#279: The Maxxy's® Mannequin Shoplifter Subduing Syndicate

     As should come to no surprise, the North American turkey-human repast for interspecies peace took another grizzly turn this twelvemonth. Maintain your faith. There's always next year. In other tragic tidings, I realize that as the doorsteps of moonlit occidental suburbia were scuffled with zealous trick-or-treaters' wily white Converses on October 31st, the blog was laid embarrassingly bare. However, at the turn of the month, so was my scorched neighborhood slope, so my surroundings weren't exactly in my favor.

(Actor's portrayal. Mind the watermarks.)

      However, as my frenzied fickle pinballing from hotel-to-hotel has ceased and the smoke fumes are almost finished waging war on my nostrils, my ducks are finally in some semblance of a row. So, without further ado, a post one sluggish sooty month in the making: the Maxxy's® Mannequin Shoplifter Subduing Syndicate! Mannequins do not deserve your trust. Those blank faces. Those glossy, gangly extremities. That posh, modernist attire that makes them look like charter school performance artists. My skin crawls at the thought. However, while a phobia of all dapper nightmare models lining aisles across the globe wouldn't get you much besides a two-fer bundle on public panic attacks, at an infamous outlet in the JC-Verse, it could save your life, limb, and everything in-between. Keep your hands to yourselves and selectively on the shelves, because at Maxxy's Retail Surplus Superstore Co. Inc.®, it's you against them. Seriously, we're talking about five-and-dime fascism now, make no mistake. These sleek chain-store Chekists are the uncanny kin of tense anti-shoplifter opprobrium, and are tasked with mincing every five-finger discount down to the proverbial knuckle. You'd be living a kiosk-side facade if you assumed that those stuffy Windsor ties don't become whips, those necklaces nunchakus, and those pocket squares throwing stars on a dime. And don't even get me started on the break rooms. Programmed with a virtual archive of noir interrogation scenes and Chokehold Encyclopedia for the Self-Starter: Volumes 1-6, your typical Maxxy's® Mannequin is a kunoichi in a cardigan--and if one so much as catches you suspiciously crossing their tees, you can bet your britches they'll dot your eyes. No questions asked. No reasons given.

(That particular kick is dubbed the "Half-Off." Half off of what precisely is case-by-case.)

ONE MAN'S TRASH CAN IS ANOTHER MAN'S TREASURE CAN.

    I need not look inward to know that I'm an upcycled person. A solitary glance at my Goodwill-centric rags or the superannuated vintage impulse buys cluttering my creative lair/itty-bitty-living space would tell you that much. Keeping that in mind, it was only a matter of time until I laid eyes upon a dumpster and thought, "By gum, that rancid rainwater stain belongs in the Louvre." Without further ado, I offer you "Ashbin Abyss." Mediums include photography, and that all-purpose Cretan labyrinth of a graphic toolbox, Adobe Photoshop. Enjoy:

(Alternative titles included "The Mess-opalegic Zone" and "The Sea of Stanquility.")

#278: Saffron Jean: The Santa Bocado Mystic

     What better way to counteract the kicking-off of the 2nd dullest month of the year, next to January, then with a hearty dose of meandering absurdity. For me, that was treating myself to the first half of Yellow Submarine. For you, I give you this post. Ladies, gents, and any other fine folks constituting to "other," may I introduce you to Saffron Jean, the Santa Bocado Mystic! Jean "Saffron Jean" Saffronson lives his life the way most people finish theirs: clammy, incoherent, and hollering into the aether at his late grandmother. So, one could say that he's ahead of the curve. As Santa Bocado Pier's resident beach hobo, medicine man, "astral chiropractor," therapist, self-published author, and trimonthly continental-cod-hut-and-tiki-bar rant poet, the man's done pretty well for himself. With a cushy central set-up sandwiched between the solo keyboardist and the shirtless guy who'll let you insult his chin curtain for $4 (as well as a none-too-shabby write-up in the Bocado Babbler heralding his business as "pleasantly not a front for a cult") Jean's essentially set for life. One has to ponder how an aging 11th-grade dropout who stores salted peanuts in the shell dangling from his neck could've incanted his way to the top. Well, according to his paperback memoir Third Eye on the Lookout, Lady Luck was kind. Whilst purchasing a corn chip portrait of the Dalai Lama at Venice Beach in '67, Jean recollects, he pulled out a half-dollar to pay. Suddenly, the 50 cents slipped from his damp didgets and plummeted to the concrete, landing at a 50 degree angle. And at that very moment, the intricacies of the universe were engraved into his brain. The next five World Series runner-ups and Woodstock headliners flashed before his sunken eyes. And the rest was history. While I myself can't fully endorse the word of a pier-based entrepeneur who lives in a tipi that reeks of incense and fish tacos, I would encourage you to take him at face value. The JC-Verse has seen stranger. Now, before I depart, allow me to offer you some noteworthy quotes from the man himself. I apologize beforehand:

"I live my life in accordance with the three Lennons/Lennins: John, Vlad, and the quaint Michigan township."

"They say the future is a promise. But my therapist Iris says thanks to me, life nowadays is a commitment. Therefore, the future is the present."

"Chakras, you ninny!"

"If salt is the devil's sugar, then call me a sinner, brother, call me a si . . . wha . . . Meemaw! For the love of Gosh, do you mind??!"

And lastly:

"It's the 20th Century, of course I know judo."

(Pictured: the famed and pittied Santa Bocado Mystic hoisting up the tools paramount to his patented "Astral Slingshot" maneuver. Any participants that could vouch for this ritual's legitimacy are nowhere to be found, but according to Jean, that's because "it's so groovy in the Astral Plane that no one would ever want to come back, silly.")

#277: Planet Terry

    What starts with an S and is currently on the verge of imbibing my life whole in one gargantuan gulp? While sleep deprivation, Simpsons seasons 1-8, and sprees of voracious video-essay consumption are all viable answers, I was fishing for . . . school. Gosh, pardon my French. Indeed today is my technical first day of sophomore year, but considering how things are kind of on cruise control until my teacher figures out the lesson plan, I'll be using this school week as a sort of 5-day farewell to summertime here on the blog. Sort of like a browser-based purgatory to offer you and yours truly some closure before I'm tossed into the harsh underworld of schol. Schoo. You know what, my fingers refuse to type it again, let's move along. Time for my latest character: Planet Terry! The charmed life of a planet is really something to envy. Those celestial sons-o'-guns have every last light-second of their leisurely existence planned out for them from the get-go, complete with 24-eon rotisserie sunbathing and a scenic circular route around the cosmos. Getting ripped from this Life of Riley and made into some super-sized behemoth's forearm, however, puts a bit of a damper on that. And while that may not be a concern in our astronomical neck of the woods^{[citation needed]}, for the planets of the JC-Verse, that fear is ever-present--all thanks to the final frontier's biggest, brashest and most bumbling bully. After a torturous teresecond of idley roaming amongst the stars without a physical form, the astral entity that would become Planet Terry grew sick of his isolated lot in life. Boredom turned to rage, rage turned to a century or two of astronomical temper tantrums, and then a lightbulb. He could construct himself the physical vessel of his fantasies, and the tools with which to do so were right under his spectral schnoz--taunting him on fixed axes. Tactlessly tearing planets from their orbits and leaving suns bare for parsecs in every direction, Terry built himself a celestial body out of celestial bodies, and proceeded to make the whole universe his playground. With moons for peepers and dwarf planets for palms, the makeshift mammoth is still thunderously thrashing through space to this day. For the poor unsuspecting planetoids of the JC-Verse, let's pray he doesn't accidently trip over a supernova any time soon and need a new knee. Say it with me, amen.

#276: Wayne Sturdivant: The Artist Formerly Known as Percepto

       Upon beginning a massive Phineas and Ferb re-watch with the sis, it's dawned on me that Dr. Doofenshmirtz is a villian that suburban HGTV-addicts like my mother can really rally behind. There's so much talk of beachfront property and resale value in his schemes that sailed over my head as a youngster. Just some food-for-thought. Anywho, time for another '60s-era ex-crimefighter in the vain of my last character. Ladies and gents, I give you Wayne Sturdivant: the artist formerly known as Percepto! The superhero and the rock star are pretty parallel professions. Bold, bombastic public personas, legions of devoted followers, and a break-neck lifestyle that either leaves you a bygone novelty or cements you as a giant amongst men. So, once your golden age is behind you and your shrapnel-skewered ticker yearns for something fresh, making the leap from crimefighting fame to the annals of rock history would be easy-peasy, yes? In theory. Not every philanthropic Einstein in a tin can or wisecracking mutate has the chops to nail the transition--although one particular hero was essentially born for it. Back in the '60s, when every crusader and their mother (may she rest in peace) was hurling hokey one-liners at their adversaries, Wayne Sturdivant, AKA "Percepto" hummed his way through combat. The young hero's heightened senses would drastically enrich the psychedelic symphonies he listened to, allowing him to enjoy the trippy tunes of the times on an even trippier level. So, he traded his goggles for a Gibson and set out to share that. Busting onto the unsuspecting airwaves with a warped barrage of sound he dubbed "onomatopoeia pop," the super-powered soloist baffled listeners with an uncanny recreation of the concert inside his cranium--one that would warrant a tip of Brian Wilson's toy fire helmet. (I realize this post was kind of a nosedive into the pit of pop culture references. Comment below if I should include an index.)

THE JACKPOT.

    As the summertime train steams toward August and that beaked rascal Ra continues to mercilessly beat down on Southern California, morale around Jacob's Characterz! Inc. remains surprisingly high. Why? Spider-Man Homecoming was good. And with that, a fair share of weight has been lifted from my scrawny adolescent shoulders. So, in honor of the webslinger's slow-but-steady march back to cinematic glory, here's an apropos piece of fanart I did depicting my stab at the classic MJ--Romita dimples and all. Enjoy! (Credit to my accomplice/bloodline bunkmate Abby "the Sis" Elise, Brook from Be More Chill, and my somewhat-girlfriend [redacted]  for inspiring the modernized wardrobe.)

EXTRACURRICULAR ART ENDEAVORS

     Preface: I hope that the 4th treated all you self-respecting 'Muricans well this year. A belated cheers to truth, justice, and vibrant, benevolent explosives being launched from Disneyland and semi-legally from the 'burbs. *audible clink* Now, without further ado, I present a little non-character(z) piece I've been fussing over for a week or two that's finally prepped for posting. I call it "A Rainy Night at Station Alpha-B7." Interpret as you will:

#275: Sal Borester

    The shining sun, the sweltering heat and the fact that I'm posting at 7PM on a Wednesday when I should be in fierce, unrelenting combat with my world history workload, all equal one thing. It's summer, folks! I've got approximately 10 weeks of sweet liberation ahead of me, and while those don't consitute 104 days of summer vacation, they will more than suffice. Now, it's time to start things off with a bubble-encased italicized bang, because it's time to meet a character stemming straight from this blog's comic book roots. Ladies and gents, Sal Borester! Willingly pitting yourself against a miscellany of crazed crooks/aliens/deities/dastardly sentient apes, and waggishly quipping at them while you do so, requires that you're one of two things. Amazingly heroic, or alternatively, bat-dung insane. Distinguishing between the two can be a surprisingly tricky task, as exhibited by one of the JC-Verse's most allusive and "interesting" ex-crimefighters, Salvador "Stupendous Sala-Man" Borester. But you can call him Sal. After smashing alongside the Fab Fortification of Peace during the new wave superheroism revival of the '60s, ol' Sal hung up his weathered one-piece and opted to cash in on his above-average DNA. Selling a wide variety of miracle medications and multi-purpose pills derived from his enhanced amphibian blood, the two-toned titan built a business empire. He then began funneling his billions into a busload of ventures, ranging from the philanthropic to the downright eccentric. With a coarse and colorful hide to match his personality, Sal bares not only an uncanny resemblance to a lovechild of the Hulk and Howard Hughes, but also to his own product: he's a tough pill to swallow, but at the end of the day, he might be doing more good than you assume. Call the guy what you want, but you can't call him boring. Or an eft, because that's just a low-blow.