Achewood

My Stint As a Real Cook, Pt. 6

In this penultimate installment: my probationary acceptance into the Life; the specter of inevitability trudges back and forth through our kitchen, daring anyone to make eye contact.

Ray's Place: Retirement, Disappointing Heroes, Dorky New Phrases

Dear Ray, Since you aren’t making music anymore can you comment on the feeling of being “afraid” of retirement? I look forward to the day I have enough of a stash to tell people to fuck off and I’m finally enjoying life. What am I missing? Joshua  

Dear Joshua,

I ain’t retired from music! Are you insane? I’m surprised I’m even answerin’ this! I just got a new small microphone and everything, which I can use to record song ideas in the car. Just yesterday I started a new rap: 

Chicken meat, 

Drop the beat, 

Dip the bone, 

Feel the heat. 

So screw the idea that I am retired! (But not screw you, specifically, because I ain’t like that. I’m all about love.) 

(The song is about eating chicken wings at Sixteen Degrees of Francis, this new French art-type wings place down by the airport. I don’t think it’ll last long, but they got this dip of ketchup mixed just so with peanut butter, and I go real hard on it. You’ll probably see this track droppin’ soon under my hip hop alter ego, Rock Sauce.)

Anyhow, I couldn’t retire from music if I tried. Music and me are one and the same. So don’t think about retirement, think about a way to make a living off your essential fascination. You just need to un-retire from the wrong life. 

Sorry if this was a hard and weird answer. I am on acid. 

Ray::...:..:. . .   . 

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Hey Ray. How do you deal with one of your heroes disappointing you? Not like missing a meet and greet disappointing, but more skeletons in the closet with some viscera attached kinda disappointing? —Omnithea  

Dear Omnithea, 

Show me a person who ain’t a star in the streets and a stain in the sheets, and I will launch a premium hoagie (in plastic wrap) from my house to yours. I will consult scientists on this.  

We each got three selves. A public self, a private self, and a secret self. Public is what people you don’t know see. Private is what friends and lovers see. Secret is the stuff you know better than to share — that animal nasty that bubbles up from the reptile brain we all got as a foundation. 

If you could look all the way down, nobody is clean, or innocent, or saintly. (Try it on yourself!) Heroes are just unlucky in that a lot of their life gets seen. The average denizen sins and dies safely in obscurity; any lingering scraps on the skeleton of the character of renown will always be found by the wasps and maggots of time. (I cribbed that last line from a speech Connie made at dinner the other night, after his pub got a bad Yelp review.) 

I guess what I mean is, enjoy the good your hero managed to produce, because any good is an unlikely miracle in this brutal and uncaring world, and any hope or beauty is real, real helpful. 

This ain’t even that original of a thought. It’s just well-put because I have smart friends and also I am on acid. 

…:.::..:::.:.:...:Ray

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Ray, I need some advice. As a man of years, how do I deal with young people using janky terms like "holding space", "plant-based", "clean" in regards to purchaseable foods? It makes me want to retreat into the nether world. It's like all of reality has been annexed by HR and Marketing departments. —Alexander 

I heard on a podcast that zoomers can’t cum any more (screen time rubicon), so maybe just let them have their weird words. 

-=-=RayMongous=-=-

       . . . . . . : : . . . : : : (en acide)

-- -- + -- --

Confidential to Roland in Herefordshire: I find that a 3-12-8 blend helps any roses with a contrasting reverse hold their initial hue set well after clipping. (I also ionize the water with a little galvanic acid.)

0078 — end-of-arc notedump

 Okay, all the places this story arc didn't go — too complicated, too long, too predictable, too traditional — are in here somewhere. My favorite thing that I couldn't use is the bit about Philippe.

0078 — Finale — Pete's Umbrage

My complete "note dump" on all the planning and unused lines/directions for this arc posts in the Author's and In-Universe tiers at noon today!

The slippery thing about luck is that it's like Shakespeare's Walnut — you can't know the nature of it (say, good or bad) until you have it in context, and even then, depending on how many further contextual parameters you add, the nature of the luck will need reclassification from good to bad, and vice versa.

What do I mean by Shakespeare's Walnut? It's an irresponsible conflation of his "bounded in a nutshell/king of infinite space" concept, with his "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so" chestnut. They don't really funge together well — mostly because I just needed the "nut" thing from the first one — and the entire enterprise withstands only the most charitable of scrutiny. But at the heart of this neologism is the postmodernist's plaything that there are no moral absolutes.

Please try using Shakespeare's Walnut in a sentence, in the comments, and I will see if your effort feels right. Many of you are much brighter than me, so I look forward to your constructions.  

My Stint As a Real Cook, Pt. 5

In this installment: health makes me beautiful, I ponder my triumphant return to the gene pool, and I have fantasies.

Ray's Place: Where True Players Go In Vegas, How to Style a Beanie, A Bad Sneeze Problem

Hi Ray, heading to Vegas for a nerd convention (the kind that RB might go to, to brush up on his skills at deleting Yahoo dating profiles) and am concerned, what's the best place on the strip both for class and quality, as well as protection against nerds? Should I just bring a burner and use such as unwired mp3 players to listen to my tunes on? Favorite maglite is actually the Weltool BB3 surefire clone I built. —GruntyGinMan

Dear GruntyGinMan, 

First of all, no true player is on the strip, so you can save yourself that trouble. The strip is mostly for, like, a guy who owns a seven-man drywall contracting company in Phoenix, and he’s completely tanned and shaved-headed, with an untucked, open-collar dress shirt and those jeans with way too much embroidery on the butt pockets. He is on cocaine, and betting hard at craps. He gets kind of pushy when it’s your turn to throw the dice and you hesitate even like one second to ask a question. He says something pistol-fast sort of to the dealer, like, “talk costs me money,” and it’s a diss, but you can tell it’s just coke flash and not about you. That man is no player. He will lose ten thousand dollars and then, deep in the night, squat on his comped room service steak dinner, pants off, in a garbled display of primal ownership. His anus will touch the sirloin. 

The real Vegas movers are never at casinos. Casinos are a fool’s maze. Everyone should have a foam rat’s nose on, to create truth. Platinum movers are in private suites, single-shakin’ over a pre-ordained deal, one rock in one finger, crystal. Maybe the lesser party — he knows who he is — presents the rankin’ dog with a black-diamond encrusted skull pendant from Jason of Beverly Hills at the Cosmopolitan. A gesture. Somethin’ he can give his maid. Rankin’ dog flies the lucky boy home on his private jet, maybe with Carrot Top as a subtle flex. 

I’m not sure what the other words you used were. But good luck. 

+RaY+     

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What is the correct way to wear a beanie for a haircut blessed with bangs? Hat on top with bangs a-flopping down the front - ala the Fall Out Boys - or bangs swept backwards and the hat in a pulled-back position such that a good inch or so of slicked hairline is visible - ala Harry Styles sometimes? —fionn

Okay, you caught me out here. I had no idea what those bands sounded like, so I queued them up on Spotify. Is Fall Out Boy like Taylor Swift for guys who aren’t old enough to be cops? I feel like I just walked into a strip club where the dancers never take their bottoms off. I could see a Mormon boy hearing one of these songs for the first time and realizing that he can be mad (that it is an emotion you can experience). 

Also news to me: Harry Styles is not Ed Sheeran. Opinion: Somebody else will sing exactly this music next year. 

Your question about hats has made me sad. 

-=Ray’s Palette of Emotion=-

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Hi Ray, I'm turning into my mother—namely, I sneeze too much. It's always 5 sneezes in a row and it's annoying AF to me and the people in the surrounding area. I bought a really expensive air filter (multiple hundo) but the sneezes persist. How do I stop this obnoxiousness? Or how do I joke it away, like Tina's farts? Jenn 

Dear Jenn,

Damn, you had me until the mention of Tina’s farts. I almost capitalized “farts” there, if that tells you anything about how that still lands with me. She never meant to prelude, but the girl’s family was just built that way, I think. Internal construction, and what we now know are colonic flora or whatever. I ain’t blame her, and it wasn’t in the top three reasons we split up, but those memories still pop up in my mind from time to time. 

Hm, maybe there are actually some parallels here, with her fuh-b-b-blaps bein’ a family thing, and your sneezes bein’ a family thing. I know from her not bein’ on Tinder the last eleven months that she’s seein’ somebody new, so maybe she’s finally worked it out. This gives me hope that AI or a Doctor House episode or something can connect the dots for you and you’ll be like, “Me and my mom both sneeze every time we wear the lipstick that has the Bonanza Beetle shell dust in it!” or whatever. Hidden somewhere in your mom’s preferences or obvious quirks will be the answer you seek.  

Okay, I just got distracted by the first topic again, and I ain’t feelin’ this any more. Sorry. Raw years gonna raw. 

R

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Confidential to Orlin275: I don't see the sudden popularity of pickleball as part of a larger conspiracy, no. I think it's just easier than tennis and badminton, and people like that.  

0077 — Discards from "Two Angels Goin' Home Again"

Strip 0077 was not actually called that, but that's how it feels, doesn't it, friends? So good to see two old Smuckleses floatin' through the Egyptian Math Portal together at last, goin' to live that life that two good old rascals should have. So good to see Roast Beef play a bass (the glue of music) and bond father and grandson. Next week in magical realism with the dead, Cornelius Bear discovers the ghost of Kurt Cobain in a bottle of stomach aspirin but, not recognizing him, wishes him a good day and closes the bottle again.

0077 — Pt. 8, Penultimate arc strip

As always, experimental but ultimately unused panels, as well as other pieces of my artboard lagan, will post at noon Pacific today in the Author's and In-Universe Tiers.

My fiancée was recently away for a weekend bachelorette party, and I remained happily at home, where I would quickly dissipate into sublime bachelorhood. I had planned to have honorable intentions: I would treat myself to pasta at a fine local restaurant, I would knock out a week's pre-wedding home improvements, I would run a great distance, and I would get my art studio set up again. What did I actually do? "Cook" nachos (twice), eat nachos at a restaurant (once, to see), and wore the same socks (twice). Oh, and I wrote this strip, minus the last panel. Which, in my world, is like taking the trash all the way to the curb, only to turn right back around and return it to the place behind the garage.

My Stint As a Real Cook, Pt. 4

Some quality time with Sammy Hagar Davis, Jr; Aaron gets caught in the crosshairs.

Ray's Place: Vinyl Crisis, Midlife Shift, Juicy Machines

Hello Ray I've been spending a lot of money on my vinyl collection recently and I've got a sort of concern about it. Like I really enjoy looking at the album art and the whole ritual of placing the record on the turntable and letting it do its thing. But given how cheap and simple a Spotify subscription is, I'm starting to wonder if I'm really getting the most for my money out of the hobby? Can a person really justify an expensive vinyl habit when the music itself is already just scratching at the door, begging to come in for basically free? —Brian 

Hey, Brian!

Ditch the records, you kinky old noodle! I know, I know, I’m in the biz and all that, but stuff sounds fine on computers! Once I plumped for that new Jetstream speaker system from Ferguson Hill, and a self-leveling single-animal leather Buurambū listening chair, I never went back to physical media. Think of records and CDs the same way you think about magazines: They got maybe two pages you like, and the rest is just stealin’ real estate in your house. Did you know that a song on a computer drive is smaller than a molecule? They got some talented people up at Intel, and that ain’t no joke.  

Another thing a record can’t do is send you down rabbit holes of related artists...or go in the car, or go to the gym with you and help you wiggle that little tushy side-to-side like like it’s the sexy window wipers. (Incidentally, that last one also helps me loosen up this one ab that always suddenly cramps.) And for half the price of a record, you get pretty much all music ever. Havin’ records these days is kind of like relyin’ on your less-developed conjoined twin to whistle the one song it knows. 

-=Raë=-

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Dear Ray, Adjusting for inflation, what’s a reasonable investment for an orange juice machine? I’m not talking about juicers in general, but specifically for fresh tasty OJ. PS, is it even worth it to run some grapefruits through —Nikolai

Nikolai, 

I picked up the Welco Industries 2700-P, with the automatic pulp centrifuge. (Pulp centrifuge: If you know, you know.) I first saw one of these bad, bad girls in action at Whole Foods, and fell in love with her clear acrylic housing — you can see all that droppin’ and grindin’. I treated mine to a hammered brass hopper that looks like a really wide upside-down conquistador helmet, and a spooky little gas lamp on each side that flickers whenever she’s juicin’. (This might not seem like my usual way of aesthetics, but in this relationship, she tells me how she looks best, and she’s always right.) 

I think a classy lady like mine would do you out about $25k, dependin’ how hard you went on the hopper. Connato (the elderly celebrity lighting specialist) made me an offer on her for twice that, for his secret townhouse in Montecito, but she and I are inseparable now, and I was actually kind of pissed he had the gall to ask. 

Not sure what you mean about inflation adjustment, as it is the present.   

-=Coral Ray McDune=- 

(my name if I was the star in a boxing movie)

-- -- + -- --

Dear Ray, When I was a younger man I dreamed of fame and wealth and excellence and vanquished foes and the silly little dreams bright eyed youngsters have. The thing is, I sort of made those dreams come true. Now I am older and wiser and I have become very excellent at something highly competitive and profoundly meaningless. I feel a yearning to do something else with my life, but also a sort of golden-handcuff claustrophobia. What should a man do when the dream he caught no longer satiates his soul? How do you leave your most deeply-burned neural pathways and the security of the self that comes from excellence behind? How do you end and begin again? — Ben 

Yo Ben, 

I used to sit by this dude down at Quincy’s, the clubhouse restaurant at Seven Pines, after rounds. He was an older guy, and we all called him Fish, but not because of how much gas he could put back. (I think it was a lot, but he was one of those guys who never changed no matter how many scotch and sodas he drained.) He was always — and it took me a while to locate this word — circumspect. Like, he’d consider everything from many angles before speaking, or at least that’s how it seemed. He had that kind of wisdom that just feels good to hear, you know? And plus we all knew he’d had a heart attack, so his advice seemed to come from a Boss level we didn’t have yet. 

Somebody asked him your exact question once. His reply was, a man has to reinvent himself every nine years. I don’t know where the nine came from; maybe that’s a lucky heart attack number. But anyway, here’s what I have to add to that: ain’t there like a million things got you interested, in this world? (Be honest.) Daniel Day Lewis quit bein’ the best possible actor and spent a little time seriously pursuin’ cobblery! He probably just saw a fine shoe in a magazine, and was like, “What the fuuuck…,” and then proceeded to never tell himself no. (I actually got a little that way with a book about locks recently, but I forget where I put it, and plus locks are already all figured out.) 

So, I think you got to check in with your little boy voice again and see what draws your fascination, even if there’s no immediate angle of monetizin’ it, especially since you sound like you got cushy coffers in this minute. It may take a while to re-establish contact, but keep at it: that neural pathway is still down in the mix. 

The rest of the journey from this point shouldn’t be too rough for you, since by your question you show you already did the hard part, which was realize it was time to get started on it.   

Sorry this advice was actually helpful, everybody. Usually I just try to play with y’all, have some fun, and wait until the maid is done clangin’ and whuzzin’ around so I can get back to mixin’ some drippy ’slangles. 

-=Rayy-a-cuda=-

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Confidential to SoHo_MoJo: My nipples do not move around on my chest from year to year. Chris probably just thinks he's doing some "sick burn" on me in Photoshop, but I could not possibly care.

0076 — Cut material from the Ray and Antonyne mega-update

I couldn't have Ray and his grandfather discuss their respective dookie AND keep the joke about "a study on gas in the male," so the latter won out, especially because it ties in with the song about the postman not ringing. (Which is a symbolic joke about not having gas at one of the few right times to have gas.)

0076 — pt. 7, Ray and Antonyne Mega-Update

In a move designed for the real Heads, I’ve hopped over to a more suitable format for this week's installment. Sometimes the fellows just have so much to say that speech bubbles are the wrong tool to pull off the pegboard.

If you enjoy this kind of wall-breaking, rule-destroying update, you will enjoy The Great Outdoor Fight storyline (look for it in the drop-down menu at achewood.com, and note all the related blogs below each installment).

You'll also enjoy the longer-form material in the In-Universe and Author's tiers -- take them for a spin for a month, I promise you won't regret it! Nearly 150 pieces are ready for you to unlock, for less than the price of a sandwich!

Ray's Place: Post your advice questions for Ray here!

It's that time again: post your advice questions for Ray here, and he'll answer them as soon as he has good wisdom / a lot of exogenous moon juice in his veins! No matter what category of ick you're dealing with, Ray will help you if he finds your question compelling enough, or if his flight is delayed long enough and he's already eaten everything he finds interesting in the British Airways Captain's Lounge.

Ray's Place posts in the In-Universe and Author's tiers, as always.

Ray thanks you for this opportunity to splash his brand around.

My Stint As A Real Cook, Pt. 3

In this installment our cast grows by aged pixies, nursery-rhyme poltroons, and a manager with revolting breath.

Ray's Place — Cure For Insomnia, Business Fashion, The Truth About Lying

Dear Ray, Lately I seem to be the victim of a sort of self-induced insomnia. There just don't seem to be enough hours in the day! So by the time I reach the end of it I don't want to just lie down and get to the next one. I want to relax and spend my free time. However this invariably ends up with me staying [up] late, sleeping in later, and losing more time in the day. What can I do to solve this? —NotAnon

Dear NotAnon,

This is gonna be a little vinegar in the eyes, but it sounds like you ain’t got discipline.

Here’s what I want you to do. Every night for a week, right before you turn out the lights and go to sleep, write down all the things you did with your nightly “free time.” The next morning, read the list. Ain’t it shameful? I bet it goes like this:

1. Watched videos of people falling off ski lifts (6 hours)

2. Considered getting Duolingo (3 seconds)

Next, imagine the eulogy they’d write about you if you kicked it tomorrow. Pretty sad, right? I mean, they’d be like, “I hope he’s up in heaven now, watching the ski lift accident video he loved so much, maybe with the actual skier. He would have liked that.”  

Then, realize that your biography would fit on half a business card, and start ironin’ them jeans, son. (That’s a just figure of speech, because nothing looks more alarming than a dude with creases down the front of his jeans.)

-=Ray=-

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Dear Ray, I suddenly have work-related travel that requires a certain level of professionalism in dress. As a dude of both a certain age and counter-professional tendencies, what should I wear to fulfill my professional obligations while letting those I meet know I still got it? Cheers, Charles

Dear Charles,

This is a great question, as what constitutes men’s business wear has evolved a lot over time. It ain’t just the same old blue suit and tie, brown shoes and belt snooze that, frankly, is one of the main reasons I stayed outta the world of high finance. If I can’t rock a pastel three-piece with Givenchy shower slides, my talents will better serve elsewhere.

I ain’t suggesting you get as juicy as me, because it takes time to hone that instinct — plus a duffel of cash and a big horn ’o dope (for the tailors and salespeople; I ain’t like that stuff).

What I want you to do, though, is get to the very edge of the fashion conversation with a single element, and learn how to manage it. You know what I’m seeing in Tokyo, LA, and especially Milan this season? This year’s high-end marker for the man in the know is sashes. That’s right, instead of a belt, wrap that swivelin’ waist in some long, beautiful burgundy silk that hangs rakishly to mid-shin on one side. Even if all you got on is a collared shirt, 3/4-zip pullover, and some slacks, that sash is gonna boom the room.  

-=WhoooRay For A Guy=-

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On average, how many lies is it acceptable to tell in one calendar year? — Cy

My Guy Cy,

There is this saying, “Who you are is how you act when nobody’s looking.” I know that sounds all square and phony-aspirational, because even those “man-o-sphere” guys on social media who say that line definitely keep rewinding the clip of the guy fallin’ off the ski lift when their wife isn’t home. But it’s actually a pretty good idea. Try not to lie for half an hour sometime, starting with yourself, and see how much better you feel. You might even get so inspired and worked up that you go buy some inexpensive cedar at Home Depot and create a small length of fence in your yard. You know, not as a fence, but as a brain-body accomplishment.

Life can truly be amazing if we try something new. What if you became the world’s best fence man? Riches await a focused dude.  

-=Raimundo c. Respeto=-

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Confidential to Medusa_In_Red: Most FedEx drivers are about 5'6". Short guys look faster when zippin' up and down your steps, and this is good for the brand.

0075 — Outtakes and edits from “Cursed Blues Name Generator”

Since the answer wasn't profoundly important, I used ChatGPT to answer a question about cocaine usage. It occurs to me that it may seem cute how little I know about cocaine usage. I can own this. My experience with the substance, at least to my knowledge, is limited to the following instances:

1. A bachelor party where a fellow on cocaine cornered me for three hours and talked about his crazy ex-girlfriend, one of whose eccentricities was to eat popcorn and then, several hours later, demand that he perform sex in her rear end. He was profoundly talented at keeping you from either speaking or finding that one slight pause where you might excuse yourself from the conversation. It was almost demonic how good he was at this.

2. I was once at an older man's retirement party, in a private room at a large Milwaukee restaurant named Crawdaddy's. The manager in charge of the room knew another fellow in the room, because they had met at NA meetings. The manager's eyes darted restlessly around the crowd, even while talking with you; his eyes were ravenous for information about the present. If you interacted with him, he would hold eye contact for exactly one second, before his eyes began tearing the room apart for fresher information.

0075 - Generate Your Cursed Blues Name! (Intermission Strip)

(Clippings from this strip publish at noon in the In-Universe and Author's tiers!)

Please join us as we pause from the current storyline to enjoy a playful, old-school type of strip that we haven't seen in a while! (I thought it would be more fun if everybody had their own Cursed Blues Name as they read along to the rest of the arc.)

Report your CBN in the comments, if you got a good one! 

If you don't prefer this method of generating your Cursed Blues Name, you may always follow the simpler, classic formula of Infirmity + Item From Produce Department + Common Last Name Which Balances the Syllabic Meter.

Potential Harmwrðh (Harmwrath) Shirt - Interested?

If you're interested in this shirt design, please comment! 

We're getting things in shape for a relaunch of the Achewood shop -- new goods, new shipping partner (meaning actual pros will ship all your orders), new energy!

I designed this shirt to pass as a real-world classic hardcore metal shirt, and modified a public domain image from Hans Holbein's The Dance of Death. For those who aren't yet subscribers, Harmwrðh is a band Nice Pete recently started in order to kill Ray.

Thank you!

My Stint As A Real Cook, Pt. 2

Hot on the heels of installment one: I get taken under a "real" cook's wing!

My Stint as a Real Cook, Pt. 1

About five years ago, facing a health issue and in need of medical insurance, I took a job as a cook in an upscale grocery store — upscale on the face of it, anyway. Kitchens will be kitchens, no matter how clearly you are instructed to smile and wash your hands.

I thought it would be the kind of gig where you can leave work at work and write your novels at night, but that was far from the case. For nine months I felt my body and mind tumble through its coarse machinery, and stood at my sweltering, deafening station as a ceaseless procession of the aproned indifferent washed out around me.

This is chapter one of those memoirs. The rest will follow as I edit them — I have quite a lengthy manuscript from that time. Toward the end it veers into The Jungle territory, which needs some finessing so as not to just shift gears into a boring, undisguised manifesto.

If you've never worked at a restaurant, this may be the piece that keeps you from dining out for a while, or at least helps you make far wiser decisions about stir-fries, burritos, and salad bars.

0074 — Outtakes from Pt. 5, Meeting Antonyne

The advanced reader will also note that Ray and Antonyne swing their arms identically, in the floopy Smuckles way, when walking. That is a separate curse which will not be explored in this storyline.

0074 — pt. 5, Meeting Antonyne

Outtakes post separately at noon in In-Universe and Author's Tiers!

I've included all the Antonyne Cheops Smuckles (aka Rustmouth Chafings) backstory strips in this update, so that you might enjoy a refresher in his curious history.

In even briefer summary: Antonyne was once the bluest of the bluesmen — bad luck all the way. But then a mutilated "singer" named Silent Bird Wallace came on the scene, and Antonyne's workhorse bad luck slowly transformed into good luck. So good that he lived to a healthy and ripe old age, with the police naming streets after him. The kind of stuff that would turn any proper bluesman's stomach.

Now it seems that the curse of good luck has fully bloomed in his grandson. Join us next week, as we explore the nature of luck, and whether one can truly manipulate the fates.

Great Outdoor Fight Archives: 2020 Re-release Alternate Covers

Oni Press — before the great Belly-Uppiting Act of 2021, which killed the Achewood Complete Canon project, among a very many other things — had intended to release a paperback version of The Great Outdoor Fight at Comicon. This is one of the directions I had taken with new cover art; also included here is a very Téodor set of typography tests.

It kills me that I have so much of this neat archival stuff hanging around and don't post it often enough. Here you have my solemn vow, Author's Tier, that I will make archival digs a much more regular feature of your experience. You have proven time and again that I am unlikely to "overdo it" when it comes to trotting out old stuff — I'm so certain that new content is all anybody wants that I forget the unseen archives still have plenty of value.

Interesting historical note: It was in the Oni office that I first heard about Covid. It was early March of 2020, and Harrison, the guy who handled stuffed animals and pins and things (ordering them, not fondling them) — said we couldn't order any plushies at the time because "something was happening in China with that Covid thing," and that we'd have to wait until it blew over. Well, Harrison, I'm still looking forward to your call, wherever you are now.

Ray's Place — Podcast Mindcapture, Small Beds, The Truth About Twins

READER: I'm usually doin' three answers per post. But is that too much reading for you? I like your experience of me to be crisp and punchy, not some big boring-ass obligation. Tell me in the comments! Maybe I could just do one answer a few times a week, instead. Anyhow, HERE...WE...GOOOOO! (Pronounced "Go" not "Goo")

_ _ _

Dear Ray, I have seen many intelligent, accomplished people in life who, after staring at their phones too much, fall into some type of madness, be it paranoia or just an inability to converse in normal human words or ideas. How would you cure and/or rescue a loved one who has succumbed to this? — Jason P. 

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There Is A Frown In J-Town,

Yeah, I seen that happenin’ all over, especially with that little Emerils guy. He’s been wearin’ earbuds (off-brand, not AirPods, they had like a blue part) 24/7, listenin’ to podcasts about whatever it is that that guy believes in, and at parties he gets Beef cornered and just lays…it…down. Beef always looks kind of vacant, ’cause he just wants to talk about Trashspotting or the baseball of the 1915’s or whatever, but I’ll overhear Emerils sayin’ words like “ideological capture” and “false flag” and know my boy is on the slow train to the barley museum.*

My position on this situation has to be, “Beef, you got yourself into this bringin’ Runt City to a good time, I ain’t comin’ to save your ass,” you know? Beef has to learn not to bring Emerils to parties. 

(That Spongebath guy is alright, though. He’s always got a couple ladies around him crackin’ up, and that’s great for my party’s look.)  

Anyhow, the only thing you can do to try and compete with the sophisticated algorithms that have taken his mind is to keep forwarding him the video of the guy falling off the ski lift. Every time he watches it, the algorithm will learn that he loves this stuff, and keep giving him more awful accident videos, until he cracks and “takes a social media break.” You know, A Clockwork Orange style. He’ll be scarred for life, but who ain’t at this point.  

-=Royhoolicious=-

* The “slow train to the barley museum” was what came into my head when I tried to picture a dreadful afternoon. Maybe kind of Soviet lighting? Train lurches now and then, and anybody who’s wearin’ lipstick, it’s way too high contrast for their skin? 

-- -- + -- --

Dear Ray, What is the max age a dude can rock a full size bed before it becomes weird/sad?

— R

R, 

Don’t you mean minimum age? Oh, wait, you said bed, not beard. I have my monitor set to infra red, cause it’s almost bedtime, and it makes reading a little harder so that I’ll give up and get some sleep. Anyhow, you have a full size bed? Like they use on porn sets, to make the body parts look bigger? Dude, where did you even get that thing?! Ick! Get rid of that thing! You probably have Buttzonga De Whootytang’s DNA on you! Ha ha ha! Hey everybody, look at R over here! He’s about to grow a platinum wig and forget to shave around one of his ankles! 

Hilarious. 

’Smuck

-- -- + -- --

Dear Ray, My twin brother refuses to go to the sushi spot with me. He says he doesn't do raw fish and won't believe me when I say how good it is. We're twins! If my taste buds think it's good, wouldn't his? How do I convince my brother to get down on some sushi with me? Since old times, Chris

Chris, my boy, 

That ain’t a taste bud thing. It’s much deeper, and you actually may not want to know what’s really goin’ on here. Like, if you stop reading now, that’s cool. Other people will keep reading, though, because their lives won’t change the way yours will. 

So, you mention you’re twins. Probably identical twins. Now, nature doesn’t need two “identical” anything. Her machinery don’t do that. Her job is to pump out slight variations to see what wins. In the case of twins like you and your brother (who I’ll refer to as Guzman, for simplicity), one twin is always lower-quality. Not necessarily in a visual way, but, like, fine with everything that comes on the radio, wearin’ a rayon golf shirt to a nice dinner, etc. In his case, this shows up as not liking sushi.  

Here’s where it gets tricky. You are biologically meant to vanquish your brother, in order to demonstrate your understanding of your Arete (living to your full potential) to your tribe. I don’t mean you got to do the guy in, but you must drive him from your family seat. Some place far away, with poor resources you will never require. One such place is Branson, Missouri. 

Maybe tell him there’s a Widespread Panic concert there, and hand him a one-way Greyhound ticket. He’ll probably get married to someone else who’s doing Molly in the parking lot, and that’s that. Biblical.   

Hope this helps. And hey, congrats on bein’ the better brother. 

-=R=- 

-- -- + -- --

Confidential to Krylon_Kal: I also don't like that "trance of the angels" sound that electric cars make when they drive real slow. But, since electric cars need to emanate some kind of gentle audible warning, I think it should be just the Ezra Klein podcast.  

(When the car drives in reverse, the podcast could play in reverse.)

0073 — Scratchboard outtakes

Until now, we have known precious little about the life of America's second-most cursed bluesman: Antonyne Cheops Smuckles, aka Rustmouth Chafings — father of Ramses Luther Smuckles, aka Rodney Leonard Stubbs, and grandfather of Raymond Quentin Smuckles, aka Ray. Legend has it he died at Ramses and Sondra's wedding, so he wouldn't have met or even known about Ray. It will be nice to see them catch up, maybe.

Pete's Umbrage — Pt. 4

Outtakes and scratchboard notes post at noon today in the In-Universe and Author's tiers.

I recently realized that this is actually part five of the arc, but I cannot be too bothered by that clerical error, as it is fairly on-brand. The astute student of the form will interpret this to mean that the first installment (the "if this van's a rockin'" strip) was not actually meant to be the beginning of an arc. This same student will also recall that this is how pretty much every Achewood story arc ever began. Sometimes I just want to wrestle with the story arc snake — grab it by the tail and slap it across the calendar a while — and it was time again.

In an age of bingeing our favorite streaming seasons, it may strike you as outdated and even unkind to wait so long between updates. If you agree, I strongly suggest you check out one of the expanded tiers for a month, as there's come to be quite a wealth of completed Achewood adventure there. I promise that if you like Achewood, you will enjoy the material in the In-Universe and Author's tiers — I consider it the strongest stuff in the Achewood canon.

Thank you again for being here at all, though! Your continued support means the world to me, and allows me to grow ever-grander plans for more comics, multimedia content, Achewood events, and special merch for the autumn shop relaunch.

I appreciate you all, very much.

C 

VIDEO recipe! Pat's Sugar-free Chocolate Mousse

I am excited to announce that I have made a fifty-second, single-camera video in which I demonstrate a recipe from Achewood Cookbook 2, for a decadent chocolate mousse that isn't full of horrible sugars.

As it is my first video, please suggest anything you think would make it a more useful or bearable experience! (Such as not leaving the recipe over the movie the whole time, or changing my personality.) And feel free to suggest any other Achewood recipes you'd like to see "filmed."

It might be a new era, now that I have learned how to make Adobe Premiere things and fiddle with them! Next week: I re-make the Netflix Great Outdoor Fight series, using two increasingly-leathery Nathan's hot dogs and some bendy wire.

— — — 

If you've never used allulose, which is still fairly uncommon, it's a non-glycemic and very nearly calorie- and carbohydrate-free sweetener made from enzymatically treating corn. It's still on the expensive side, but well worth the investment if you, like me, have cut sugar from your diet so that you can live until the pyramids are completely eroded again.

Allulose is not a sugar alcohol, like erythritol. It doesn't have the off flavors of erythritol, stevia, and the other non-aspartame/sucralose sweeteners. It's 70% as sweet as table sugar, so adjust to taste.

I like to eat this with banana slices. I didn't mention that in the video. You can also omit the chocolate powder and just make a killer whipped cream.    

Lost strip, 2006: The Story of Molly Sanders

I was fishing about in the archives for some artwork for this week's strip, and wound up in completely unrelated waters. This often happens when I go digging in the archives, which are organized about as well as Earth's orbiting debris field.

Anyhow, I chanced upon this late-2006 follow-up to the promised backstory of Molly Sanders (which didn't actually happen until the wedding arc in 2008, when you met her extended clan). It needed art, but the bones were there, so I filled it in for the sake of completeness.

0072 — Scratchboard from "Pete's Umbrage, pt 3"

Todd's urine had a different sound when knocking at the door of the magical underworld this time. Why? Also, the purist will note that Rickenbacker basses and guitars are only made in the USA, meaning that Lyle has been playing a forgery all these years. Is Téodor's Rickenbacker-type guitar a forgery as well? Or did he live in poverty for five years after putting it on a credit card? Because Téodor always lives in poverty, this answer cannot be derived from the provided material.

0072 — Pete's Umbrage, Pt. 3

Outtakes from this strip run at noon today in the Author's and In-Universe tiers. Upgrade today to read those and so, so much more!

Much in the Achewood world is loaded upon the shoulders of Mexican Magical Realism, it is true. However, it is far from the only portal to the unseen. Do you remember the time the boys could only get home by audibly solving a riddle into a toilet at Friendly's?

In the comments, let's see if we can round up all of the ways in which one can transport out of this reality. Yes, this can simply include Ray listening to Sir Duke on a $90,000 sound system.