DOMESTIC BLISS, FOLEY STYLE
Tiina: Do you love me?
Andrew: Of course I do.
T: Really? You aren't just saying that because I'll beat you up if you don't, are you?
T and I have conversations like this ALL THE TIME.
***
BEST-LAID PLANS
A day had passed and the traps I'd laid in my office and the bathroom had caught no poop machines. My plan clearly wasn't working. My first idea: continue the failed plan, only commit more resources to it. A Trap Surge would surely solve the problem.
My second solution, seeing as new mouse poop had materialized on my desk and there was no place to buy traps at midnight, at least not that I was willing to venture out into the cold to go to, was to slather more peanut butter on the existing traps. It wasn't much of a plan, but it'd make me feel better, like I was being proactive in the face of difficulties.
Fifteen minutes later, I wandered into my office, and discovered a dead mouse in the trap next to my desk. And I've got to say, my reaction wasn't what I'd expected. It's one thing to pick up a mouse carcas that Jewel (who steadfastly refuses to lift a paw to fend off the current invasion of vermin) has gotten tired of playing with. It's another thing altogether to realize that this animal died because you arranged to kill it.
Mildly depressed, I disposed of the body outside and came back upstairs. Started writing a blog post, because that's what I do when I'm down. Got about three words into it when there was an audible SNAP! from the bathroom...
...accompanied by a pathetic squealing. The trap had slammed down on the mouse's body, rather than its neck--it was pinned, terrified, and squee-squee-squealing in pain. And I thought finding a dead mouse was as bad as my night would get...y'know, I could've gone my entire life without knowing what colour the contents of a mouse skull are.
I disposed of the second mouse, sprayed the traps down with bleach. Waited a couple days, debating whether the effect the traps working had on my emotional well-being was worth setting them again.
Found another turd on my desk later that night. Now that I know what they look like, I'm seeing them everywhere (even places they probably aren't--the animals are always dragging stuff in from outside--that speck could be a mouse dropping, or it could just be some random dirt Data tracked in...). I took a deep breath, smeared the pedals with more peanut butter, and set the traps again.
That was a couple nights ago. The traps haven't caught any more mice. Not sure why--maybe they can smell the bleach, maybe they aren't dumb enough to venture into those places other mice went and never returned from. I think I'm actually happier this way--I get the satisfaction of feeling like I'm doing something about the problem, but don't have to deal with the guilt I feel for snuffing out the lives of what are, in the grand scheme of things, fairly inoffensive creatures.
And I'll continue to be happier with this situation, right up until I find new poop on my desk.
***
BETWEEN THE CRACKS
The Chemistry Set is the subject of the Second Interstitial Arts Foundation (Online) Salon. There are only nine words in the preceding sentence that I'm sure I understand. There hasn't been a lot of posting yet (the salon's going till the fifteenth), at least some of what has been posted has flown so far over my head it didn't even part my hair, but it's an interesting conversation, nonetheless, esp. if you've got an interest in disparate arts, media, and genres. And semantics, which seem to have become terribly important to me, somewhere along the line.
Foley
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
MelanFoley Ramblydamblings
After two years not seeing the guy, I finally managed to get in to see the ear nose and throat specialist last Thursday. I could've gone a few months ago, but I wanted to see him when I was in maximum discomfort, sinus-wise, which meant postponing till the dead of winter.
Two days prior to the appointment I was in as much pain as I had been since the infection over the summer--I was almost certain it had returned. Spent a whole day waiting for something sticky, vile and yellow to drain down the back of my throat. Never happened.
Of course, when Thursday and my appointment rolled around, I awoke to the least headachy day I'd had since Hallowe'en. But the appointment was made, so in I went.
The device I call the Footcam (due to it feeling like someone is shoving a foot up your nose into your forehead) wasn't as uncomfortable as my previous visit. However, if there's ever a time NOT to sneeze, it's when someone's got a miniature camera shoved in behind your face, uncomfortably close to your brain. Word to the wise...
Apparently I've got some discharge in my right cheek sinus cavity. I'd have mentioned this sooner, but it took me three days to remember the proper term. I kept on wanting to call the discharge "emissions" even though nothing of note had actually emitted, at least not that I've noticed. Anyway, the ENT guy's scheduling me and my discharging sinuses for a CATscan, which I gather is one of the more detailed x-rays available. If that's right, I figure this should pretty much kill any viable sperm I had left after the myriad other x-rays I've had taken in the last ten years. On the upside, it's nice to have some independent confirmation that I'm actually feeling noticeably worse this winter than previous ones (which weren't exactly loads of fun themselves.)
***
WORDS FAIL ME. THEY MUST BE PUNISHED
Discharge is just the latest word I've lost, lately. It seems to be happening with greater, almosst worrying frequency. I lay in bed for two hours one night last week desperately trying to recall what Prozac is called.
***
WHO MANAGES THE MANAGERS?
Talked to Hollywood Manager for a solid hour on Monday. It's pretty clear nothing major is going to happen until the strike is resolved, but that doesn't mean nothing's happening. Just nothing that's going to help pay any bills any time soon. Which is frustrating, worrisome, and frustratingly worrisome. And typical.
Tomorrow I'll be bugging Publishing Manager about what he's done for me lately. THE SPOOKY KIDS has been rejected at four places now, but that still leaves an awful lot of publishers we're waiting to hear back from. He's supposed to be following up with editors this week. Hopefully there'll be some good news out of that, but I'll believe it when I hear it.
***
NO HOLIDAY
In the meantime, work on THE HOLIDAY MEN progresses, with artist Nick Johnson knocking it out of the park. Some sort of announcement should be made soon, hopefully prior to Christmas. Before it comes out, I want to make sure we've got enough in the can to maintain the schedule we promise.
***
DO THE WRITE THING
Speaking of The H-Men, I find myself on the horns of a dilemma. I've got an idea for something I want to do--am actually definitely going to do, provided Nick sticks around long enough. I'm just not sure when to do it. It's an idea that I find quite funny, which is why I'm going to do it. But it's also a double-edged sword, and both edges could well end up aimed squarely at my and Nick's throats. The idea alone is all but certain to offend someone; if it's executed right, it should offend almost EVERYone. And get us a lot of attention because of it.
Which isn't why I'm going to do it. If we did get attention (at least some of which would likely be in the form of death threats), that would just be a nice side effect of pursuing a particularly silly idea to its satisfyingly ridiculous conclusion. That said, after having PARTING WAYS and D2D go practically unnoticed, and C&A getting attention for things I had nothing to do with, it'd be nice to know someone out there is actually reading my stuff, even if they're only doing it to collect evidence they can present in their defence at the murder trial. As a result of my desperate need for attention, it's difficult for me to resist the temptation to do this particular story early on in the strip's life.
BUT.
This story is, in a lot of ways, the ultimate Holiday Men tale. It's the essence of what's going to make the standard H-Men episode, taken to the logical extreme. When this is done, there's really nowhere else for the Holidays to go, storywise. Nowhere but down, anyway.
In writing this, I realize this story will have to wait, possibly a long time (I've got a lot of ideas for H-Men stories, and more pop up all the time). When it gets done, there's only one other story that can happen after it, and it won't be as silly, pointed, or inflammmatory--it's just the story on which the series must end. This idea of mine will have to be the second-last H-Men episode, written after I've exhausted all the other entertaining but lesser (less funny, less offensive) variations on the H-Men's themes. The Story requires this trigger not be pulled before its time.
Sigh. I hate the Story, sometimes.
Foley
Two days prior to the appointment I was in as much pain as I had been since the infection over the summer--I was almost certain it had returned. Spent a whole day waiting for something sticky, vile and yellow to drain down the back of my throat. Never happened.
Of course, when Thursday and my appointment rolled around, I awoke to the least headachy day I'd had since Hallowe'en. But the appointment was made, so in I went.
The device I call the Footcam (due to it feeling like someone is shoving a foot up your nose into your forehead) wasn't as uncomfortable as my previous visit. However, if there's ever a time NOT to sneeze, it's when someone's got a miniature camera shoved in behind your face, uncomfortably close to your brain. Word to the wise...
Apparently I've got some discharge in my right cheek sinus cavity. I'd have mentioned this sooner, but it took me three days to remember the proper term. I kept on wanting to call the discharge "emissions" even though nothing of note had actually emitted, at least not that I've noticed. Anyway, the ENT guy's scheduling me and my discharging sinuses for a CATscan, which I gather is one of the more detailed x-rays available. If that's right, I figure this should pretty much kill any viable sperm I had left after the myriad other x-rays I've had taken in the last ten years. On the upside, it's nice to have some independent confirmation that I'm actually feeling noticeably worse this winter than previous ones (which weren't exactly loads of fun themselves.)
***
WORDS FAIL ME. THEY MUST BE PUNISHED
Discharge is just the latest word I've lost, lately. It seems to be happening with greater, almosst worrying frequency. I lay in bed for two hours one night last week desperately trying to recall what Prozac is called.
***
WHO MANAGES THE MANAGERS?
Talked to Hollywood Manager for a solid hour on Monday. It's pretty clear nothing major is going to happen until the strike is resolved, but that doesn't mean nothing's happening. Just nothing that's going to help pay any bills any time soon. Which is frustrating, worrisome, and frustratingly worrisome. And typical.
Tomorrow I'll be bugging Publishing Manager about what he's done for me lately. THE SPOOKY KIDS has been rejected at four places now, but that still leaves an awful lot of publishers we're waiting to hear back from. He's supposed to be following up with editors this week. Hopefully there'll be some good news out of that, but I'll believe it when I hear it.
***
NO HOLIDAY
In the meantime, work on THE HOLIDAY MEN progresses, with artist Nick Johnson knocking it out of the park. Some sort of announcement should be made soon, hopefully prior to Christmas. Before it comes out, I want to make sure we've got enough in the can to maintain the schedule we promise.
***
DO THE WRITE THING
Speaking of The H-Men, I find myself on the horns of a dilemma. I've got an idea for something I want to do--am actually definitely going to do, provided Nick sticks around long enough. I'm just not sure when to do it. It's an idea that I find quite funny, which is why I'm going to do it. But it's also a double-edged sword, and both edges could well end up aimed squarely at my and Nick's throats. The idea alone is all but certain to offend someone; if it's executed right, it should offend almost EVERYone. And get us a lot of attention because of it.
Which isn't why I'm going to do it. If we did get attention (at least some of which would likely be in the form of death threats), that would just be a nice side effect of pursuing a particularly silly idea to its satisfyingly ridiculous conclusion. That said, after having PARTING WAYS and D2D go practically unnoticed, and C&A getting attention for things I had nothing to do with, it'd be nice to know someone out there is actually reading my stuff, even if they're only doing it to collect evidence they can present in their defence at the murder trial. As a result of my desperate need for attention, it's difficult for me to resist the temptation to do this particular story early on in the strip's life.
BUT.
This story is, in a lot of ways, the ultimate Holiday Men tale. It's the essence of what's going to make the standard H-Men episode, taken to the logical extreme. When this is done, there's really nowhere else for the Holidays to go, storywise. Nowhere but down, anyway.
In writing this, I realize this story will have to wait, possibly a long time (I've got a lot of ideas for H-Men stories, and more pop up all the time). When it gets done, there's only one other story that can happen after it, and it won't be as silly, pointed, or inflammmatory--it's just the story on which the series must end. This idea of mine will have to be the second-last H-Men episode, written after I've exhausted all the other entertaining but lesser (less funny, less offensive) variations on the H-Men's themes. The Story requires this trigger not be pulled before its time.
Sigh. I hate the Story, sometimes.
Foley
Thursday, December 6, 2007
So that's the way you want to play it, huh?
Dear Mouse/Mice who've been lurking in the upstairs area of my house,
You creeped me out that one time by doing your pervy little peeping tom thing while I was on the toilet, but, you know, I could've let it slide. Really, I could. I was happy to let this go for as long as you could avoid the cats. And let's face it, given the stellar job annihilating your cute furry butts the cats AREN'T doing lately, that could've been a good long time, especially in mouse year.
What I'm trying to say is, it didn't have to come to this. I didn't sit down in my office planning to buy a bunch of traps which I'll smear with peanut butter and put in corners where the cats hopefully won't get at them (hardly likely, considering their ambition lately), which you'll come sniffing around and have your life come to an abrupt end. I'm a live and let live kind of guy, normally.
But dude(s).
You pooped on my desk. And for that you must pay.
What happens this weekend is on your head(s). And probably part of your spine(s).
Andrew
PS: Yes, I realize now you've probably been pooping on my desk for weeks. I'm not exactly an expert in vermin scat, you know (though apparently my wife is, as she's the one who pointed out what I thought were a couple loose grape seeds...weren't.) That's beside the point. I KNOW NOW. And my wrath shall fall upon you like a piece of metal snapping down in the dark, shattering your spine.
PPS: I EAT STUFF ON MY DESK. It's on plates, but still. Ew.
You creeped me out that one time by doing your pervy little peeping tom thing while I was on the toilet, but, you know, I could've let it slide. Really, I could. I was happy to let this go for as long as you could avoid the cats. And let's face it, given the stellar job annihilating your cute furry butts the cats AREN'T doing lately, that could've been a good long time, especially in mouse year.
What I'm trying to say is, it didn't have to come to this. I didn't sit down in my office planning to buy a bunch of traps which I'll smear with peanut butter and put in corners where the cats hopefully won't get at them (hardly likely, considering their ambition lately), which you'll come sniffing around and have your life come to an abrupt end. I'm a live and let live kind of guy, normally.
But dude(s).
You pooped on my desk. And for that you must pay.
What happens this weekend is on your head(s). And probably part of your spine(s).
Andrew
PS: Yes, I realize now you've probably been pooping on my desk for weeks. I'm not exactly an expert in vermin scat, you know (though apparently my wife is, as she's the one who pointed out what I thought were a couple loose grape seeds...weren't.) That's beside the point. I KNOW NOW. And my wrath shall fall upon you like a piece of metal snapping down in the dark, shattering your spine.
PPS: I EAT STUFF ON MY DESK. It's on plates, but still. Ew.
Monday, December 3, 2007
ALPHA MAIL
An example of Angry Andrew's thought process, from an e-mail I just sent over to a collaborator:
"To say I am Displeased with XXXXX at the moment doesn't really cover it. I'm on the edge of considering the possibility of maybe doing something rash."
OOoooOOOooo...I'm SCARY.
On other e-mail related news, I've started receiving messages from Grant Morrison DOOM PATROL characters. Here's an example of what one of them sent me:
"retain snare koinonia bluet tooth ehrlich twenty judson shell usable rook chang
prague plato lufthansa usable twenty snare repetitious
strident ghoul fractionate chang usable admix slovenia clean wit strident
rosenberg josephson ghoul"
I reread this particular passage several times while suffering a bout of insomnia in the wee hours this mornig. There was a brief period, between 3:50 and 3:54 AM where it actually made sense. Then God showed up, gave Data a key-shaped chicken bone and told me if I knew what was good for me I'd forget everything I 'd just read.
***
VICTORY IS THEIRS!
Man, I'm congratulating a lot of people lately, but what the heck, they deserve it and it's not like anyone actually reads this thing. First up, my buddy Scott O. Brown has won the first round of DC's Zuda Comics competition. Lettered by SOB, written by David Gallaher, and drawn by Steve Ellis, HIGH MOON is apparently a pretty good western werewolf webcomic that I guess I'll have to read now (my friend is the LETTERER on this one, OK? It's not like I didn't have his back when he was actually writing something {like Platinum Studios' ATLANTIS RISING, available online at DrunkDuck.com with the first issue currently on the shelves, for instance.}) (Did I mention SOB and I have gotten the rights to THREADS back? Coz we have. Which is cool.)
Also on the Andrew's e-Handshake List this morning is Dwight McPherson, Kevin Conley, and Worth Gowel, whose KID HOUDINI & THE SILVER DOLLAR MISFITS, currently being serialized at The Chemistry Set has found a publisher.
At this rate, I may have to get on-board this webcomics thing myself.
***
WORK IS FOR THOSE WHO DON'T HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO
Finally got the outline for MERLYN COMPANY in fighting shape, and I don't care how crappy you're feeling, 3,000 words shouldn't take more than a week to write. But it's done now and I can hopefully move on to other projects with a more reasonable chance of getting somewhere than a five volume trade paperback series with no artist attached.
The first three pages of the first HOLIDAY MEN episode are almost complete, and all I had to do to get them finished was ruin my marriage by constantly asking Tiina to make little, niggling changes. She says she doesn't mind, but I'm not sure I believe her. There were a few moments there when I wanted to punch me in the throat, I can't imagine her not feeling the same way...On the upside, the pages and lettering look amazing (in my humble opinion). I can't wait to inflic--sorry, I mean unveil this project to the world...
Another person who probably wanted to reach a few thousand kilometres across Canada and throttle me last week is John Keane, who had to deal with the same sort of nitpickery T did on the BadBoy proposal, which is now done and off to the people who can hopefully do something with it faster than we could on our own.
This week, I've absolutely got to get the SOULMAKER pitch polished for The Pack, and send The Future of Comics (I) Fiona Staples some feedback on the story for what may well be the first major comic work she writes as well as draws. Reading the story was more than a little depressing, as I quickly realized a) she doesn't really need me, in an capacity, and b) she's got more quirky, cool visual ideas in her pinky finger than I will ever have in my entire life. Why she hasn't been picked up by a major company already will always mystify me. (Well, not really, but the shortsightedness of NOT signing her up for something major baffles me.)
Also, a couple blog posts, including, when I'm able to think of it without bursting into tears, a description of my weekend journey through Hell (AKA The Shoe Company).
Good night.
I mean afternoon. Ehhhh....so it's going to be one of THOSE days...
Foley
"To say I am Displeased with XXXXX at the moment doesn't really cover it. I'm on the edge of considering the possibility of maybe doing something rash."
OOoooOOOooo...I'm SCARY.
On other e-mail related news, I've started receiving messages from Grant Morrison DOOM PATROL characters. Here's an example of what one of them sent me:
"retain snare koinonia bluet tooth ehrlich twenty judson shell usable rook chang
prague plato lufthansa usable twenty snare repetitious
strident ghoul fractionate chang usable admix slovenia clean wit strident
rosenberg josephson ghoul"
I reread this particular passage several times while suffering a bout of insomnia in the wee hours this mornig. There was a brief period, between 3:50 and 3:54 AM where it actually made sense. Then God showed up, gave Data a key-shaped chicken bone and told me if I knew what was good for me I'd forget everything I 'd just read.
***
VICTORY IS THEIRS!
Man, I'm congratulating a lot of people lately, but what the heck, they deserve it and it's not like anyone actually reads this thing. First up, my buddy Scott O. Brown has won the first round of DC's Zuda Comics competition. Lettered by SOB, written by David Gallaher, and drawn by Steve Ellis, HIGH MOON is apparently a pretty good western werewolf webcomic that I guess I'll have to read now (my friend is the LETTERER on this one, OK? It's not like I didn't have his back when he was actually writing something {like Platinum Studios' ATLANTIS RISING, available online at DrunkDuck.com with the first issue currently on the shelves, for instance.}) (Did I mention SOB and I have gotten the rights to THREADS back? Coz we have. Which is cool.)
Also on the Andrew's e-Handshake List this morning is Dwight McPherson, Kevin Conley, and Worth Gowel, whose KID HOUDINI & THE SILVER DOLLAR MISFITS, currently being serialized at The Chemistry Set has found a publisher.
At this rate, I may have to get on-board this webcomics thing myself.
***
WORK IS FOR THOSE WHO DON'T HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO
Finally got the outline for MERLYN COMPANY in fighting shape, and I don't care how crappy you're feeling, 3,000 words shouldn't take more than a week to write. But it's done now and I can hopefully move on to other projects with a more reasonable chance of getting somewhere than a five volume trade paperback series with no artist attached.
The first three pages of the first HOLIDAY MEN episode are almost complete, and all I had to do to get them finished was ruin my marriage by constantly asking Tiina to make little, niggling changes. She says she doesn't mind, but I'm not sure I believe her. There were a few moments there when I wanted to punch me in the throat, I can't imagine her not feeling the same way...On the upside, the pages and lettering look amazing (in my humble opinion). I can't wait to inflic--sorry, I mean unveil this project to the world...
Another person who probably wanted to reach a few thousand kilometres across Canada and throttle me last week is John Keane, who had to deal with the same sort of nitpickery T did on the BadBoy proposal, which is now done and off to the people who can hopefully do something with it faster than we could on our own.
This week, I've absolutely got to get the SOULMAKER pitch polished for The Pack, and send The Future of Comics (I) Fiona Staples some feedback on the story for what may well be the first major comic work she writes as well as draws. Reading the story was more than a little depressing, as I quickly realized a) she doesn't really need me, in an capacity, and b) she's got more quirky, cool visual ideas in her pinky finger than I will ever have in my entire life. Why she hasn't been picked up by a major company already will always mystify me. (Well, not really, but the shortsightedness of NOT signing her up for something major baffles me.)
Also, a couple blog posts, including, when I'm able to think of it without bursting into tears, a description of my weekend journey through Hell (AKA The Shoe Company).
Good night.
I mean afternoon. Ehhhh....so it's going to be one of THOSE days...
Foley
Friday, November 30, 2007
It's the little things that get you.
All was right with the world. There I was, sitting on the toilet, enjoying a passage from Terry Pratchett’s latest novel, MAKING MONEY, not at all worried about the shady publisher who’s managed to miss his deadline for paying what he owes me YET AGAIN, or the bills that are going unpaid because of it, or how much the American cheque is actually going to be worth if/when I actually get it as opposed to how much it would’ve got me if it arrived when it was supposed to…None of that is bothering me (then. Writing this has managed to piss me off all over again.)
I’m as serene as I am ever likely to get until/unless I (or Tiina) somehow become fabulously wealthy, I’m calm, I’m at peace…
I’m being watched.
Crouched behind the bathroom garbage bin is a teensy little brown mouse--well, more grey, but you get the point. It’s staring at me with its quivering nose (I know how that sounds, but I swear, it was staring at me WITH ITS NOSE) and it’s one of the top ten cutest things I’ve ever seen.
And it’s creeping me the hell out.
Something about the proximity of this probably mostly harmless disease-carrying vermin really unnerves me. This is worse than the kid I saw smoking crack on the street corner just beyond the wall of trees that protects our front yard. This is worse than the discovery that someone had actually set up a makeshift home in a nook of one of our protective wall trees, complete with a dumbwaiter-y plant bucket on a chain. This is even worse than the guy who tried to talk his way into the house before running away when the police pulled up behind his friends’ car.
This is a cute, inhuman little monster watching me, uh, read.
I want it dead. No, for my own peace of mind, I NEED to know its life has met a premature but definite conclusion. I need it.
Throwing Jewel into the bathroom for a half an hour did not yield the desired results. She’s a cat, and she kills according to her own schedule.
So now, at the back of my mind, there’s this oppressive, inescapable awareness. There is a THING is scurrying around my home, sleeping in my clothes, eating my food, and using my pots and pans as a toilet (probably).
Ewwww…
Foley
I’m as serene as I am ever likely to get until/unless I (or Tiina) somehow become fabulously wealthy, I’m calm, I’m at peace…
I’m being watched.
Crouched behind the bathroom garbage bin is a teensy little brown mouse--well, more grey, but you get the point. It’s staring at me with its quivering nose (I know how that sounds, but I swear, it was staring at me WITH ITS NOSE) and it’s one of the top ten cutest things I’ve ever seen.
And it’s creeping me the hell out.
Something about the proximity of this probably mostly harmless disease-carrying vermin really unnerves me. This is worse than the kid I saw smoking crack on the street corner just beyond the wall of trees that protects our front yard. This is worse than the discovery that someone had actually set up a makeshift home in a nook of one of our protective wall trees, complete with a dumbwaiter-y plant bucket on a chain. This is even worse than the guy who tried to talk his way into the house before running away when the police pulled up behind his friends’ car.
This is a cute, inhuman little monster watching me, uh, read.
I want it dead. No, for my own peace of mind, I NEED to know its life has met a premature but definite conclusion. I need it.
Throwing Jewel into the bathroom for a half an hour did not yield the desired results. She’s a cat, and she kills according to her own schedule.
So now, at the back of my mind, there’s this oppressive, inescapable awareness. There is a THING is scurrying around my home, sleeping in my clothes, eating my food, and using my pots and pans as a toilet (probably).
Ewwww…
Foley
Monday, November 26, 2007
Congratulations to Andrew Drilon
This past weekend, the Chemistry Set's Andrew Drilon, creator of Kare-Kare Komics, won what was effectively the top prize in the Second Annual Philippine Graphic Fiction Awards. He also got to kiss Neil Gaiman, which seems to be rapidly becoming the Thing To Do When Onstage with Neil Gaiman at An Awards Ceremony...
Drilon's the most prolific, certainly the most idiosyncratic creator distributing work via the Chemistry Set (which is saying something. With stories like THE SURREAL ADVENTURES OF EDGAR ALLAN POO and THREADS OF RED JACK being serialized on it, the Set's not exactly lacking in idiosyncratic creators...). Well worth checking out.
Foley
Drilon's the most prolific, certainly the most idiosyncratic creator distributing work via the Chemistry Set (which is saying something. With stories like THE SURREAL ADVENTURES OF EDGAR ALLAN POO and THREADS OF RED JACK being serialized on it, the Set's not exactly lacking in idiosyncratic creators...). Well worth checking out.
Foley
Take My Wife. Please.
TIINA: So, do you want to shovel the sidewalks, or should I do it?
ANDREW: You can do it.
Subtext-laden pause. Then:
T: Let me rephrase that: When are you going to shovel the sidewalks?
Foley
ANDREW: You can do it.
Subtext-laden pause. Then:
T: Let me rephrase that: When are you going to shovel the sidewalks?
Foley
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