she's a transplant, that she's moved to a warmer climate, but also that she's a bit of a scrapper. She's got swagger, 's'what I'm sayin'. Where the protagonist of Avatar: The Last Airbender was a peaceful (if somewhat goofy) monk, Korra's a bull-headed jock. She's stubborn, impatient, and often angry. It's a great contrast, and a really interesting character to watch.

The music of the show's pretty grand, too. You hear a lot of the same placid Eastern instrumentation that you had before, but with some early 20s horns thrown in as well to capture the more urban feel of the new setting. The world of Korra is a pretty rich one, and I'm hoping we see more of it.

It's not a perfect show, and time will tell if it manages to surpass the original. Not all of Korra's characters are as compelling as the lead - love-interest Mako is especially bland - and the end of the first season feels a little rushed, brushing over plot threads that could have led to some fascinating exploration of the purpose of mysticism/spirituality in a culture that, thanks to technological advances, has long since outgrown the need for mythology. Maybe that's a bit too heavy for what is still essentially a children's show - but let me tell you, the fanfiction I'm writing in my head is all SORTS of deep.

I can't say that people unfamiliar with the original Avatar series will be as fond of Korra as I am, but I'm certain anyone looking for a real-deal action girl will be reasonably satisfied by what they find here.

Project 28: Pickle Sandwich

There's a scar on my forehead - faint now, and it used to be hidden under a hairline that has since retreated to higher ground. I doubt most people would know it was there. Even I barely remember how I got it. The following story I've pieced together from my parents' recollection of the events. And because of the pickle sandwich, I know it's true.

At four years old, I could be irrational, demanding. I'm sure that's a characteristic belonging to most young children, who have yet to be persuaded that the world revolves around something other than them. In fact, I imagine I was cooler headed than a lot of children that age, so much so that now, with some sense of regret, I look on irrationality as a virtue, as if I wish to make up for tantrums lost. Still, I must wonder how my parents felt when, on that Sunday afternoon so long ago, I asked that they, for lunch, prepare me a pickle sandwich.

"What do you want?" my mother asked again.

"A pickle sandwich!" I said.

"And what do you want on it?" 

"Pickles!"

"And did you want anything else on it?"

"Um," I said with all the thoughtfulness of a toddler, "I want butter."

Resignation. "Okay," my mother said. "Go get your brothers, and we'll say prayers."

With infantile abandon, I turned and ran to gather my older siblings for the blessing on the food. I say "infantile" rather than going for the usual cliche with the word "reckless," because a combination of culinary anticipation and a lack of motor skills meant that my brief jog through the house would be anything but "wreck"-less. Within seconds, I had collided with a wall. I bellowed in pain and ran straight to my father, still dressed in his nice Sunday shirt.

My dad paid the price for fatherhood in white shirts.  Already he had sacrificed one to me when, as an infant, I blew out a diaper during church services.  Now he had no choice but to hold me, bloody forehead and all, while my mother grabbed her car keys to drive me to the instacare, where I received my first stitches.

Afterward, my head all bandaged up, I sat placidly, mulling over my misfortune, mouthfuls of pickle sandwich in my mouth.  I remember the sandwich quite fondly, and how my mother sat next to me while I ate it.

That said, the sandwich itself was rather disgusting.

My first attempt at flash memoir. Not the greatest effort, perhaps, but a good deal more honest than a lot of stuff I've written recently. Yes, even that bit with the diaper is true.

The drawing was a bit rushed. If I'd taken more time with it, I think my mother would have looked a lot less like Lois from Family Guy.

Your Face!

Taste my fist of fury!

So I've been watching The Legend of Korra, the sequel series to Avatar: The Last Airbender - probably my all-time favorite cartoon. It put me in the mood to watch women kicking butt, so I drew something like that. Good fun. Good, good fun.

Reach Out and Touch Me

Why I'm Still Single 52

Project 27: On a Hungry Island

That moment, when my ship broke apart, when I was thrown about by the waves, was an almost joyous one. Death held no more fear for me, and I let myself float.

The first of my miracles was the sandy island which received me. I arrived with nothing more than a few bumps and a bellyful of sea water to show for my trials. I vomited, and then I slept again. I hadn't the strength yet to move up from the shore, and so I remained in the sun until it nearly set, until the tide rolled in over my ankles.  There was a nip at my heels - teeth from the ocean. I jumped to my feet and ran as much as my sapped body allowed.

When the morning came again, I looked around. Some small trees for shade, a mile of sand, and a wide, weary silence. I heard neither the burble of running water nor the bark of animals. My lips flaked like parchment. I thirsted.

Without a knife to carve my story in the trees, I wrote instead with my finger in the sands by the beach. "Once upon a time," I began. I had no other task to occupy my mind, and so I wrote all that day. The tide came in. The water washed over my toes, and again I felt the clicking teeth on my skin. I retreated to the tree line and watched the water overrun the sand. My story had been dev

Now for the second of my miracles - I began to sweat. Understand I had taken no water that day, and I soon expected to die of dehydration. But I swear to you, that after the voracious wave washed my story away, my belly filled. My lips were smooth, and my tongue was wet. I felt the thirst no more.

I survived like this for days, weeks. Every day, from sunrise to high tide, I wrote in the sand. Nursery rhyme and fairy tales, at first, but these often left me hungry still at the end of my day. I tried my hand at elegant fictions, like the ones I'd read in my youth - stories of hard men with guns and the women who lied to them. These I could never complete satisfactorily, and I slept those nights feeling bloated and uncomfortable, as though I had eaten too many sweets. At no point did I feel as satiated as I had that first night. I believed the ocean craved truth, and so I began to write the only true stories I knew. I wrote stories of my own life.

I started with the story of my birth, as well as I could remember it from what my mother told me. From there I moved on to my early friends at school, the time we moved when my sister was born, my first stitches. Months passed, and I continued to write of my divorces, the employers who sacked me, and my little girl, whom I had not seen in five years. I wrote all of these, and every night the ocean came and swept my stories away, leaving me full, but always just a little thinner. As I gave to the ocean of my history, I felt that I was giving away pieces of myself.

And, indeed, I woke one morning with nothing left to write. At first, there was the panic that comes from the inevitability of starvation - had I truly written everything there was to say about myself? Had I given everything I was to the sea, only for it to continually devour more? Was I so insubstantial?

In truth, these feelings passed surprisingly quickly. My thoughts turned away from the tragedy of death and towards... I don't know. Can one claim "vengeance" against an impartial force of nature?

Tapped of my stories, I spent my last day lying on the beach, waiting for the nipping waves to finally devour me whole. Since the ocean had so gladly devoured everything inside of me, I decided to let it have my outsides as well. And so, when night fell, and the waves came again, I let them bite at my feet, my legs, my chest and head, until I had completely washed away.

Lotta stories about death recently. Guess I was just feeling a bit morbid.

I have a lot of fun working with textures and shading while doodling. Variety in technique helps a picture feel more alive, so I try really hard to incorporate such variety - when I don't get impatient.

The Piano-neers

They scale treacherous clefs. I hope they don't get into treble.

Happy Pioneer Day, Utah!

A Wrong Turn

Saturday was Ward Temple Day for my ward. Since I'm currently the Temple/Family History Committee Chairperson Thing, I was in charge of organizing a group to head off for a session at the Jordan River LDS Temple. We were supposed to meet up at 9:30. I got there a bit before the meeting time, so I leaned back in the driver's seat for a quick nap. By 9:40, nobody'd shown up. I figured I'd head off to the temple by myself. I got about halfway there before I realized that... I don't actually know where the Jordan River Temple is.

You mean I was supposed to turn right?

After driving around for another half hour, I went back home, got some lunch, and... decided to head off to a completely different city. I mean, I know EXACTLY where the Bountiful temple is. It's only an extra half-hour away or whatever. Besides, I had plans in Bountiful later that day.

Above: Nowhere near the Jordan River Temple.

So hopefully there's some metaphor for my life in there - I take some unexpected detours, but I wind up at a good place anyway. Also, I think I might need to get a GPS something.

Adventures in Animation: The Secret of Kells

Guys, this might be my new favorite movie...

Okay, I say that every time I see a new movie that makes me cry. I actually saw The Secret of Kells a couple of months ago when a friend and I were looking for some brain fodder on Netflix. The movie made a bigger impression on me than on my friend (or on his daughter), so I picked it up on the cheap at Barnes & Noble. And after watching it again last night... yeah, it might be my new favorite movie.

The Secret of Kells is about a young boy named Brendan. Brendan lives in an abbe with his uncle, who puts everyone in the abbe to work fortifying the town against invading vikings. Meanwhile, a visiting monk inspires Brendan to try his hand at transcribing the illuminated manuscripts.

The monk kinda looks like George Carlin:

Oh, and there's a fairy, who's got one of my favorite character designs in all of animation:

The animation's not quite what we've gotten used to from Disney, so it takes a little getting used to. The art style takes a lot of cues from the old illuminated manuscripts that the entire plot revolves around. But, if you can get used to that, there's a lot of depth to this story.

And I mean A LOT of depth. The illuminated manuscripts are obviously Christian in nature, yet Brendan gets a great deal of assistance from creatures from pagan mythology. The abbot diverts attention away from the transcription of scripture so that the physical safety of his town can be assured, while George Carlin believes that the Bible is the most worthwhile way they can spend their time. These conflicts between faith, practicality, and superstition create a compelling, convoluted world for young Brendan to try to comprehend.

Personally, I came away from the movie with a strange sense of optimism. I've had this bizarre, almost terrifying sense that there's something pretty bad coming my way - much like how the abbot anticipated the arrival of the vikings. There's no way to turn the disaster away, yet, with faith, the disaster can be endured, and beauty planted in its place. It's a beautiful message.

Or, you know, maybe I'm just off my lithium.

Where the Party At?

Euclid throws the best parties... but he's got the strangest friends.

Project 26: Sandcastle

I don't remember the exact moment when I realized that my every aspiration was a subtly-fabricated lie. Yet the realization did come, and I buried that unpleasant little truth the only way I knew how - under miles and miles of stories. I collected them, my favorite movies and TV shows, all pressed together between two little plastic discs and neatly arranged on my bookshelf, ready to pop in to the DVD player at for a moment's distraction.

Somehow I attracted company. My wife joined me, but, as she curled her head into my shoulder during the slow parts of the movie, I never thought it appropriate to ask her whether she shared my suspicion that our dreams were just shallow puddles slowly drying up in an inevitable sun. She seemed happy enough to be there with just me for company - until, of course, the third one came.

Wesley is definitely my boy. He finds as much comfort in watching those stories play out on the television as I do, although I suspect that he just enjoys watching the pretty lights and colors. He is only two years old, and I'm so proud of my boy. He now say three words: "mama," "no," and he just learned "more."

Wes and I have finished watching a cartoon, one of his favorites. I put the movie away in its little plastic package on the shelf, and there he is, my little boy, groping up at the air and saying, "More. More." I grab his hand and try to lead him away, but he yanks himself away and goes for the boxed movies again. I reach down to pick him up, but he sees me coming, screams "No," and runs away. It must be nap time, I think to myself, so I go to the kitchen to get him a drink to put him down with.

As I stand in the kitchen, I hear a succession of noises, each an indispensable paragraph in an all-too-familiar tale. First, the small crash. Then, the succession of crashes, a veritable downpour of noisy collisions. At the climax, the dreadful silence, that most terrible of sounds. It's almost a relief when Wes finally lets out that painful cry.

It all happens so quickly, I only just had time to drop the bottle in the sink before the wailing began. I steel myself and run back through the doorway, dreading what I will see. Surely, I think, the damage can't be as bad as it sounded. Wes is only two - barely tall enough to scratch my knee. Surely he couldn't have upset such a tall bookshelf...

But, of course, he did. Every single box has fallen from its place. A few still lie, slumped and exhausted, on the shelf, but the rest are heaped on the floor. So many beautiful stories, thrown down like so much garbage. It's a miracle Wes didn't bring the whole unit down on top of him. How on earth could a little boy be so strong?

I see a particular treasure of mine - a beautiful collector's edition box of The Lord of the Rings, which packaged the movies with a limited print art book of concepts and character sketches. It's a rare item, the prize of my collection, and it's currently supporting the weight of a grabby little tyke with tears and snot in equal portions running down his face. His little sneaker slips on the cover of the art book, tearing it sloppily off, and down he plummets again. His cries get louder.

And what can I do about it? I pick my little loinfruit up, brush the back of his head, and whisper in his ear that everything will be okay. He rewards me by burying his dirty face into the shoulder of my shirt and blubbers, "Mama." We stand like that for a good five minutes, him rubbing his facial runnings all over my shirt, and me pretending not to mind. By the end, he's fallen asleep, and I'm left to silently contemplate everything that's just been destroyed before my very eyes.

I put Wes down in his crib, and then I'm back out in the TV room, carefully placing each dislodged item back in its rightful place. Some of the discs have fallen out of their cases, and I just know that they're scratched now. The art book, sadly, is beyond saving. I spend the better part of an hour re-categorizing the DVDs on the shelf. Just as I slump back into the deep, comfy cushions of my favorite armchair, I hear the slight "thump thump" of tiny fists on a bedroom door and the voice of my little Wes chanting, "More, more, more."

The easiest way to write a character seems to be to just write yourself. I try to write characters as if they were people completely distinguishable from myself, but not this time. Even though I don't have any kids, I tried to think of how I would act as a father and wrote that.

As I revised, though, I think the character got more and more depressed. So hopefully it's not TOO close to life.

Grave of the Fireflies: A Delightful Story of Childhood at its Most Joyous

That, my dear friends, is what we call "sarcasm."

I've long been a fan of Studio Ghibli, but it's only been recently that I've come across this title - probably because it's not a film that Disney has the distribution rights to.  The more I've read about Ghibli's output, though, the more Grave sounded like a film I had to check out.  It's not the delightful magic of childhood that caught my attention, though.  Rather, I was drawn to a story that was destined to move slowly, inexorably, to a tragic conclusion.

That's not a spoiler, by the way.  The opening scene of the movie shows us the death of the main character.  His days are numbered from the title screen.  So what we get, then, is the story of a small boy and his even smaller sister, struggling to survive in a Japan devastated by firebomb attacks during World War II.

Like everything put out by Ghibli, Grave is a beautiful, beautiful film  Gorgeous, even.  The devastated Japanese countryside is rendered with sublime detail.  That makes the tragic deaths all the more heartrending to watch.

So this was a film made ostensibly for children, but that doesn't mean it's a simple story.  It doesn't talk down to its audience - it doesn't sugar coat its subject matter.  Death is painful, death is slow, and death is inevitable.

Probably the most fascinating aspect of the story, at least from my perspective, is the interpretation by filmmaker Isao Takahata.  Apparently, despite the death and tragedy that surrounds the American attacks on Japan during World War II, Takahata claims that Grave of the Fireflies is NOT an anti-war film.  Rather, he says (at least, according to Wikipedia) that the story is something of a meditation on how the children fail because of their removal from society.  They try to live on their own, and that's ultimately what causes their suffering.

At least, I think that's what he was going for.  I'm taking a lot of liberties with a brief synopsis of one man's opinion based on a third-hand source with innumerable editors.

It's not an easy movie to watch, but not every movie should be an easy one.  As far as hearty, bran-muffin-style entertainment goes, Grave of Fireflies is one of the more challenging, worthwhile movies I've seen in a while.  It's readily available on DVD and Blu-Ray, and I'm sure most libraries carry it.  If you find yourself in the mood for a good depression, check it out.

Cooking with Braddy: Gnocchi and Goat Cheese

About ten years ago (ty brdo, I'm old), I served a church mission in the Czech Republic and (more notably for the purposes of this post) Slovakia.  The national dish of Slovakia is called bryndzove halusky.  Whether that's an official title or not, the dish is truly emblematic of the country as a whole.  It's pretty simple - potato gnocchi smothered in a goat cheese called "brynza" and garnished with bacon.  Easy stuff, and totally delicious.

Too bad bryndza isn't for sale in the United States.  And that leaves me with too options:  Either find a replacement, or ship the cheese across the Atlantic Ocean.  The latter option's a bit too expensive for me, so I've experimented with some other flavors.  Feta is a decent substitute, as is the Chevrai goat cheese pictured above.

The recipe is a simple one - peel the potatoes, then grate them into a mush.  Add enough flour to turn the potato mush into a thick dough.  Cut the dough into pieces and add to boiling water.  Cook until they float to the surface, strain, and then add bacon, cheese, and just a little bacon grease (for flavor, of course).  It's heavy, filling, and, sadly, still no match for the real deal with bryndza.  But, to me, it's still comfort food, and I loves it.

I loves it so much, you guys.

PoemPROSE of the Week

The Widow

From Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie

No colours except green and black the walls are green the sky is black (there is no roof) the stars are green the Widow is green but her hair is black as black. The Widow sits on a high high chair the chair is green the seat is black the Widow’s hair has a centre-parting it is green on the left and on the right black. High as the sky the chair is green the seat is black the Widow’s arm is long as death its skin is green the fingernails are long and sharp and black. Between the walls the children green the walls are green the Widow’s arm comes snaking down the snake is green the children scream the fingernails are black they scratch the Widow’s arm is hunting see the children run and scream the Widow’s hand curls round them green and black. Now one by one the children mmff are stifled quiet the Widow’s hand is lifting one by one the children green their blood is black unloosed by cutting fingernails it splashes black on walls (of green) as one by one the curling hand lifts children high as sky the sky is black there are no stars the Widow laughs her tongue is green but see her teeth are black. And children torn in two in Widow hands which rolling rolling halves of children roll them into little balls the balls are green the night is black. And little balls fly into night between the walls the children shriek as one by one the Widow’s hand. And in a corner the Monkey and I (the walls are green the shadows black) cowering crawling wide high walls green fading into black there is no roof and Widow’s hand comes onebyone the children scream and mmff and little balls and hand and scream and mmff and splashing stains of black. Now only she and I and no more screams the Widow’s hand comes hunting hunting the skin is green the nails are black towards the corner hunting hunting while we shrink closer into the corner our skin is green our fear is black and now the Hand comes reaching reaching and she my sister pushes me out of the corner while she stays cowering staring the hand the nails are curling scream and mmff and splash of black and up into the high as sky and laughing Widow tearing I am rolling into little balls the balls are green and out into the night the night is black…

***

Not a poem. I get that. But I just read this passage in the Rushdie book I've been working on since... January, O think, and it creeped me right the heck out. Also, it was just plain awesome. One of the best things I've read in recent weeks, and I just had to share.

Big Screen Breakdown: The Way, Way Back

Every now and again, I need to watch a good movie that DOESN'T have superheroes in it. It's difficult, though, while I remain an incredible Dorkasaurus Rex and surround myself constantly with other breeds of nerdling. Movies that fall outside the ridiculous high-octane action realm of Superherovania tend to slip by without much notice. Thankfully, I've got friends who are pretty into cinema and like things OTHER than men in spandex.

Thus, The Way, Way Back, a movie I'd never heard of until the moment I walked in the theater door.

• What's the movie like? Well, it's sort of a cross between Juno and The Sandlot. If that appeals to you, then this is a movie you should DEFINITELY see.
• I don't really know who this awkward kid du jour is. His name's Liam James. He's a good 'un. Hope to see more of him.
• Don't be fooled: Even though he gets top billing, Steve Carell is NOT the star of the film. Instead, he plays... someone's creepy dad. It's hard not to see Michael Scott in his performance, but he manages to create a different kind of awkward. He's very effective.
• There are a few "Hey I know that guy!" moments. My favorite has to be Allison Janney. I haven't really seen her since The West Wing, and she's got a high energy character that you both love and hate every time she's on screen.
• There are a lot of swimsuits in this movie. Now, maybe the budget wasn't Scrooge McDucky enough to hire supermodels as extras or whatever, but there are a lot of body types in bikinis that you don't normally see in bikinis. Strangely, I found it kinda refreshing - more "realistic," more "all-inclusive."
• That said, there are enough lingering shots on girls in bikinis that it got just a little awkward. I guess I just think it's creepy to ogle teenagers in swimsuits. Sorry if that's weird.
• If there's a moral to the story, it's that adults are jerks, and kids are vapid. Long live eccentric man-children!
• Seriously, guys, the parents in this movie are THE. WORST. PEOPLE.
• Just a warning - there is a character here who could be considered a Manic Pixie Dream Girl. I know some of y'all probably don't like that. But, to be fair, the plot really focuses more on a Manic Pixie Dream Man-child.
• Eccentric man-children are the best.
• The whole movie's got this artsy, conventionality-be-darned feel to it, like what you'd see in Juno and 500 Days of Summer. It scratches a very similar itch.
• Verdict: Recommended, especially as a lemon-flavored palate-cleanser after too many summer blockbusters.

Braddy Reads The Old Man and the Sea

I don't read nearly as much as I used to. While reading was once a favorite pastime, now I find I would rather spend my idle hours writing or drawing. Creating rather than consuming.

Okay, I still watch hours and hours of cartoons, but those are pretty much a commitment from me by this point.

Anyway, yesterday I found myself taken with the urge to read a good story. I wanted to read something short and easy but not childish. It's a difficult set of criteria to meet, honestly, and I idly and aimlessly browsed the fiction section at the local library. Salvation came in the guise of a thin little volume by the incomparable Ernest Hemingway, that creation most loathed by high school students everywhere, The Old Man and the Sea.

I'd never read it before. My first Hemingway was about two years ago, and I loved it. The Old Man and the Sea was exactly the sort of thing I wanted.

The particular edition I picked up contains a brief introduction which spoils the entire plot in a paragraph written by Hemingway himself, so I started with a feeling of distrust lodged firmly in my psyche. How is Hemingway going to tell the story of a single fishing trip in which exactly one thing of note occurs, make it last 90 pages, and make it interesting? There's no way he can do that.

And, in a sense, that's probably true. I read most of the book while on my way home from work, on the bus, and I fell asleep while reading. A couple of times. Whether that was due to the quality of writing in the book or my own fatigue, though, I couldn't definitively say.  If I'd been a teenager at time of reading, though, I would certainly come away from the book hating the experience.
Thankfully, I'm no capricious teenager. This book amazed me, despite the beddie-byes. It's profoundly introspective and contemplative, all while maintaining that mythic fortitude of manliness Hemingway's known for.
I don't really buy into that myth, but it does make for good reading.
Short story shorter: I loved it. A bit slow at the start, but the ending's gorgeous.

You Ain't So Tough

Seriously, guys, if I could just spend all my time drawing monsters, I'd be ever so happy.

Project 25: Somewhere Near The End

Some days the rising sun brings with it the inescapable dread of another day of mere survival.  This morning, though, with its crimson slashes of red across a violent sky, I greet with the sincerest of smiles.  Today, of course, is the day I finally kill myself.

Like the best of things, my death must be met with decorum.  I rise, shower, make the bed I haven't shared with anyone in nearly a decade.  With the time I usually dedicate to rummaging for breakfast in the metropolitan rubble, I enjoy a wrapped coffee cake I have been saving for the occasion.  Then I arm myself with the spear and machete - the last of my weapons - and make my way towards the tower.

It's been there for years, staring down at the meager existence I've managed to scrape together from the ashes of a fallen civilization.  I don't know when it first occurred to me that the fallen precipice, still much taller than the collapsed piles of concrete and fluorescent tubing, would be the most fitting memorial I could hope to find.  I suppose I must have always suspected, ever since I first set eyes on the structure five years ago, that this would be the place I met my end.

It won't be that bad, after I'm gone.  There's nobody left around here anyway.  I would have seen them by now.  I've been looking.

I enter the lobby, surprisingly still intact after everything, although the marble floor and countertops are sprinkled with ash.  Curiosity compels me, and I press the call button on the elevator.  Of course it doesn't work, and so I take the stairs, whistling to myself as I walk.  I don't remember the name of the tune anymore.  It's a jaunty melody, something about being in love.

From the stairwell I enter a decimated boardroom or cafeteria.  I can't tell which.  The building used to be much taller, but the catastrophe sheared the remaining stories away.  Now there's just me, a good ten floors above the ground, ready to leap to my death.

Except there's still another story to be seen.  There, in the corner, the converging walls still hold up a bit of the ceiling that separated this room from the floor above.  The stairs are gone, but if I can just cling to the exterior wall, I might be able to climb up.  I, thinking I had nothing better to do with my day, made the effort, and succeeded in reaching the eleventh story after only a few minor falls.

Thunder cracks.  There's a storm coming.  I let the wind whip past me and breathe deeply the first clean air I've tasted in a while.  I look up to the sky and prepare to drop off.  One foot hangs over the edge, and I am ready.

But then, there's that voice again.  Jubilant, shrill, and blasphemously alive.  Somewhere, out in the dilapidated jungle of ashes, I can hear a child playing.

I scream at the voice.  I demand it to be quiet.  Another blast of thunder, and the voice is gone.  I prepare myself again to jump, but I've quite lost my momentum.  The first few drops of rain splash on my face.  I jump back down to the story below, throwing my weapons down, and I curl up again in the corner.

Beneath the ledge where I had hoped to jump to my death, I wait the rain out.  I plan.  When it ends, I will reclaim my weapons and move back through the city streets, to forage again in the cryptic shops and kiosks.  Then I will sleep again, and in my dreams I will hear the tragic laughter of children dancing through the end of the world.

I've been on a pretty morbid streak recently. Got a few projects about death coming round. Here's one of them.

There's not too much I want to mention about this project, except that the illustration is actually digital. I drew it in the Procreate app, rather than using pen and paper, even though it reflects my usual black and white aesthetic. In some ways, I actually liked using the app more than the pen - the ability to undo mistakes is a delight. Still, I feel like a pen gives me a bit more precision when I work, so I'm not ready to dive fully into the digital age yet.

Cooking with Braddy: Alleppy Shrimp Curry

Sooo... shrimp. That's something new for me. I've always been a bit reluctant to cook with seafood. Living in a landlocked state may have contributed to that decision. But I mustered the courage to give it a go, and I went back once more to The Mighty Spice Cookbook which has served me so well to find my first shrimp recipe.

I get scared of accidentally inflicting food poisoning on an unsuspecting diner every time I cook with chicken, so you can probably imagine how high the paranoia ratcheted up when I decided to cook with shellfish. Working with shrimp was a bizarre experience - probably the closest I've ever come to living in a horror film. You peel off the skin, rip off the legs, cut open the back and yank out the vein. It's appalling, and it's a lot of work.

I wound up leaving the tails on the shrimp when I cooked them, as I remember hearing once that the tails are where the fishy flavor resides. It made actually eating the dish a bit messy - I got my fingers covered in curry, which means I had turmeric nails for a few days. Which, you know, is fine, because turmeric is awesome.

The curry sauce wasn't my favorite, here - it was surprisingly mild. Needed more... spices. Which spices, exactly, I don't know. It already had mustard, ginger, and turmeric. I guess I missed my garam masala and cumin. Maybe next time.

Project 24: Give Me a Vision

The sun is beating on me,
And the sweat runs down my brow.
I've been so many places I
Don't know where I am now.
The truth is I've been searching,
Searching for so long,
Struggling up that path to heaven.
God, it makes me strong!

I can take the hailstorms
And bear the thunder's crack.
Throw the world up in my face
And I can beat it back.
Just give me a vision.
Bring it to my eyes.
Help me make my way at last
To paradise.

Some nights the rain is freezing.
Some nights the moon is hot.
I'd be grateful for whatever's mine
If I could remember what I've got.
A single night of peaceful rest
Is all I'm asking for.
This world's too full of bloody hills,
But I guess I'll climb one more.

I can taste the desert
From the dust upon my tongue.
Drop your fists upon me, now.
My body's already numb.
Just give me a vision.
Let the sun arise.
Help me make my way at last
To paradise.

Okay, this poem came across a little more pessimistic than my original vision. See, while I was writing, I was trying to recreate the feeling of some of the most deliciously
dramatic 80s music - like this one, for example. I guess I'm saying I went for "Eye of the Tiger," and wound up with "Show Me the Way." Both good songs, but SLIGHTLY different in tone.

Since there was something of a music theme going on (at least in my head), the picture is something I'd imagine on an album cover from the late 70s. A lot of abstract imagery. I don't know what the deal is with the battery nipples on the above figure. I thought maybe I'd seen something like it on an album cover before, but I wisely chose not to Google "battery nipples."

Project 23: Poison

He's a sunken man with lips like the sliding edge of a razor, and, whenever he comes to the corrals to buy, horses kick at the fences and whinny. He always barters for the strongest and healthiest mares. He leaves leading skinny mules by a limp rope.

"He smells like dog meat," the child always says.

"Hush, now," the mother replies. Tellingly, she never tells the child not to say such horrid things.

The thin man carries a bag wherever he goes: a leather attaché case, black and battered. When he walks, the case dangles from his arm without swinging. He walks like he expects the world to part for him, and it does. When he sits for the bus, he clutches the case tightly to his chest and refuses to look anyone in the eye.

When the man left his case on the ground next to a park bench while he went for a drink, a group of dirty urchins dared each other to steal whatever was inside. Only one adventurous girl with more bruises than sense worked up the nerve to peek under the satchel flap. The man returned, waving his arms and shouting and toppling over from the alcohol in his belly.

"It's snakes," the girl later said.

The man curled up around the bag, his head on the bench. "I'm a good man," he sobbed to no one in particular. "I help people, I do. But I love it, too."

The few passers-by that remained clicked their tongues. They knew what he said was half true. Which half, though, they couldn't say.

I got the idea for this story months ago while reading Midnight's Children, but I'm just now getting around to it. I've heard many artsy-type people say they hate drawing horses... and here I go writing a story that has horses right in the opening paragraph. Horse heads aren't particularly all that difficult to draw, but I did have a little trouble trying to recreate a horse's skull that didn't look like I was trying to rip of Georgia O'Keefe.

Not gonna lie - this is probably my favorite hand-drawn picture I've done in a while.

Bruise Hippopotamus

Why are you asking what it means? Bruise Hippopotamus is his name. Doesn't he LOOK like a Bruise Hippopotamus?

Cooking with Braddy: Cambodian Caramelized Ginger Bananas

Guys, I've been wanting to try this recipe since I first started using The Mighty Spice Cookbook last year. I was fascinated by the thought that ginger and banana could go together (a fact that I found out for myself not too long ago). Besides, I don't make desserts too often, and something this exotic just had to be delicious.

Delicious, it definitely is. What I didn't expect, though, is that it's really easy to make. Ten... maybe fifteen minutes.

Okay, the recipe I followed actually called for the chef to make his own ice cream (from the vanilla BEAN rather than vanilla extract), but I got lazy. Store-bought vanilla ice cream tastes pretty good, too, especially when it's topped by what is essentially fresh ginger trapped in rock candy.

The ginger doesn't actually cook in the sugar syrup, though. It just sort of steeps in it, like tea, and that's enough to allow the flavor to permeate the dish. The spicy ginger is tempered by the sweet banana and ice cream, so it's a great and distinctive treat.

Weepy Pants

I think there's something wrong with my eyes, guys. They get all weird and weepy-sweaty over the silliest things.

Sure, I've been known to tear up over the silliest things. Like a scene from a summer blockbuster, or a great joke in a book I'm reading, or a particularly epic passage of music, or a delicious spoonful of mango sorbet. But now I find I get misty from simple interactions with other people.

Any time I get a compliment from someone, I get a little teary. Heck, every time I give a compliment to someone, I experience the same thing. It's weird, and I'm not sure I like it.

I mean, I guess I could just go the rest of my life without ever complimenting anyone, ever. And I could respond to every compliment I get by just blowing the biggest of raspberries. I mean, I could do that, but I don't think Dale Carnegie would approve.

I think I'm just going to say that my glands are acting up or something like that if anyone ever calls me on it. That's a thing I can say, right?

It's not?

Well, poop.

Cooking with Braddy: Steak with Black Pepper Dip

I spoiled myself this weekend. I tried two new recipes from The Mighty Spice Cookbook, which by know I've sampled quite a bit from. I'm pretty fond of the book - not only does it offer fairly simple instructions, but it makes recommendations on dishes that pair well together. So I treated myself to a steak and ice cream feast (more on the dessert later).

It doesn't take much to cook a good steak - a little salt and pepper, and you're good to go. I do think my preparation methodology upset my roommate a bit. He asked excitedly if I was going to grill the steak. Wen I told him I'd be frying it, he looked disappointed in me.

The treat here is the dipping sauce for the steak - garlic, lemon, oyster sauce, and, of course, lots of black pepper. It's all got a nice flavor. Definitely a bit more exotic than your usual A-1 sauce.