Is dat a iPwone commercial dat yur in, Mista Wobo?
Eeeeeye I doo believe it is.
This has been such a busy week for Robo. I know, I should be gushing about the very awesome response that Vol.4.1 is getting. And I will. But after my mention of Baman Piderman last week Alex & Lindsay made me this, and I can’t stop grinning at it like an idiot. I’m unsure if I’m at liberty to share the stuff that The Fictory has been showing us. I’ll try to remember to find. Oh and now there’s a 3rd group working on a Robo fan-flick. This time in CGI. More info to come on that.
Okay, now lets talk about “Bernard’s First Day”. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you people of the Internet. My inbox has been flooded with Google Alerts linking me to literally dozens of gushing reviews. The only point of annoyance; people keep wondering where we’ll go with this vampire thing next, since it is the title of the entire mini-series. Sigh. We’re going nowhere folks. No more vampires this time out. Sorry for any confusion.
Here’s a very small smattering of the reviews. No particular order or reason to them.
-Secret Identity Podcast #211. (Right around the 32:30 mark for you impatient sons of bitches.)
Meanwhile, back in 2009, Atomic Robo made up almost half the list of CBR’s Top Five Raddest Comics of 2009 list.
Lets get back in our Sir Arthur Conan Doyle time machine though and travel forward in time -to the Present!
Besides the series of unfortunate events that destroyed my time table for Vol.4 and the resulting work crush and stress that has resulted in, there’s not much to report. Nothing, that is, except for the exploding washing machine.
So most of my weekend was devoted to trying to get less behind schedule on Atomic Robo. Except for Saturday night, when Dee and I took a sushi making class down in Boston with friends of ours and had a great time. But yesterday I’m hunched over my drafting table working when all off a sudden I feel the cool mist of a sea breeze on my neck. I’m open to the idea of losing myself in insanity, so I try to embrace the experience. But then the awful squelching noise starts.
If I can borrow the Conan Doyle machine for just a minute and go back to Friday, I had to drag the cat out from behind the washer by the scruff of her neck -for the eight millionth time. I don’t know why she likes going back there. Maybe its the tight space. Maybe its all the electrical wires and water lines in close proximity to each other that excite her.
Whatever the reason, she dug her claws into the drainage line on her way out last Friday, and there was a little part of my brain that said, “Oh. That can’t be good.” But it was quickly shushed by the other part of my brain that said there is no way the cat’s tiny claws could possibly puncture that thick plastic hose.
So here I sit with the accumulated dirty laundry of three people that has been piling up for several weeks. Considering that one of us likes to change her clothes nine fucking times a day because it’s fun, you can imagine the mountain of clothes I have waiting to be washed.
And now I get to waste precious hours of my work day to hunt down a replacement hose so that I can have clean underwear when I go to New York.
The cat isn’t coming with us to New York in June. Not because of this, but because other people involved have severe allergies. She’s a good cat, and a very loving cat. But she’s also an extra-curious cat, and as much as I like Cupcake, I hate her fucking guts even more. She is the living embodiment of that person who is always standing right where you need to be, who spills their coffee on your important documents, and accidentally breaks everything they touch.
Okay, I’ve got to get to work. Maybe later I’ll have time to sit down and start reading Maggie The Mechanic. More likely I’ll be bringing that along to Staten Island and starting it down there.
This job. I want it.