joehumphrey.com

I am super fucking psyched for The Wolfman. I think it’s going to be amazing.,

               INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

               Joe and Sandra sit on the couch. Sandra watches THE SUPER
               BOWL on TV. Joe uses a laptop and half watches the TV as
               well. After a kickoff, Joe looks confused.

                                   JOE
                         So that guy has to run ALL the way
                         from one side of the field to the
                         other?

               Sandra looks at Joe and is shaking her head in disbelief.

                                   SANDRA
                         Yeah. That's kind of the whole
                         point of the game. 

                                   JOE
                         Seems like a lot of work.

               INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

               Later. Same set up as the previous scene. The SAINTS dump a
               large cooler of Gatorade on their coach.

                                   JOE
                         HEY! They got Gatorade all over the
                         cameras! That's not cool.

                                   SANDRA
                         Those camera guys got in harms way.

                                   JOE
                         That guy is going to be STICKY
                         after that.

                                   SANDRA
                         I'm sure he'll be alright.

               On the screen, a SAINTS PLAYER is yelling enthusiastically
               into a camera.

                                   JOE
                         That guy is PISSED!

                                   SANDRA
                         No he's not. He's happy. They just
                         won.

                                   JOE
                         They did? There's forty four
                         seconds left.

                                   SANDRA
                         Trust me, they won. The game is
                         over.

                                   JOE
                         Oh. I don't get this game.

                                   SANDRA
                         Clearly.

Wow.

The Who sound like shit.

They’re the only reason I’ve been watching this goddamned game.

If I didn’t know that this was The Who, and I heard an audio recording of this performance I would say “WHO IS MURDERING THESE AWESOME WHO SONGS?! THEY SHOULD BE SHOT IN THE STREET AND PISSED ON!”

Roger Daltry sounds like he’s got throat cancer and Pete Townsend looks like grandpa fell asleep and the kids thought it would be funny to drape silly clothes on him.

I only just realized that Pete and Roger are the only surviving members of The Who left.

—————edit——————–

after getting chastised by Sandra, I will come back and admit that Roger sounded pretty decent on Won’t Get Fooled Again.

In football games, when they show the digital line (the line of scrimmage? I dunno, I don’t watch football) superimposed over the field, how do they superimpose it but still have the players standing on top of it. I don’t get it.

In looking for picture examples of this, I actually found out how it’s done.

http://www.thefreelibrary.com/ABC+Sports+Signs+Agreement+With+Sportvision+for+"1st+&+Ten"+System.-a054777314

Like that.

Basically there’s a computer program that knows exactly what the field is supposed to look like. It superimposes the line over that expected idea of what the field looks like when it’s empty. Then the computer basically scans every frame of the broadcast and obscures the superimposed line anywhere that the image of the field is changed (IE, when players or the ball or ref or whatever appears).

Makes sense.

http://www.amazon.com/Mens-Leather-Driving-Gloves-Damascus/dp/B000BI8P9O/ref=pd_sbs_a_6

Sandra thinks I’d look goofy wearing them and that it’s silly to buy gloves when winter’s almost over, but I don’t care. I think they’re bad ass. I just want to pretend like I’m a hitman.

               INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

               Joe and Sandra sit on the couch watching DRAGON'S DEN on TV.
               The hostess of the show is introducing the next segment. Joe
               looks frustrated. 

                                   JOE
                             (talking to the TV)
                         Get your tits out!

               Sandra looks at Joe, startled.

                                   SANDRA
                         What?!

                                   JOE
                         I was telling that woman on TV to
                         get her tits out. 

                                   SANDRA
                         WHY?!

                                   JOE
                         Because I'm frustrated with TV not
                         giving me what I want. It's like,
                         why are we beating around the bush
                         here. I want to see tits.

                                   SANDRA
                         So you yell at the TV?

                                   JOE
                         Yeah.

                                   SANDRA
                         I'm sorry, but that's not how TV
                         works, hon.

                                   JOE
                             (exasperated)
                         Well it should be!

via Josh

Here are a list of the bajillion new questions and points raised during the premier of this season of Lost.

Under a cut, for obvious reasons.

Click here to read the rest of this entry

Looks like it’s going to be a good year for video games.

…shaking and crying…

I’m digging it because it started off as just kind of a “lemme see if I can draw Charlie” sketch in one corner of my sketchbook, but then it started expanding and I kept revising and erasing and redrawing and now I’m invested in it. I think that when it’s done it’ll be fairly cool looking. Plus I like it because I think that when it’s done, It’s going to look like something I always intended on being really awesome, but it’s really just an elaborate sketch. No gridding or really blending or any of that. Just sketching.

I’m going to collage together a few different pictures (eventually I printed out reference photos, once I started feeling like I wanted it to be good) of various key scenes in the Charlie Pace/Lost experience.

Here are a couple of the reference photos I printed out for ideas on what to do.

Then I put together this last picture from a photo of the plane wreckage and a photo of the Charlie action figure

Anyway, I just wanted to share.

I’ve heard this one rumbling for a while now. First there was the story that DC Comics Publisher and President Paul Levitz had personally prevented any Watchmen 2 projects, because, despite their differences, he believed that as this would be against Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons’ wishes, it would cause bery bad feeling in the creative community and would be a creatively bankrupt move.

Moore fell out massively with DC Comics, and Paul Levitz specifically, not only choosing not to work with them any further, but scuppering spinoff projects, removing his name from any movie credits and any money due to him from said movies, and taking his one final project The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen, from Wildstorm, a publisher DC had purchased.

But in the wake of the movie, Watchmen became DC’s best selling comic book of all time. One might say partly because it had remained undiluted after all this time.

But there were moves. A Wizard splash showing DC’s Countdown multiverse had Rorschach as one of the combatants and it was rumoured one of the universes in the DC 52 Multiverse was intended to be the Watchmen world. Instead, Earth 4 became a world inspired by elements of Watchmen and the Charlton Heroes universe but with other aspects such as the laws of physics being altered.

But the news broke that Paul Levitz was stepping down from DC Comics as both President and Publisher, I wondered what that meant for the possibility of a Watchmen sequel. Certainly in a hundred years, you couldn’t expect there not to be one.

Well, it seems to be happening a lot sooner than I thought. I understand now that this considered a pet project of Dan DiDio, SVP-Executive Editor. That he is determined to impress new bosses by building on DC’s biggest selling comic book of all time with multiple prequel comic miniseries and spinoff ongoing projects.

I understand that both Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons have to be offered first refusal before any of these titles could be published. But if they don’t want to work on them themselves (and Alan Moore is never going to agree), DiDio has been sounding out people who might be willing to take on the task.

While some creators are reticent, the argument goes if there are a number of Watchmen spinoff projects, any blame or shame can be spread on many shoulders. The sales are expected to be massive, whatever the hardcore fanboy reaction and such expected sales benefits will be shared amongst the creative teams.

In contrast, not only would Levitz not allow any new Watchmen stories but even the video game was restricted to material in the graphic novel and film, nothing brand new was allowed to be invented. Despite differences with Moore, Levitz has held fast to the committment that the comic is the comic is the comic.

It seems that this may now change.

At this stage, having disowned himself of much of it, Alan Moore is likely not to care. Though we might get an eviscerating blast at some point if this all comes to pass.

Both Jim Baike, Rich Veitch and Gene Ha/Zander Cannon are artists who have taken on writing chores on books previously written by Alan Moore, to continue the storyline. The most creatively-acceptable solution would be Dave Gibbons writing and drawing new Watchmen titles. But DiDio’s plans seem much larger than just one book.

And of course, in those initial movie contracts with Fox, there was a clause that included sequels to a Watchmen movie.

When asked, Dave Gibbons only replied “Hurm…”

(via Bleeding Cool)

© Icon/SMI/Retna Ltd.

Billy Idol linked to Aerosmith role

Jan. 29, 2010, 11:33 AM EST

WENN — Veteran rocker Billy Idol has become the latest big name rumoured to be in the running to replace Steven Tyler as frontman of Aerosmith.

The band revealed they will be hosting auditions to find a new member while Tyler takes a hiatus, with guitarist Joe Perry insisting the star won’t be ready to tour with them until he recovers from a recent stint in rehab and a series of operations.

Lenny Kravitz was the first singer linked to the role, but admitted he would never take over from Tyler, while reports have also suggested former Queen star Paul Rodgers.

Now Idol is rumoured to be in contention, with Classic Rock magazine reporting he was due to meet with the musicians but pulled out after falling sick.

A source tells the publication, "Joe said he wanted to talk to Billy about joining Aerosmith, because the band were having problems with Steven. As far as I know Idol did not show up due to having a cold."

Perry recently admitted they have already talked to a number of singers about replacing Tyler, but refused to divulge any names. He said, "(There’s) a few people we’ve talked to, and we’ll see how it goes… As far as auditions go, we’ll probably just sit around and have a couple of drinks and see if we get along — because we’re already gonna know that they can sing."

lol okay.

I’d like to see Billy Idol try and sing Dream On. That would be hilarious.

Emmy-winning actor Rip Torn was arrested Saturday for allegedly breaking into a bank in Salisbury, CT., where he’s a resident, confirms local newspaper, The Register Citizen.

In what was reportedly a booze-inspired bank job, a police statement says that cops responded to an alarm at 9:40 last night where they found Torn "with a loaded revolver, and was highly intoxicated."
The many charges against the 78-year-old Men in Black star include carrying a firearm while intoxicated, carrying a pistol without a permit, first-degree criminal trespass, first-degree burglary, and third-degree criminal mischief.
Torn has had several brushes with the law over the past few years, including a dismissed 2004 drunken driving charge, and a 2007 guilty plea of being "ability impaired" while operating a vehicle.
He is currently being held on a $100,000 cash bond, and is set to appear in court Monday, Feb. 1.
SOURCE

I lay in the river. The water is cold and harsh, but somehow soothing.

Considering the circumstances.

My hands clutch the wound in my stomach, desperately trying to keep my insides in place. Slowly but surely I’m loosing that battle.

The freezing water numbs my body from the pain. I hope it’s the chill that numbs me. The voice in the back of my brain tells me otherwise.

All because of the Goats.

I remember when they first arrived here, three weeks ago. I was worried then. Apparently I was right to be worried. Look at me now.

There are three of them. When they first wandered into the valley, I visited. I made my presence known. I paid them a courtesy visit, offering collected fruit and vegetables from the meadow.

They laughed at me. They laughed at my tattered clothes. They laughed at my home. They laughed at my weathered skin. They called me ugly. They called me "Troll". They laughed until I fled.

I left the food and escaped to my place under the bridge.

I felt rejection for the first time in my life. It stung. It tugged at my gut like the hooks on the end of my fishing line. The hook pulled me back into my hole under the bridge.

It didn’t take long before the presence of the goats became an issue in the meadow.

For the twenty years that I lived under the bridge, the surrounding meadow had been a peaceful, serene place. Miles and miles of long, luscious grass. Beautiful green trees, full of delicious fruits. This was my home. A home I shared with the birds and ground animals. My life was simple and I was happy.

They came from the west, over the hills. They ate everything in sight like a cancer. Who would have thought that three goats could cause so much damage. In only a week they consumed almost all of the west side of the meadow.

The animals of the meadow called a meeting. The birds, the squirrels, the woodchucks, the deer. They all gathered on the east side of my bridge, where the grass was still full, and the trees were still bountiful.

Everyone agreed that the Goats could not be allowed into the east side of the meadow. I agreed.

Unfortunately though, the animals of the meadow nominated ME the guardian of the east meadow. It seemed the natural choice, because of my size, but this was not a task I felt ready to tackle. I may be large, but I am no fighter. I’ve spent my entire life living peacefully under the bridge, fishing and gathering fruits to eat and share. I’ve never had to defend anything in my life.

The job was placed in my hands regardless. I accepted the responsibility, regretfully. I had no choice. While I was no fighter, there were too many reasons for me to be the protector of the east meadow. The squirrels and deer certainly couldn’t do it. And my bridge is the only way to the east side.

So I sat and waited. I listened as the grating sound of the goats braying and laughing and the ever present sound of chewing drew slowly closer. I found myself leaving my home less frequently, for fear of running into the goats. I was terrified of them. I was terrified of the inevitable confrontation, and I was afraid of more taunting and laughs.

I left only once. I waded up the stream and found a large piece of drift wood lodged between two rocks. The wood was just the right size for my hand, and would serve nicely as a club, if the need for one ever came up.

This was the first weapon ever lifted in the meadow.

The fateful day came a week ago. I lay under the bridge, my blanket wrapped around my body. The nights had been cold, and I was ill-prepared for winter. My fear of the goats had kept me from going out and collecting my winter food.

At first I thought it was a dream. The noise of hooves on the bridge. Trip trap, trip trap. I stirred awake and told my brain that it was a young deer. But I knew better. No deer in the meadow walked with such clumsiness… such a complete lack of grace.

I knew exactly who it was. It was the smallest goat. I closed my eyes tight and tried to force legs to take me to the surface of the bridge. After some resistance, I finally picked up my makeshift club and ambled my way up the side and onto the bridge. The smallest goat stopped walking and looked up at me, waiting for me to speak.

My mouth wouldn’t work. My brain was screaming at me, reminding me of the goat’s taunts and teases. Then my heart reminded me of the other animals in the meadow, and how they were counting on me to protect them and their food.

I adjusted my posture and tried to appear intimidating. I am a great deal larger than the smallest goat, and I used this to my advantage as best as I could. I found myself extremely thankful that I was dealing with only the littlest goat, rather than his larger brothers.

"You have to go back to your side of the meadow." I said. The small goat looked up at me, his eyes twinkling in the dark.

"Or what?" the smallest goat asked me, without fear or hesitation.

"Or… or I’ll eat you up!" I said. I don’t even know why I said that. I’ve never killed anything larger than a fish in my life. I guess I figured that if they were going to call me a troll, I should play the troll.

I lifted the club over my head in a pathetic attempt to threaten the goat.

The little goat laughed at me. That laugh cut me like no rock or branch ever had. I fought the tears. I couldn’t move. I watched as he walked around me and over the bridge. My arms would not bring the stick down on him. My legs would not follow. My mouth would not speak. I only stood and watched him take everything from me.

He disappeared into the darkness. I stood on the bridge for a long, long time.

I felt self hatred for the first time in my life. It hit me in the stomach like a bolder and knocked the wind out of me. I sat in the stream under the bridge and let the water run over my body. It did little to wash away the pain.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning the animals of the meadow called another meeting. I knew what they were going to say. The littlest goat had already done a lot damage. Bushes were uprooted and the grass was disappearing fast.

The animals didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to. I knew I had let them down. I knew they were disappointed in me.

I started to explain myself, but I couldn’t. how do you tell the ones who count on you to protect them that you couldn’t stop a goat a third of your size. How you explain that? How do you explain that the little goat’s laughter was a greater weapon than your club? It’s impossible. I told them that I would stop the other two goats. They left without speaking. I sulked back to my home under the bridge.

The next night I heard the sound I’d been dreading.

Trip trap, trip trap.

Louder and heavier. I gathered my club and swung at the air, trying to prepare myself. I climbed the bridge and stood in front of the second goat.

"You can’t cross to the east meadow." I said, gripping the club tightly in front of me.

The second goat looked up me and asked "What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

"I’ll bash you with this!" I said, shaking the club. The second goat looked at me a while longer.

"I’d like to see you try it!" he said with a smirk.

I forced my arms down. But they moved slowly and stupidly. It didn’t matter because I was blind with pain and anger. The goat crossed and I did nothing.

I felt real anger for the first time. It clawed at my body like a wild beast. I took my club and beat my home until it was little more than pile of broken sticks floating away in the stream. I took my blanket and curled up under the bridge.

Again sleep alluded me.

The next morning I crawled out from under the bridge. The sight of the eastern meadow hit me hard. My heart cried out at the devastation already delivered on the land. The grass was ravaged. The trees had been stripped of their leaves and bark. The meadow had been torn apart and raped.

Furious, I crawled back under the bridge.

The animals of the meadow called another meeting. I didn’t attend. I couldn’t look them in the eye. I couldn’t take their disappointment. I couldn’t explain myself, and I couldn’t offer any apologies.

I spent the day collecting rocks. Large rocks. I broke my club in half and sharpened the end to a point on the side of the bridge. I stacked my rocks on the bridge and I wait. I waited on the bridge for the oldest goat. I focused my anger on the confrontation that was sure to happen that night. I waited for hours, planning. I went over ever possible scenario in my mind. I pictured myself standing up to the third goat. I pictured him laughing at me and I pictured myself attacking. I pictured the sharpened stick piercing his body. I pictured him at my feet, bleeding. I pictured myself kicking and stabbing the goat, punishing him for what he’d done to the meadow, and punishing him for being what he is. I pictured myself avenging the meadow and avenging my broken heart. The more I pictured this, the more I wanted it.

Finally, the third goat walked to the edge of the bridge. The trip trap, trip trap of his hooves reminded me of the pain the first two goats had delivered on me.

With every step he took, anger welled up in me.

"You’re not crossing this bridge!" I yelled at him, the anger already physically manifesting. The goat stepped back, startled.

"That’s right! Go back! Go back where you came from!" I screamed, feeling confident. The Goat looked up at me.

"Step aside." The third goat said, without fear. The pain and fear swelled up in me like it had with his brothers, but I pushed it down and replaced it with anger.

"No. You’re not crossing. I won’t let you." I said, confidently stepping towards him.

"Or what?" he asked, laughing.

The anger exploded in me. I was blinded with rage again, but this time my body moved without my telling it to. I charged at the goat, swinging and stabbing.
The goat lowered his head as I ran at him. My body slammed into him and I heard a loud, wet tear. I couldn’t move, though not because of emotion, but because the goat held me in place. The horns on his head were buried in my stomach.

I stepped back, slowly, the wooden stick falling from my hand. My body slipped off his horns and I felt my stomach start to slide. I clutched my middle and stammered backwards. The goat laughed at me, blood soaking his white fur. He walked past me and crossed the bridge into the east meadow. I stumbled backwards.

My foot struck something hard and I fell, knocking over my pile of rocks. Blindly, I rolled off the side of the bridge and hit the water.

Now, I lay still as a stone. The cold water washes over my body, taking with it my blood. I lay in the stream and pray that the water will cleanse me. There is no more anger. There is only the cold, clean water. I feel fish swim over my stomach. I feel them exploring the wound. I feel my body getting numb and I welcome it. The sound of the laughing goats is distant and muffled. I no longer care about the goats. I no longer care about the fish or the rocks or the animals in the meadow or even my disappearing belly. All I care about is the clean, pure water, washing the pain away.

—-

I wrote this story nine years ago. It wasn’t on the website so I decided to repost it to archive. I edited a couple of grammar and punctuation errors and one line that I just didn’t really like. I could have rewritten a lot of it but I didn’t think I should change it too much.

I know that I’ve posted that picture of the dog with the hamburger feet before, but I don’t care. It’s like, my favorite picture ever. So it will be posted more than once. Probably many, many times over the next few years. It deserves it.

HE HAS HAMBURGERS FOR FEET! BEST DOG EVER!

Click here to read the rest of this entry

So I finally broke down and bought myself this model that I’ve been eyeballing for two years now. Luckily, the guy who sculpted it still had a copy and was willing to sell it to me.

I posted about it in October of 08 and only just gathered up the will to spend the money on it. Sandra was stressed out about what to get me for my birthday, and I had no ideas on what to tell her. I’ve pretty much got everything I want, and anything that I DO want is bigger than birthday money. So she said that I should get go on ebay and buy myself a couple of things. I bought a super cheap airbrush and then emailed the guy about the model.

One of the reasons I’ve been putting off getting this model is that I knew I’d need an airbrush to paint it, but I knew that if I bought it and didn’t have an airbrush, that I’d go ahead and paint it with regular old brushes. So since I bought the airbrush (twenty bucks) I figured it was time get this one.

What surprises me (it probably shouldn’t) is that people don’t seem to know what image this sculpt is based on. I used to avidly read Faust comics when I was a kid and I had this poster on my wall for years:

I have yet to find a paint up where someone has given her the blond hair she had in the original image. I (clearly) will paint her with the blond hair.

I really wish I could find a copy of that poster, but they seem to be non-existent now.