Stick Figures Die! Die! Die!

Four intrepid SANEsters got a glimpse off the turmoil behind each others' eyeballs with the Stick Figure Cartoon Jam, which saw character after simplified character cut down, torn apart, leaping off ledges, stuck with knives, etc., only to come back again, bloody and bandaged, for more. All the time, apparently, that Pres. O was trimming the budget and cutting Congress down to size, only to have them rise up again. I dunno about that last bit, I'm still a tad weary from all the cartoon carnage. We did have fun, and were remarkably quiet whilst working, before we then began the gossip about all the missing SANE members who'd declined to attend. Just a word to the wise - it's a lot easier to defend your honor if you're actually at the meeting.

The next SANE meeting will be Feb 15, one day after Valentine's Day, so by gum, you're on your own as far as making creative VD gew-gaws for your significant others. Don't know what we'll be doing yet, though, so suggestions will be welcome. It's possible we decided, but I didn't have it wrotten down in my notes, and it's been entirely too long for me to remember unassisted.

Have a wonderful snow storm, drink plenty of hot chocolate, and I'll send out more info once we decide what the heck we're doing on 15 Feb.

Look out for that octopus!

Meet on 25th !!

SANEsters,

Sorry I've been a tad distant, had a nephew's wedding Satday in DC, and by the time the Pats were cementing their loss on Sunday, our flight back home was cancelled and we were getting vouchers to what claimed to be the best Crowne Plaza hotel in N&S America. Got home this a.m. early and have been spacier (okay, spacier than usual) since.

The feedback I've gotten says the same people who can't make the 25th also can't make the 18th, and since it's so close to the 18th and our hostess needs to prep*, I'm making an executive (as in pointy-haired boss) decision (as in coin toss) that the next meeting is on the 25th, not 20.3 hours from now.

* Not to mention the influence of the weather, since we're due to get another flop of flakes with a dollop of dew tomorrow, which would put the kibosh on parking, if not driving.

So sorry to be such a delinquent, but that's what happens to JDs when they grow up.

Pam has graciously offered to host, so on Tues 25 Jan 2011 at 7ish, we'll meet at Pam's spacious DR and... what'll we do? Still liking the Stick Figure Storybook Jam idea, myself. Since we have a little more time, if you have another idea (Leslie's sketchbookchallenge can be optional, or do-it-yerself, but will be around a year and seems a shame to do if Leslie can't make it.

For them what forgot already, here are brief descripts (from previous email) of the two project options on the table:

Stick-figure storyboard jam: start with paper with boxes, like a comic strip. Everybody starts with one, and draws in one of the boxes, using stick figures so the artistically challenged won't feel pressure to perform. They we pass the pages, and draw in another box, etc., until the boxes are filled and the stories are told. Do we fill in the boxes from left to right? Do we add dialog in the boxes? Do the sticks have to look like real sticks? What flavor jam do sticks make? All these are good questions, except for some of them.

sketchbookchallenge.com: upload a sketch, you can win one of the monthly prizes (the winner is chosen at random).

SANE Story Jam - 29 September 2009

Procedure: Everybody wrote the first line (typically a sentence, sometimes more) of a story, all pages went face-down in the center of the table, then were redistributed. After adding a new line, the page was folded to hide all but the most recent line. After a few iterations, we determined as a group how many more lines until all stories were done, to give us a chance to “wrap up” the story line. One person read each completed story, and we tried as a group to come up with a title for each. During the exercise, authors were encouraged to write a name or description of characters at the bottom of the page, to help with continuity, but this was at each author’s discretion.

Transcribed by Richard, sentences were grouped to look like paragraphs, some spellings were normalized (except where the misspellings seemed deliberate), and punctuation was adjusted to taste.

14 stories are included (the numbers in the title indicate 1st or 2nd round) - click on the "jam" label to see 'em all at once.

Next meeting, you ask? Tuesday 3 November (Election Day). Plans are afoot for the Winter Solstice Dinner at Mary Mack's on Tuesday 8 December - either a Pot Lucker or we'd Order In from somewhere good. Cheesy gifts will probably be the order of the day, distributed by some new method, no doubt. Like a helicopter or a llama. Possibly hirsute dwarves.

Story Jam 2.7 Chanel No. 2

He doffed his hat at the attractive alien, never realizing that in her culture that action tied him to her for life. He tried to get rid of her by expelling the loudest fart he could muster, but he only succeeded in soiling his pants and increasing her adoration. Little did he know that it was her favorite smell, and she was, unbeknownst to him, a “nose” from the elite parfumery of the house of Chanel.

His plan failed, he couldn’t throw her off his scent. What would his next plan of attack be?

Cock-a-doodle-doo! He had a plan: he would lose her now! He ran through the pack of dwarves (or were they dwarfs? -- he didn’t have time to ponder spelling!), and lost her in the crowd. The crowd were all dwarves -- they hid her from him. After all, she belonged to them and they didn’t want to lose her.

Story Jam 2.6 Cockapoo

The words meandered into spirals confusing all the readers except one -- he was already quite twisted already. Having read the book already, he knew what was to come, but how would he warn the others?! He realized he would have to write a book himself, and quickly. But why? Who would read it? Who would publish it? And what would it be about?

He just wanted to write about his beloved cockapoo (and you thought no one would use that!), but the publisher wanted more meat! So he wrote carefully, writing the next-to-last sentence of his pathetic, birdless life. His birdless, pathetic life was transformed by the care of this next-to-last sentence and he rose phoenix-like from its ashes.

Story Jam 2.5 Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina

In her later years she could not remember how she came to be demoralized by the poet. Could it have been the way she treated him during their tryst in the mountains of Argentina decades before?

No, no, no, it could not have been the hot, steamy sex in the beautiful mountain stream that left both of them exhausted, panting and covered with lichen fungal infection.

It must have been the frantic paddling when they saw the giant water strider emerge from the eddy beneath the foamy waterfall.
“I had better evolve into an underwater bug soon, if I want to keep living near deep water,” he noted.

Deep waters run deep, grasshopper.

And so David C., who really wanted to remain anonymous, was trussed and sorely hung on his own petard.

Story Jam 2.4 Hirsutomania

Oh no, 2:00 a.m. and I can’t sleep. I guess I’ll get up and start that project I’ve been avoiding. I am so excited that the world will be mesmerized by my embroidered tassels. Of course, the tassels were hanging from a part of my body that interested half the population.

“But which half was it?” I wondered, as I thought about the half that was dwarves, the half that was insane or the half that was sadomasochistic.

The bearded lady was an autoeroticist’s dream; a hermaphrodite to dwarf all hermaphrodites.

Gillette has the answer: “Shave, lady -- there goes the dream!”

The hirsutomaniac drowned his loss in a bottle of gin.

Story Jam 2.3 Stumple the Crutchless Bumbler

“Oh drat,” he muttered, “I’ll never get my crutches mended at this rate!” He thought: “What did Amahl [of Night Visitor fame] do when his crutches failed?”

Once again, he would pull of his artificial legs and stumple down the hill to avoid the coyotes that where sniffing his sweet.
“Christmas on crutches,” he bumbled, “If I can just milk it to the batten of the heel, all wheel be wall.”

Jeez, another nonsensical phrase that just popped into my head, and all because I stepped into the gooey mess that I (at first) thought was an unbaked cookie. Except that stepping into gooey messes should inspire a better line than that!

“It’s a long way to tip a raree,” he noted to himself, while he scraped off the sole of his shoe.

Story Jam 2.2 Doggerel for Dad

Dogs are known for being loyal and obedient partners. The man hated the dog because he was so much like the dog. It had all started when he was just a pup, his dad always told him -- and come to think of it, he didn’t much care for his dad, either. And his dad started when Hector was a pup, he thought, but not much.

In fact, thinking was a thought alien to him.

In fact, thinking was alien to him, and he hadn’t done much before, and wasn’t going to do any again.

And thus he went off into the sunset with a full heart and empty head.

-30-

Story Jam 2.1 Spalled Wall

The hill was not much to look at, but on closer inspection, there were large rocks with dug-out areas in the crevasses, which clearly indicated the presence of a large, clawed animal who left balls of long black hair.

“Hair balls, air balls,” she sang, “scary malls of spare dolls.”

Molly’s spalled walls crawled with polliwogs. Dogs, frogs, blogs and clogs. Smog, job, death in a minute.

Death was looking good in this run-amok rhyme scheme. He took a look at himself in the mirror, draped provocatively in this rhyme-scheme from hell, and thought: “I’ve got to see a doctor about that electrolysis!”

Story Jam 1.7 Marv Throneberry and the Magpie Eggs

In the warm morning sun, a magpie ate breakfast, a distraught grasshopper being pulled limb from limb while still alive. I ran to the closet and got my gun, shot the magpie and made some eggs. They were magpie eggs -- small and Mississippi River brown -- but I hadn’t eaten in a fortnight. But as I started to dig into the eggs I was reminded of my recent stomach issue and how the phrase might be revised to “Brown Egg Quick Step.”

I threw down the fork and headed for the bathroom yelling, “Here’s another fine mess I’ll be leavin’ near your throne.”

The fork was truly revolting, covered with tiramisu and small globs of moss from the carpet, though the throne remained bejeweled and radiant. The being that sat on the throne was also moss-covered and wore the carpet as a toupee.

And so ends another second grade play in Montana!

Story Jam 1.6 A Sniff in Time Saves Wrinkles

The dog took a quick sniff, then moved on.
“What the heck had Fluffy been eating?” he wondered, scratching his chin with his back leg. Since taking yoga classes, he’s been very flexible! Though his muscles have begun to sag and the skin hangs down from his arms.

The next time, he will skin his victim after he has died so the tissue can be draped more gracefully. That’s because skinning a moving object can lead to the most unseemly wrinkles. The wrinkles can be a wonderful texture to the composition of life.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, till death does us part.

Story Jam 1.5 Doorbell Doo-Doo

Bing bong! Farkling Weebler dropped his badger and scooted over to the front door, nudging the Jell-O out of the way with his good foot. “Good foot, my ass,” thought Farkling to himself. “There better be something good on the other side of the door to make me suffer like this.”

Holding his bad foot with his good hand, Farkling surged through the door to find nothing but bellowing cows. And Farkling impossibly held his good foot with his bad hand and long-jumped over the steaming pies. And finally he reached the door, opened it, and there it was -- the flaming brown bag of dog doo.

Like a weenie, Farkling stomped away until an enormous smoky shit stench permeated the foyer. What was the joke about ten pounds of something in a five-pound bag?

The bag explodes -- or five pounds oozes out the sides.

Story Jam 1.4 Ulysses S. Beegee

Panic set in as the motley group of travelers realized that their handsome guide was not going to show them fantastic works of art, but that he would lead them to the dark side of his personal “creative endeavors.” However, before he did, he warned them that some content was not for the squeamish, then they continued up the snowy mountain. Cold Mountain really was more like it, except that Nicole Kidman wasn’t waiting on the other side, and these broads could hardly be called sirens. Sirens! More like glorified clowns with big hair, lots of make-up and awful clothes.

“If I wanted to return to the ‘80s, I woulda taken better care of my BeeGees albums,” he said to nobody in particular. “Well, in that case,” said the nobody in particular that lived in his head, “you could have been a BeeGee and look where you’d be now, in that case!” Well, had you been Andy Beegee, you’d be dead, and frankly that might be quite instrumental in resolving at least this story. For it was Andy Beegee who, many years before, had begun the saga that today ended with the destruction of the mysterious mansion.

Story Jam 1.3 The Trembling Wembly

The sun came up over the foggy lake and I knew we had a crazy day ahead. On the south shore, we could see a hulk-like cloud of backlit mayflies.

“We don’t have much time -- hurry up with that marmot, won’t you?” she muttered petulantly.

The other diners waited impatiently for the next course to come out of the kitchen, making do with their water strider appetizers. Finally the creviche - or was it ceviche? -- arrived, but no one could remember what that word meant and the meaning could not be determined by sight, so they ate in silence and wondered.

“When was the last time I tasted silence?” he wondered, remembering it tasting less like ceviche and more like, well, armadillo. And with that thought, he went to the drawing room, had a brandy and got his gun. He took aim with his trembling Wembly, but when he pulled the trigger, it only clicked.

“Oh well, tomorrow’s another day.”

Story Jam 1.2 Epistle to Dippy

On the fourth day, when the bridge washed out, Ignatzio sat down to watch the papayas begin to rot. The bugs came first, eating away the flesh. Moisture set in, making the bodies soggy. As the decay progressed, her body blew up puffy like a balloon. She decided to ignore the bloat and thought back to her days, now long gone, as a prima ballerina in the seventh grade troupe. How she loved to be on stage dancing for the crowd. What happened to that seventh grade ballerina? Her weight has challenged her most of her adult life, damned if she was going to stop dancing just because she wasn’t a skinny nymph!

The End

No, not really, it’s just the beginning of what can only be described as a mindless exercise in futility and obligation.

Story Jam 1.1 The Gorillas of Montana

Muriel and Humphrey exited the apartment building, only to trip over the gorilla that was lying on the cold sidewalk. The gorilla was only “playing” dead, however. Others came to visit and had to step over the gorilla. Finally he grabbed a young woman who came through the door.

“You are the gorilla my dreams,” he thought (in gorilla), but she didn’t understand a word of it. They shared a cocktail and groped in the corner, while conversation was very limited. It was strange to see two gorillas having a cocktail, but in Montana, anything goes! Except the presence of his drinking companion, a wide-eyed bush baby, recently made illegal in the mountainous state.
He wondered what it was that was recently made illegal in the mountainous state, but realized, upon reflection, he didn’t really care.