[NOTE: This post originally ran on Aug. 17, 2009. It's re-printed now because I'm lazy for your enjoyment.]

SO what did you miss this weekend? For one, it was apparently the anniversary of Woodstock. I don’t know about you, but it seems like just yesterday that Trent Reznor was rolling around in that mud and setting squat-o-potties on fire. I only get my news from Yahoo!, and they were all over this story:

Shown: Jimi Hendrix—what HAS he been up to these days? Also, Mona Lisa and Charles Manson: Who Wore It Best?

But for the tens of people who read this blog, you’ll also be interested to know that this weekend, the Illinois State Fair kicked off! And, as usual, there was a lot of incredible, culturally worthwhile stuff to take in.

For only $10, you could have your own Jesus Christ The Supper Star Hat. This hat’s message is loud and clear: Can Jesus eat 200 hot dogs? You bet your ass. Is the invention of Brunch a lie sandwich from the pit of whole wheat hell? Yes indeed, brethren. Will God’s only begotten son always use his fork in a “tines-up” orientation, obeying the utensil etiquette painstakingly laid out in the New Testament? Damn right. And that’s because Jesus Christ is a Supper Star.

Here’s another classy piece for your wardrobe…

“Wow,” some of you may say. “This is what I’ll wear to my job interview.” And you’re in luck, because there were a whole series of these tees.

And THEN, as is custom at the state fair, a lifesize butter carving of DJ Qualls, designed to tie in with Road Trip: Beer Pong (available now on DVD and Blu-Ray!)

Now that’s what I call a QUALL-ity butter sculpture! Now that’s also what I QUALL giant balls on that Butter Cow! Or maybe that’s an udder! Or should I say…BUTTER!

AND FINALLY, an annual trip to the HAM, BACON and PROCESSED BEEF SHOW! Well worth the $35 admission. This year, they flew in a shank cut of smoked ham from Wisconsin, and a Brine Cured, Streaky Bellied Fatback Bacon from, you guessed it, Ham Lake, Minnesota (Town motto: “We Exist!”)

Shown: My wife, surprised that we’re not even close to where I said we were going when we got in the car! Zing-o! That’ll teach her to be a trusting wife!

Shown: My two favorite pictures of me standing in solidarity with meat. The first is from the 2009 Ham, Bacon and Processed Beef “Show,” (which is a bunch of meat behind a fucking window an actual “show” in every respect of the word). The second is my Bacon and Meth-addled mugshot from that weekend at the Ham Lake, MN police department, obtained under the Freedom of Information Act.

I’ve discovered some sort of time rift that allows me to travel, unharmed, through un-energized ghosts in Pac-Man Championship Edition. IT’S LIKE TOUCHING THE FINGER OF GOD. When it happened I jumped…I couldn’t believe I saw it. And then I died almost immediately. I kind of feel like I’ve seen the Matrix for the first time. I must have watched this 100 times…I can’t figure it out either.

Shown: If the first thing you notice is this 25th Anniversary Pac-Man/Galaga cabinet, welcome to my world.

As you’re no doubt aware, today is Pac-Man’s birthday. I’m more than a little overwhelmed. With my wedding anniversary tomorrow (I swear I didn’t plan it that way), I’m never sure where my loyalties should lie this time of year. You know around Christmas, when they interview that crazy woman who fills her trailer with a shit ton of Santa Claus stuff? Except she’s had it up all year, and she says something like “Everyday is Christmas at 432 Orchard Alley Lane!” and you feel sick and sad for her? Well, that’s me. But for Pac-Man. My house is a little like wandering into Leatherface’s house, except instead of chicken bones hanging from the ceiling, it’s just Pac-Man stuff. Pac-Man is such a part of the backdrop in my house, that I forget how much I’ve actually accumulated from friends, family, eBay, flea markets and fans. Once you’re a known collector of something, it makes it easy for everyone to buy for you on holidays, which is nice. I’ve already covered some of my most coveted possessions in this NOT SAFE FOR WORK post from Joystick Division, but I took a stroll around my house and just took pictures of stuff I could actually see in front of me. Something I promised to do months ago. If I actually start digging, there’s hundreds more items strewn about…this is only scratching the surface.

So why Pac-Man?

Pac-Man is pure. Pac-Man is Pizza Hut breadsticks and a borrowed quarter from mom. Pac-Man is universal. Pac-Man is challenging and addictive 30 years later. Pac-Man is a warm yellow memory. Ok, scratch that last one. That didn’t sound right.

It’s the ghosts and blood, dust and mud, and the roar of an arcade crowd.

I made this Pac-Man beer cooler for my Pac-Man themed going away party in New York. I used my crappy cell phone video camera to capture this little magic event.

INSERT COIN AND CLICK THROUGH FOR MORE PAC-MAN CRAP THAN YOU CAN HANDLE

Shown: a rare Ms. Pac-Man addition to my collection, stolen from a Indianapolis Head Shop wall. Check out the ticket price, $12! This was before Feed The Animals changed the world.

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I’d like to take this time to remind you all that Members Save 10%. I’m really looking forward to this, and I’ve got some special things planned for all of us. As of now, there’s no after party planned…but I think that’d be kind of cool. Ideas?

You all know DJ Daymage. Not only does he make amazing mixes and provide soundtracks to bachelorette party videos, but he comes through on some pretty amazing birthday gifts. A few years back, he gave me this priceless item:

But, still, I had so many questions. This little guy was willing to hold whose bag, exactly? My bag? Gareb Shamus’ bag? The long-awaited answer came this year, with yet another piece to add to my collection of tragically misspelled art, including the famed Finger Pupies. Behold:

Shown: The unfortunately named “Male Bag.”

My cat, Champion, wants no part of this. Even without his balls, he knows the difference between “mail” and “male.”

But my other cat, Cricket, is another story altogether. Cricket looovves to play with my Male Bag. She gets a treat every time she plays with the ding dong on my Male Bag. She used to get a treat for just touching or rubbing up against my Male Bag, but I started running out of food quick. Observe! Maybe you’ll learn something:

CONTEST UPDATE: Shockingly, the SOUTH PARK SEASON 13 Blu-Ray and WHAT’S MY PEE TELLING ME? book are still unclaimed. Read about how easily you can win them here.

I’ve done a lot of horrible things to nice people on April Fools Day (Fools’ Day? Fool’s Day? Foo’ls Day? Grammar. Jesus.) so I figured it was time to get myself good today: I recently found my 1989 diary from when I was 8 years old, and now you’re going to see it. Plus, Diary of a Wimpy Kid is currently tearing up the box office. Plus, I just had my birthday. Topical!

Now, for years, I called this my “Journal.” But let’s look at the cover.

No 8-year old kid keeps a journal with flowers all over it. They keep a diary. I might as well face it. Oh sure, I tried to butch it up with a hologram sticker of Bebop, and a stern warning of “Keep Out or Else,” but one can assume two things from looking at this cover: the “or else” means “…or else you will probably force-read my own diary aloud, while upper classmen run a viscous train on me”, and any 8-year old who can’t spell the word “Private” has no business making threats with a label gun on the cover of his tulip-covered diary. If you stumbled across this in a bush, next to a pair of bloody Fruit of the Looms and broken glasses, not even Nancy Grace would bat an eye. I’ve got it coming.

The inside-cover is a little heartbreaking. My mom gave this to me for my birthday, lovingly inscribed. At the time, I probably was angry I could not stick this book into a Nintendo and press start. But she was actually encouraging me to do something I now do (almost) for a living, which is really nice. The sad part is what follows: instead of “stories and thoughts,” we get “self-centered ramblings, ignorance, spite and hatred: 1989 style.” So, I think I probably let her down.

So let’s see what page 1 has to offer.

Hoo boy, “a birthday I won’t forget.” How’s that for suspense? My parents got us a basketball hoop for our driveway (excuse me, “a cort,” not to be confused with Bud Cort), probably to offset the disappointment of the rose-covered diary. It’s obvious I’m a genius writer from the start. Check this deft prose out: “I got a game.” Hey, that’s super! What kind of game? Was it a board game? A $50 Nintendo game, perhaps? A game of “let’s leave you in the woods?” Great descriptors, asshole. Way to think of your audience.

Now, to those of you who don’t know where I grew up, you might think “holy shit, you got a ROCKET JACKET?” but that’s not what you think it is.

Shown: Rocket Jacket I didn’t get.

The rocket jacket was a Rushville Rockets jacket, our school mascot. This set me on a course to become the actual “Rushville Rocket” years later, which was a big quilted thing that looked like a giant white dildo with fins. But that’s another story.

Shown: Zoom! The mascot of a school that fancies itself a “tough football town.” In fairness, we were called “The Fightin’ White Vibrators” up until the sexually repressed Reagan-era. Other places you may have seen our mascot: in a trucker’s glove box. In Richard Gere’s nightstand. Hidden in a 16-year old girl’s sock drawer as, you know, a “gag gift”.

I wish I could find the undoubtedly wacky “Chris Ward’s La Funnky Music 1 and 2″ on cassette. I mean, it’s not every day someone “tapes their own tape.” Man, wasn’t that a long time ago? I just DVD’d my own DVD today, so boy do I feel old!

“La Funnky Music” is just me rambling (as I believed a DJ would do) into a brown Fisher-Price recorder (again, like a real DJ), and then commercials I’d taped off television to hear later (just like you’d here on WKRB “The Buzz” Morning Zoo drive time). And I would listen to this on trips and in my own backyard. For hours. Apparently, the Bubble Tape commercial and Super Mario Bros. Super Show theme registered as “La Funnky Music” in my book.

ANYWAY, back to the dramatic story, which I’d like to set the scene for. My dad and I spent all day digging a post hole (maybe not all day. Everything takes “all day” when you’re 8), and assembling a basketball hoop (all day). The hoop is in place. The neighbors are watching out the window, because they now realize their life is about to change when every 5-10 seconds, an 8-year olds ball rolls into their well-kept-and-soon-to be-trampled, lawn. I am presented with a basketball, carefully wrapped. I go for my first lay up and a large man comes out of nowhere and BLOCKS THAT MOTHERFUCKER WITH ALL THE FURY A 40-YEAR OLD MAN CAN RAIN DOWN ON AN EIGHT YEAR OLD. This is Dean, my dad’s friend. He begins instantly apologizing for, you know, my head slamming against the concrete and stuff. And this wasn’t that pussy concrete people put down today. This was the real deal: cracks, rocks, weeds all stickin’ out and shit. “I got hurt bad” as I later recalled.

I mean “my stomace” hurt, man. Like, real bad. It was 8 in the evening when we got back. And that’s all we get. Was I okay? What did the x-rays show? Did anyone go to jail? Well, this was Rushville in 1989, so no one was going to jail for things yet. Even though Dean “stold the ball” from me, I don’t have any ill-will towards him today. He’s a pretty good guy. At least he didn’t yell “BOO-YAH!” which I might have done, were the tables turned.

So there you have it. This sets the stage for a series of blogs where reveal I am a limp-dick pansy. Entries that follow will include ex-girlfriends I call “pigs”, cats hit by drunk drivers and more secret crying.

Shown: Batman cake, UHF soundtrack, purple Rushville Rocket polo, child molester glasses, and a haircut that cordially invites you to kick my ass (please, RSVP).

[ONE LAST UPDATE]

This is how cool my mom is, even after reading this she found a picture of Rocky the Rocket. It’s not me in the costume, but there’s plenty of those somewhere.

Shown: Get it? “The Pits.” I used to help paint these for the football players to run through and destroy on game night. They were so appreciative, coaches like Randy Hawkins treated us with more respect because of our hard work. Just kidding, Randy Hawkins remained an asshole. And even though he died in a terrible tobacco spitting incident years ago, I stand by my recollection of him as a coach and mentor. The artist’s names are down the side, and it looks like Bryan Morrell had a hand in this potentially racially insensitive masterwork. I’m sure Bryan worked really, really hard on it. He loved football, and doing things to support the team.

When the producer of Snakes on a Plane asks if you’re a god, you say YES.

It’s with the greatest of pants-tightening enthusiasm I can officially announce that, in addition to this site, I’ll be a regular poster at GEEK WEEK, which officially launched yesterday! I know, I know…you’re used to seeing me write for Fan Belt Quarterly and Fish Hook Enthusiast Digest, so it’s kind of a stretch for me.

I was approached several years ago by Mr. Jeff Katz—producer of Snakes On A Plane, X-Men Origins: Wolverine, and Shoot ‘Em Up—about a web venture he was working on, and after years of hard work, research and sweat that I had absolutely no part in, the Six Apart team (they designed the Huffington Post) have finally launched this beast. I’d like to think I have a pretty good bullshit detector (working for Wizard Magazine will help you fine tune that sixth sense), and Katz seems to be a guy who’s been on the level with me and knows how to spit game, knows what he wants and how to get it—as anyone who saw his San Diego ComicCon panel can attest.

I’m thrilled to be on board. I like this guy, I like his big ideas, I like his fire and vinegar, I like how he treats creators, and I like that he’s from the Midwest. He’s that perfect storm of Actual Geek and Daft Businessman that could pull this off. And he’s got a little bit of The Joker running through his veins, which is the kind of personality I tend to roll with. And, most of all, I like that my good friend/superb writer Gary Hodges is involved, as well as the only editor I’ve ever worked with who has his face printed on a goddamned thong.

Here’s a great article about Katz in Variety, as one of the 10 Producers to Watch.Personally, I thought Wolverine was a great movie right up until Wolverine stays in that barn, and the farmer forbids him from sticking his penis in any of the three holes. That’s not in the comic book (well, maybe one of Chris Claremont’s later titles).

And, say, here he is on Attack of the Show talking about his new comics brand:

Ok, so up until now it seems like I’m kissing a lot of ass. And while I’m not above that, I am sincere about what I’ve said thus far. So let’s play the Devil’s Advocate: there are tons of “Geek-Centric” websites out there. Maybe too many. Hell, MC Chris said it (I think)…geeks are kind of like the new jocks. And we’re constantly being marketed too, with words like niche-marketing and pre-awareness being bandied about, terms that raise everyone’s BS Terror Alert to “Reddish Orange.” And G4 is…well, G4 is what it is. True blue geeks still think of G4 as a corporate wolf in L33T speak clothing, with no real reason not to. We all know the score, dummies. Olivia Munn can only strut around in that White Queen get-up so many times: baby, I’m bored. My dick is not a rat, and you are not the pied piper. So what’s next?

In the words of Tom Atkins, “Thrill me.”

In the past year, I’ve seen that sites like Topless Robot , Panels on Pages and the Robot 6 blog (just to mention just a few) can be wonderful models to look up to. After years of working for publications that scream “THE 10 GEEK THINGS YOU GOTTA OWN!” and “BEST COMIC BOOK RACKS! WE TALKIN’ BOUT BOOBS!” (fool’s posturing, basically), these sites are down to earth, candid, transparent, respectful of their audience and—when they’re at their best—there’s some refreshing humility there.

And visitors of those sites know that smart writing and good company brings a smart, fun community along with it. While this post has been a hopeful, forward-looking rah-rah-rah for the industry so far, I’m not naive. I want to make some money doing this—doing what I love to do. It’s all I’m really qualified to do except drive women wild, and I’ve already kissed all the pretty girls.

So, I hope you’ll stop by and comment often, and let me know how I’m doing. A crowd draws a crowd, so please support me and I swear I’ll try to do better at leaving comments at my friend’s websites. I’ve been scattershot at that lately. We do this in a vacuum and any comments are good comments. That’s why I leave up all the hate comments—nothing gets me hawt like the occasional person yelling at me or telling me I suck. I feed off your energy, anonymous, ball-less flame poster. I love you. Let’s have a discussion. Thank you sir, may I have another.

Really: why so serious?

Oh yeah, and I’m occasionally going to use Geek Week posts here at this site. Hey, I’m not stupid. Why work harder? That said, I can now edit videos at my house instead of driving across town, so expect a lot more men in banana hammocks and Ghetto Jesus posts in the near future. Plus, I’m working on two secret projects you’re really, really going to enjoy…

Let’s have a good decade for a change. Happy New Year.

I don’t actually have the time to post…it’s late. Just got home. I just got back from the CAT CIRCUS.

I just watched a cat and a chicken have a bell ringing contest. I watched a bunny drive a red car. I watched a black cat knock some shit over and send other cats running into the crowd. And then we all sang Silent Night as some cat pounded on a drumset. In short, it was awesome. Got a really amazing interview with the wonderful cat women (sexy and single cat women, I might add) involved and I’ll be sharing with you soon where it will appear. Until then, here’s my cat music video again. It pretty much sums up how I feel.

SHOWN: “Hey, it’s your cousin Morris…MORRIS THE CAT….listen, you know that new sound you’ve been looking for? LISTEN TO THIS!!!! [MEOOWEROERERRR....]“

What if God were one of us? Just a mumbling, ghetto-fabulous, do-nothing slob like one of us? “JC in Tha Hood” is the kind of movie that appears like a star of wonder, star of bright in the video store. How can you not immediately grab this off the shelf, and be healed by its power?

Saafir…Caffeine…Shorty Mack…Eastwood. Don’t look for any Da Vinci Code meaning to these seemingly random words on the DVD cover: these are the film’s actors. Caffeine (you know, like the drank!), Eastwood (not Clint ), Shorty Mack (in the flesh!)…they’re all here like a Holy Trinity with a +1 on the guest list!

We rented this and Left Behind last weekend (naturally). Needless to say, after watching JC In Tha Hood, we had not a second to devote to Kirk Cameron’s end-of-the-world shenanigans. They suddenly seemed silly next to JC’s keepin’ it real message.

Saafir plays a character named “Jesus,” and he at least has the “one name” thing in common. Everything else…not so much. Picture if Humpty Hump from Digital Underground and Jesus got bizzee in a Burger King bathroom. You’d get JC in Tha Hood.

His voice is, like, transcendent. Just the way he says Lucifer as “Loocifer” floors me. I can’t get enough of it. When he says “Wha happen, Loocifer?”, it’s like a crappy Song of Solomon on mine ear. “My Fah-thuh, who arts in hea-vun” is another favorite. The movie even seems to ask the audience “what if Jesus was BLACK?” I know, I know…this question was resolved by Yahoo! an entire YEAR AGO!

Not convinced of the godsend that is JC in Tha Hood? Watch these jaw-dropping clips from the movie (for sale here), which I’m officially propping up as the Christian version of The Room! Seriously, you have to see the entire movie. This montage doesn’t do it justice.

(note: while JC in Tha Hood has the trappings of a Christian film—and while I doubt that capital-g God cares which mortals are saying words like “motherfucker” down here on Earth, in English or otherwise—this movie is full of language, sexual violence and homeless funk that would make the Pope weep. It’s definitely Too Hot for the Fireproof Crowd. I left out the, ahem, sexual romance for this montage.)

Additional things you’ll get to see when (and I say WHEN) you watch this movie:

- A long speech between Satan (in a cherry red Brooks Brothers suit) and Jesus about a battle for souls, FOLLOWED by scenes of Satan getting people to do awful things to themselves. And what’s the titular Jesus do this whole time? HE WALKS AROUND LA HOLDING A BIBLE IN THE AIR. There is not ONE scene between Jesus and anyone in this movie who needs his immediate help. It’s maddening. The whole time my friends kept screaming “Jesus, DO something already!”

-A green-screen heaven. No, not the LucasArts ranch. An actual green-screen heaven.

-A whore-killing pimp who has a full-size posters of The Mummy, The Matrix, and one prominently displayed Paul Hogan/Elijah Wood Flipper Poster in his apartment. And it appears to be SIGNED!

-A slideshow from director Dale Stelly (which just makes me want to say “Stale Deli!” when I read it) featuring the crew slamming Colt 45s. Works every time! Also, the gangbanger’s car says “STELLY” on the license plate, which kind of takes me out of the film. Which is where I wanted to be, actually. So, in that case…thank you!

-A drawn out final scene on a staircase, where a reformed gang member preaches the gospel and thanks his members for letting him preach in the house “while the church is being worked on.” Uh-huh. The church is under construction. So we couldn’t film there.  Eli eli lama sabachthani?* ["My God, My God, why have you forsaken my Location Scout?"]

-At least 3 different takes of the “Hey Old Man, wanna buy some DRUUUGGS?” guy. [note: those guys are totally the same age, but he insists on calling him "gramps" and "old man" in every version of the 3 stories! GAHH!!! Also, this guy would make a GREAT team with whistle-enthusiast Bubb Rubb.]

Woo-WOOO! WANT SOME DRUGS, OLD TIMER? WOOOOOO!!!!! THA DRUGZ GOES WOO-WOOOO!!!

And by the time the whole film ends with someone screaming “GLORY!” into a microphone—WHO?!?! Someone TELL ME WHO!!!—followed by an inexplicable tribute to those who lived through 9/11…well, it’s stranger than any apocalyptic future Johnny Cash sang about.

From left to right: Ethan Van Sciver, Sharis Van Sciver, Chris Ward, Jack Kirby’s ghost.

My greatest memory of working at Wizard Magazine was writing a large feature piece on world famous comic book artist, Ethan Van Sciver (who also happens to be one of the best “humorists” of my day, and I remain eternally jealous of his wit and talent). In 2005, he won Artist of the Year for his incredible work on Green Lantern: Rebirth. God, has it been almost 5 years? Anyway, we spent the day goofing around at Universal Studios, where I got my tape recorder wet on a Rocky & Bullwinkle flume ride and destroyed it, forcing us to table all interviews and serious business activity until later in the day. What terrible luck.

I won’t go into how we almost got kicked out of the park that morning, but I will do the next best thing: I will reveal, for the first time ever, two really, really funny Ethan Van Sciver stories that simply wouldn’t fit in an Artist of the Year feature.

I found it while digging through some old material, and laughed my ass off at these unbelievable comedy/tragedies, painstakingly transcribed by an unknown, unpaid Wizard intern (thanks, by the way, whoever you were. I hate transcribing interviews).

(TAPE STARTS)

CW: Now, did you ever tell me about any cool pranks that you did [before my tape recorder got wet]?

EVS: Oh, did you get those on tape?

CW: I don’t even know. You mentioned a goat in you kitchen or something…I don’t know if that was a prank.

EVS: That wasn’t a prank, that was god preying on us…

Click through for the craziest story you’ll read this half-hour!

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