“We’ve long canonized our respective lunacies, believing it is like some artistic sacrament that makes our bizarre endeavor possible.”
Jerry “Tycho” Holkins, Penny Arcade writer, on Mike “Gabe” Krahulik, the comic’s artist, and anxiety.
I respect the folks at Penny Arcade. I’d love to go to PAX next time it comes East. Between Child’s Play, great video game journalism, and a new engaging reality show about artists, they’ve accomplished a lot, and I’ve always looked up to their polish, professionalism, and sense of humor in every subject; even subjects that aren’t actually funny.
I also- due to a recent stint with anx-meds (as I shorthand them), appreciate what it’s like to work through a disorder.
They’re saying Sandy has winds over ninety miles an hour. I’d never thought of that speed (velocity, I can hear old teachers saying, you call it velocity) in any context beyond baseball. But I’ll always remember the winds coming from nowhere and smacking the house. Our otherwise-silent house, cast over now with a dark blue filter. We think back to last October when the bridges had flooded and someone on life support had passed away at home.
me on the tree, rockin the Supes shirt.
Last year I carried the air conditioner across the yard into the barn, that heap of urban decay, old iMacs, and the mini fridge no one wants to open.
I had tripped and my hands snapped out to catch it (one of my oddly specific fears: toes crushed by sudden, heavy objects). But I caught it on the grille on the back and those little metal jags sliced into my fingers. I developed a healthy hatred of air conditioners, then, and when last summer came and I reinstalled it in the window, I told myself I’d never take it out.