My schedule this weekend is going to be rough. But before I tell you about it, I need to wish a happy birthday to zubkavich. I don’t know how old he is, but he’s had far, far more experience with deadlines in this business than I have. I’m sure that if he’s reading my whinings he’s saying something like “yeah? well, there was this one time…”

Happy birthday, Jim.

I’m listening and re-listening to “The Impression I Get,” by The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. The theme of the song is that the singer has never been truly tested, and wonders whether he’d shine or not.

I’m not a coward, I’ve just never been tested
I’d like to think that if I was, I would pass
Look at the test, and then think “there but for the grace go I”
Might be a coward, I’m afraid of what I might find out.

Me, I’ve been tested, time and again. It’s come down to “do or die” and I’ve had to “rise above the rest.” And this weekend, thanks to shipping delays, it’s going to happen again, in a new way. If we’re going to get everything shipped on time, I need to sign 1884 books and sketch in 300 of them in something like 36 straight hours. Sure, sure… people keep telling us (me and Sandra) not to stress, and to do the books “when they get done”. I’ve got news for these folks: having books lying around unsigned will generate more than just stress. It will generate GUILT. We’ve got your money, and you don’t have your book yet. We really, really hate that.

I’ve timed myself. I can do a decent sketch inside of 3 minutes. 300 of those comes to 900 straight minutes, or a minimum of 15 hours of sketching. Hopefully there will be people around to provide moral support, because I can imagine myself going quietly, busily insane. But before anybody tries to tell me not to worry about it, know this… I have to TRY.

Part of me looks at this in abject terror. But there’s this other guy, the guy who has never missed an update in 5 years and 11 months, who thinks this is just some new flavor of “fun.” Sure, the folks shipping the books to me may have twisted our carefully-laid plans into a bona fide mongolian charlie foxtrot, but I just got a new suit. If Charlie wants to dance, I’m gonna lead.

Okay, I’ve got your attention.

sandratayler was telling me about trailers she’d been watching over on the apple.com site, and commented that M. Night Shyamalan was the only writer/director she knew of where his name was bigger than the movie title. I got to thinking about that, and realized that for twisty, cerebral thrillers, he’s not the only one. Alfred Hitchcock was billed the same way.

I’m not about to say that Shyamalan has the chops Hitchcock did, because I’m not familiar enough with a) the genre, b) Hitchcock’s vast opus, or c) Shyamalan’s work. But from a marketing standpoint, the folks selling us Shyamalan’s films want us to think of HIM before we contemplate the subject matter of his latest film. And that’s the same thing that happened with Hitchcock films later in his career. It STILL happens. “Vertigo” is not a “Cary Grant” film. It’s a HITCHCOCK film.

So… I’m pleased with myself for drawing this comparison. I don’t dare Google “Hitchcock Shyamalan” lest I find out that someone else has had this same insight and then completely invalidated it with actual research.

–Howard

It’s been a good week for cartooning. The buffer stands at 22 (well… 21 now), and today I scripted and pencilled a full week. I plowed through something like 24 rows worth of work (6 rows colored, 9 scripted, 9 pencilled), and brainstormed with Sandra about plot points for the end of Book V and the beginning of Book VI.

I also sat on a pilates ball (is that what they’re called) at my computer for about an hour, bouncing while scanning strips and reading email. Right now my body is saying GO TO BED YOU MORON YOU’RE EXHAUSTED.

I’d better listen. I have two weeks’ worth of strips to color tomorrow, including some stray “painting” to ready Sunday’s strip for the web.

–Howard

Last night I snacked on the crepes Sandra made for breakfast.

They were simple things, a little fatter than a true crepe, but thinner than a pancake. I filled one with the requisite strawberries and whipped cream, and bit into it.

Suddenly I was back in South Africa, on my way to the Kruger park, with Sandra and the rest of our group. We were eating at Harrie’s Pancakes somewhere in the middle of the Transvaal. It was 1999.

Anyway, that first crepe I had was pretty good.

I had the other four because I wanted to see the monkeys.