She had seen an old educational film from the 1950s that compared the circulatory system to a series of pneumatic tubes, carrying vital documents from one end of a modern office building to the other. Being a child of the 1980s, she had had no idea that there had been a time when capsule pipelines were common infrastructural items in most modern cities. Being three years old, and having never seen such a thing, she misunderstood the metaphor. She thought, as a child, that the circulatory system actually worked on the same principles described in the film. She thought that blood was a gas, pressurized, flowing through tiny tubes running up and down the body, sending oxygen to all the cells.

When she was four, the headaches started. Sudden onset migraines, sometimes lasting for two days, sometimes three. The headaches brought an extreme sensitivity to light. The doctor told her parents that it was a common early warning sign for an oncoming migraine. Her preschool teacher, Mr. Abrams, kept a pair of dark glasses in his desk with a post-it note with her dad’s cell phone number. She knew that when the light started hurting, she should ask Mr. Abrams for her sunglasses. When she asked for her sunglasses, Mr. Abrams knew to call her dad to come pick her up. She never told anyone that she could tell when a headache was coming even before the fluorescent bulbs in the classroom forced her to squeeze her eyes shut. The first symptom was never light sensitivity. The first symptom was the pressure.

It was like the gaseous blood in her pneumatic circulatory system was forming clouds. She pictured a deep black cherry Kool-Aid cloud drifting up from her back, up into her neck, and thickening in the base of her head. More and more gas, more and more pressure, her head like a balloon, but like that time when they made a piñata in arts and crafts by covering a balloon with papier-mâché, the blood cloud didn’t have room to expand anymore. There was a big, fluffy cloud of blood expanding in her head, and soon the light would hurt, and soon the pressure would grow until it started causing cracks on the inside, and then there’d be pills that didn’t help, and the vomiting, and the throbbing, and applesauce with cinnamon served in bed, with the lights off and the curtains drawn.

On her fifth birthday she was learning how to ride her new bike when she fell off the curb into the street and scraped a large chunk of skin off her leg. She had never seen her own blood before, and was so confused she forgot to cry. It wasn’t whistling out of her shin like steam in a teapot. It was oozing, thick, syrupy. Her mom soaked it up with a washcloth and sprayed something on it that made it feel like she was melting in acid. She had a faint scar for years, but it faded.

When she was seven she was in the car with her mom when they visited a bank drive-thru teller, and she watched her mom put her deposit slip into a canister and slid it into a chute that made a whooshing sound. She saw the canister fly up a tube, and then saw it fall inside the bank window. Nobody, not the bank tellers nor her mother, seemed to think this was as amazing as she did. “That’s like the blood stream,” she said. “Like in that film, yes,” her mother replied. For years after, whenever her mother went to the bank without her, she would sulk in her room.

She was eight when she cut her hand. She was in the woods with a friend and he had a pocket knife and she was using it and somehow the blade folded in on her fingers. She had seen blood enough times by now not to be surprised, but it was a hard image to shake, the idea of blood as a gas. She stared at her fingers, three deep gashes across her knuckles that looked like little mouths. Flexing her fingers, the wounds opened and closed, and it looked like her fingers were breathing blood. Straighten, close, inhale, blood stops. Bend, open, exhale, blood gathers, like a bubble, until it gets too heavy, falling off the fingers, through her other hand cupped beneath, spattering the oak log they sat on.

Blood seemed so heavy to her. If she was full of blood, she felt she should be heavier, weighed down with iron and sludge. It was her secret truth she carried, that her blood only turned to liquid when it met with the air. The rest of the time, she knew, it was light. She could hear it whooshing around inside when she plugged up her ears. She could still feel the pressure building up, the blood rising to her head in a dark red cloud, just before her headaches started. Filling her head to bursting.

When she got her first period, she giggled. She never told anyone why.

She wondered what happened to the sled.

She had felt the pressure building, the cloud forming, funneling up her spine and filling her skull from back to front. She’d said “Not now, not now.” She’d left her sunglasses at home. She’d forgotten how snow reflected light back in dozens of angles, so it was like the sun was in the ground, in the trees, on the roofs and sidewalks and buried cars. She closed her eyes.

Floating. She couldn’t hear anything but the quiet sound of snow hitting snow, a gentle hiss, almost a sound by virtue of not being a sound at all. Almost sounding like a tiny leak in a balloon. Gas escaping slowly through a tiny hole. She stared up at the trees, and felt warm.

Anyway, that said, let me tell you about this dream I just had, skipping all the bits that don’t matter. In the dream, I walked into a hardware store to buy some glue and duct tape and a few other things, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that fully two walls at the front of the store were devoted to comic books. I was thrilled to find a new issue of Phonogram, as well as a Phonogram CD featuring tracks from the bands referenced in the comics (as well as an all-new Los Campesinos track recorded specifically for the compilation). So I got my glue, and I got some comics, and I got a CD as well.

[As an aside, I recognize fully that the point of this essay could well be that I think about Phonogram too much for someone who isn't Kieron Gillen. Or Jamie McKelvie. (There are probably days I think about it more than McKelvie does.) In reality, I just like comics about bands and the music scene way more than I actually like bands and the music scene. Hell, most of the comics I've written (still sitting in the drawer, likely never to be seen again) are about bands, going to see bands, watching bands break up, and all the common experiences in the music scene. So it's only natural that Phonogram fills a particular vacant spot in my brain, namely standing in for an entire genre of comics I've always thought should exist but could never get off my ass to make myself. But that is, most definitely, another story for another day.]

Now, for whatever reason, this dream got me thinking about a discussion that was first becoming popular on the WEF (and other comics discussion sites) ten years ago; namely, what comic book stores should be doing to get new people in the door. Then, like now, the most intriguing answer to this question, at least for me, is that the question is wrong; comics don’t need more people walking in the door, comics need to become ubiquitously available. [I should probably tell you straight away that this whole conversation, while certainly an important, even necessary conceit, bored me, then and now, about as much as hearing about other people's dreams. Even then, when it was "the important" discussion. It seemed to me then, as it does now, that the way to get people into a comic book store is to have the best damn comic book store known to man, and pimp the hell out of it. Over the past ten years, people like James Sime and Andrew Neal have proven that formula. But again, another story for another day.]

So, I was thinking about how hard it is for non-comic stores to get comics on their shelves. And, because in my dream the example was being set by a hardware store, I thought about things I buy in hardware stores, and how I would go about getting them on my shelves (my rhetorical shelves, seeing as I no longer own a comic book store). And I thought about ULINE. Over the years, I have placed several orders with ULINE, both as a store owner and as a private citizen. They sell boxes and tape and shrink wrap and displays and trash cans and, well, primarily hardware and supplies best suited to a shipping company or warehouse. Important stuff. They deal primarily in large, bulk orders to businesses. Yet the process of getting an account with them was as simple as filling out an order form, entering my credit card information, and clicking “submit”. They don’t care who they sell to — money is money. They do have a check box in their order form that will tell them if the order is being shipped to a residential address, but that’s so they know the best way of shipping (and know not to send a large pallet on a tractor trailer when you don’t have a loading bay).

But here’s where ULINE excels, at least in this argument — they have tiered pricing. Order small amounts, it costs just about retail price (usually a bit less, but not by much). Order in larger amounts, and the price goes down. Order in huge bulk amounts, the price goes WAY down, to the point where it would be perfectly practical to use them to order stock to sell at retail.

Comics should be like that.

You know how hard it is to get a DIAMOND account? It involves credit scores and business IDs and phone calls and certified checks (seriously, when I ran my store I would have to go to the bank every week and get a certified check in order to get my order; after, I think, a year DIAMOND allows you to switch to a regular business check). As any comics retailer will tell you, the DIAMOND website is just about the least intuitive site ever created, and ordering from it (or even just finding a product on it) is mind-numbing. And that’s for the people who have decided to focus their entire business on selling a product they can only get through DIAMOND. (This is where the argument of ten years ago would devolve, justifiably, into a discussion of how terrible DIAMOND is. That discussion can be found anywhere else online, so I won’t go into it here.) So while there might be plenty of non-comics stores that have some interest in stocking a selection of comic books, most would run up against DIAMOND and decide against it.

[Here I should mention that for the first two years of JIGSAW, when it was a comic shop and art gallery in NYC, I didn't have a DIAMOND account, and instead got all my comics through COLD CUT and private small press distribution, as well as the occasional "fell off the truck" deal with friendly creators whose books I couldn't get because they were published by Marvel, DC, or Image, who are all exclusive to DIAMOND. It was, in fact, impossible to keep a broad selection this way, and one of the motivating factors for moving the store was so I could afford to get a DIAMOND account, and have enough space to put it all.]

As this is stretching on a bit longer than I’d intended, I’ll skip the bit where I contemplated the perfect match that is comics and hardware, what with single issue comics being cheap, disposable, and the perfect length to read on a break on a construction site (how great would that be to see a line of guys in hard hats reading comics on their lunch break?). I fully recognize that the comics industry is so far in the hole in terms of “how things are done” that changing the system is next to impossible. And I know that the business is built around pre-ordering and exclusivity and all sorts of things that, while idiotic, are just status quo. And I know that DIAMOND can barely get their distribution correct as it is, so adding customers would cause more problems than it would solve. And, and, and.

But picture a different world. Where there was a website where a customer could go and buy the new issue of PHONOGRAM for full price with nothing more than their credit card. A world where that very same website could sell 50 copies of the new issue to James Sime at his normal retailer discount. A world where the owner of that hardware store could decide to try having a selection of comics for his customers to read, and could get a good discount without having to jump through hoops. A world where the ubiquity of comics wasn’t such a weird idea.

All I’m saying is that it was kind of a nice dream.

Gentlemen of the Lab,
–by which I mean Milton, Lump, Frank, and Regibor, should you all find the distinction of “gentleman” to be as spuriously applied to you as I–

I had cause to contemplate a chronometric device today in the course of my studies. Drat, I should start earlier. Transcription start again.

Before I attempt to detail the results of a seemingly casual observation I undertook this afternoon, I must first recount the situation I found myself in upon waking this morning. As you all well know, my robotic spider legs require recharging from time to time, and I often find it convenient to park myself over the wireless charging station just before bedtime and simultaneously gather a few REM cycles. Well, last I recall, I had done this last night after clearing up the mess left from our Jigsaw π experiment. So you can imagine my surprise and confusion upon waking, finding myself lying on my side underneath a workbench in the lab, covered in maple syrup and — no, actually, I think I’ll leave that bit out. Transcription, delete the previous sentence.

So you can imagine my surprise and confusion upon waking, finding myself not in the charging dock but under a workbench in the lab. I likely don’t have to tell you my first thought was of shenanigans, that one or more of you were pulling some sort of hilarious jape to blow off steam following our difficult month of videos. Indeed, I myself had contemplated substituting hydrogen for helium in our planned celebratory event as a mischievous joke — imagine the subtle difference in the buoyancy of the balloons! But soon I ruled out pranksterism, as it was then I caught sight of the surveillance feed from outside the building.

Doubtful I have to tell you gentlemen that there appears to be a great deal of snow sitting outside these walls. Snow that, by Feynman, I swear wasn’t there when I went to sleep.

It was, of course, at this point that I had cause to seek out and examine the lab’s chronometric devices in some detail. At first this brought merely confusion, as the date clearly read “February Third”. In several different languages. I was momentarily terrified that the completion of the Jigsaw π experiment had been a horrible dream and that we would have to undertake the daily video project all over again. Granted, this thought gave some comfort, for I also recalled a very vivid dream about pancakes, and thought that this might explain the maple syr– dammit. Transcription, delete that last sentence as well. Mustn’t talk about the maple syrup. It’s not as embarrassing as the feathers, but– DAMMIT. Transcription, delete THOSE two sentences, please. Must remember the recording. Okay.

But though the thought of having dreamt the entirety of Jigsaw π was disturbing, it was nowhere near as alarming as the moment when I noticed the year. Brace yourselves, gentlemen, for if you have not yet discovered this, I promise it will come as quite a shock. The year is currently 2010. 2010! I, for one, found this very upsetting, and was determined to find all of you to aid me in undertaking a grand experiment to uncover the manner by which we were delivered eleven months into the future.

Here I fell over, as my spider legs, sensing low battery, ejected me rudely and ran off to recharge. Rather undignified. It’s cold here, on the floor. When constructing this new lab, I really should have put in underfloor heating elements. I seem to recall seeing them on an old episode of This Old House. Something to keep in mind for the next time we renovate. Transcription, file the previous sentences regarding underfloor heating under Kranium’s personal notes, and remove them from this memo document.

So, gentlemen of the lab, I put it to you that we have been asleep for eleven months. To think of all the technological advancements we have missed in that time. The cultural events. The political developments. To think, we weren’t even here when the year changed from 2009 to 2010. It must have been horrid; not being around to correct the misapprehension that we were entering a new decade, countless websites and magazines must have published “Best of the Decade” lists. We could have stopped it, gentlemen. But alas, Lord Somnus had other plans for us.

Getting to the point, gentlemen, I propose that we set about the purpose of discovering what happened to us. Was it some horrible accident? Some toxic fumes leaked from the sublevels? Perhaps an old experiment come to haunt us? Or some other outside force? Gentlemen, we cannot even be certain of our safety until we have clearly assessed the forces behind our Rip Van Winkle activities. We must gather together and set our minds to this discovery, by whatever means — oh, my legs have come back. You certainly took your sweet time. Transcription pause. I really must reprogram you to let me down more gently in case of emergency recharge. Better yet, I should just place a passive induction station under this spot near the lab monitor. Help me up, front right leg, just bend there — hrmph — get the — hurgk — must have put on weight while I was asleep, it’s a bit — no, there we go — okay. Well, at least now I can review the transcription –

Dammit, transcription, I told you to pause. PAUSE, I said. No, stop — stop taking down these — dammit, Milton is the only one who can get this damn program to work correctly. Milton! Right, if I could find Milton, I wouldn’t need the blasted note. TRANSCRIPTION, PRINT NOTE. I’ll just hand-correct the — PRINT MEMO. PRINT. PRINT NOW. PLEASE. Dammit. MILTON! COME FIX THIS TRANSCRIBER PRINT

Granted, I mostly just wanted to avoid school. I enjoyed playing in the snow to an extent, but even then I would contemplate wet, clammy socks, runny noses, sharp, tingling fingertips, the blindness that comes from glasses fogged up with my own breath. It was an act of will to play in the snow, even then, though one easily made. Because it happened so rarely.

After I spent several winters in Boston, the magic of snow wore off pretty quickly. In Virginia, snow was typically a novelty. In New England, it is far more ubiquitous, a given that inches will pile up every few weeks, and cars will get frozen into large, gray cocoons of ice. It didn’t take long to start hating the stuff, especially when I was riding my bike in a blizzard to go open the video store, passing cars the whole way, fishtailing and cursing my fingerless gloves.

Once I left Boston, I left behind my hatred of snow. I didn’t live in snowy regions. Even when I was in New York, it was hard to hate the stuff, though that might have something to do with my being drunk on red wine and bourbon almost the entire time I lived there. I’d actually forgotten what it was like to hate snow until two feet of it dropped on Charlottesville last month, leaving me stranded at home, alone, with no shovel, and a gammy foot, threatening to cancel Xmas.

So what’s that got to do with creating things? I have no fucking clue. It’s snowing again. It’s supposed to accumulate. More snow on top of the snow we got last weekend that canceled plans, and more snow coming this weekend that will cancel more plans. I sat down to write about my own stalled-out creative process, and out came three hundred words about snow.

Maybe it has something to do with The Shining.

I was actually just thinking about that as I was getting out of the car with my milk and bread. (Which, by the way, I was going to buy anyway today. It’s not like I panicked and went to the store; I was going to the store, and it started snowing before I could get there.) The snow has definitely made me pretty stir crazy. Not just the snow, but the relapsing problems with my foot that prevent me from walking great distances sometimes. Before, walking a couple miles in the snow wouldn’t be a problem. Now, it is. Or can be. Or maybe it’d be fine going out but coming back would be hell. It’s not knowing, I think, that has gotten to me, has built a mindset where I feel completely trapped. I shouldn’t walk, so I can’t walk. And the snow means that confines me to my house until the plows come down my cul-de-sac. Trapped.

Which is all well and good when you don’t have to be anyplace. Like when I was a kid, and looked forward to being trapped, because I didn’t really want to go to school, and it’s not like I had anything else that had to be done. Trapped can be a great excuse for a party, or for a day of rest, a day of meditation. Trapped can be happy, peaceful, fun. But me, if I have the least amount of work that needs to be done Out There, even if it’s days away, the snow now gets me feeling a little paranoid and nuts. The Whatif monster hides behind my chair and whispers at me. Whatif I can’t drive? Whatif I can’t get to work? Whatif I get trapped here and can’t get anything done?

I haven’t been writing much. To be fair, I haven’t been writing at all. I wrote a way-overdue thank-you note to my aunt today, and I think it was the first time I’d done anything more than update Twitter since the Richard posts. I… I have been feeling trapped. Creatively, I mean. Stir-crazy. Like I can’t go anywhere or do anything. Like a part of me isn’t working correctly, and it prevents me from getting anything done. I suppose there’s some hope if I figured out a way of turning a long, contemplative journal entry about snow into a metaphor for my lack of product, but then, I always did have a weakness for such things.

Jigsaw Season Four was halfway written. Ten episodes scripted, albeit in need of polish. This is past tense. I kept on not writing, and not writing, and doing everything but write. It finally dawned on me why — it wasn’t that I was lazy, it wasn’t that I was lacking discipline. It was that I didn’t think the new episodes were funny. Oh, they’re interesting, and ambitious, and the structure is way better than previous episodes. They push my writing to a place I’ve never gone, and the plot is as detailed and intricate as I’ve ever written. But they’re just not funny. Like, at all. To me, anyway. There are jokes, and there are moments that are quite good. But overall, I look at what I’ve got and I just don’t care.

It dawned on me that, as nobody was paying me for these things, I could just throw them out. Sure, I was quoted in the paper as saying the new season would start… nowish. Sure, it’s been a year (!) since there was any sort of regular Jigsaw thing. These are facts that make me feel guilty, pressure that certainly ups the stakes in my brain. But I’d rather be late than suck. Actually, I don’t even care if I suck. I just want to suck in a way I enjoy. Right now I have the luxury of doing that.

Although, that may just be a justification. At this point, I’ve been trapped in the snow so long (metaphorically if not literally) I don’t remember what it’s like to… not wear boots? (Feel free to leave better allegories in the comments.) For better or for worse, I’m going to force myself to write more. Starting today. With this. That you have just read.

I don’t pretend to know if anybody is paying attention. But then, I’m used to that with the show. For now I’m going to force at least 1000 words out every day on this blog. Some of it will be Jigsaw related, some of it may be media reviews, some may be short stories, some may be random head-pounding, and much will likely be utter crap. But I assure you, after a few weeks, I’ll have a better idea of when the new season is actually going to happen, and what it’s likely to be.

For now, I think I’ll go drink some red wine and watch the snow.

Sara makes with the awesome. Also, how’s that for a price, folks? One drink and then whatever you feel is fair AFTER you’ve seen the show? I mean, it’s just ridiculous! You were gonna drink ANYWAY. Our biggest problem will be if people drink their entire wallet and can’t pay us anything for the show. So folks, for the poor, sleepy actors, save back a couple bucks. If you hate the show, you can always get one last beer at the end.

Click here to view the embedded video.

…we thought it only appropriate to take measures to ensure the audience is too drunk to notice any textual missteps or random theatrical inconsistencies. To that end, we have taken a moment from our panicked line memorization to create a Richard the Third Drinking Game. This document will evolve over time as inspiration (or desperation) hits, culminating in horribly rushed, typo-ridden copies being distributed at the venue.

RICHARD THE THIRD THE DRINKING THE GAME [sic] (R3DG)

GENERAL RULES

…Any mention of husbands, wives, or marriage, married people must drink.
…Any mention of God, Heaven, or such matters, all atheists must drink.
…Whene’er a Messenger enters, anyone looking at their phone or laptop must drink.
…At any mention of Saint Paul, anyone and everyone named Paul must drink.
…Any mention of the Tower or imprisonment, anybody who has ever been arrested must drink.
…Whene’er anyone makes a misogynistic comment, all men must drink.
…Whene’er anyone double-crosses another, drinks must be switched with the person next to you.
…Every time someone is killed, everyone must drink.

CHARACTER RULES
Players shall each be assigned a character to follow; each character shall have a specific set of rules to be observed.

RIVERS
Those players assigned to follow Rivers shall drink whene’er he…
…manages to get through a line without asking a question.
…is sickeningly deferential.
When Rivers is killed, the remainder of the drink shall be consumed. These players now follow DERBY.

*DERBY
Only those players who had been following Rivers unto his death, or likewise latecomers who thus were not assigned a character, shall follow Lord Derby. They shall thenceforth drink whene’er he…
…uses an excessive number of personal pronouns; e.g. “Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward!”
…delivers expository information.
…pledges his support to someone.
When Derby crowns Richmond King, all followers of Derby must rise and shout “HAIL RICHMOND!” If any follower of Richmond at their table is without a drink, a follower of Derby must offer theirs as substitute.

CLARENCE
Those players assigned to follow Clarence shall drink whene’er he…
…talks about his brother. Or his other brother.
…happens to mention his royalty, or others’ lack of it.
When Clarence is killed, his followers must cry out in alarm, then finish their drink. These players now follow THE PRINCES.

*THE PRINCES, EDWARD AND YORK
Only those players who followed Clarence until his brutal end shall follow these, the sons of King Edward. They shall, hereafter, drink whene’er one or both of them…
…offer discourse upon their stature.
…complain.
…mention any of their uncles.
Followers of the Princes are advised to take small drinks, as befit the children they present. Once receiving news of the Princes’ death, they must finish their drink without anyone else at the table witnessing, and thereafter follow RICHMOND.

ELIZABETH
Those players assigned to follow Elizabeth shall drink whene’er she…
…wails, weeps, laments, or mentions wailing, weeping, or lamenting.
…speaks of her children.
…flees to sanctuary.
…prophesies doom.
When, at the end of Act IV, Elizabeth flees once more to sanctuary, abandoning her players, all those following her must now finish their drinks and swear allegiance to RICHMOND.

BUCKINGHAM
Those players assigned to follow Buckingham shall drink whene’er he…
…says something negative.
…says he will follow/wait upon someone before exiting.
…dotes upon Richard.
…doubts upon Richard.
When Buckingham is killed, all drinks must be consumed. These players now must align with RICHMOND.

*RICHMOND
Such players whose characters have abandoned them through untimely death or unseemly cowardice shall align, at last, with Richmond. Newly reborn as Tudors, these players shall drink whene’er Richmond…
…mentions his tent.
…makes a stirring speech to rally his troops/retainers/office supplies.
…insults Richard.
When Richmond is crowned King, all players must rise, shout “HAIL RICHMOND”, and finish their drink.

Feel free to leave more rule suggestions in the comments.

And by all means, come to The Southern on January 14th (at 8 or 11pm) and take part in the game yourself. Oh, and also see some Shakespeare performed by ridiculously brave, talented, sleepy people. Go, go, dispatch.

My desk. My set. My life.

The Jigsaw monitor is my computer, or was; with the purchase of a new, larger iMac, the facing panel I constructed for the old machine is too small to be of any use.

Eetsa too SMALL, you see?

So pretty much the thing keeping new episodes from happening was the lack of a piece of spray-painted foamcore with holes cut in it.

An over-simplification, perhaps. But more embarrassingly true than you might think. Still, this strange hindrance got me to focus on the show a bit outside the realm of structured improv it was sliding into, and also made me remember my mission statement for the show, which I’ve talked about in bars but have yet to overtly state here.

For me, Jigsaw is a constant challenge to myself. With every season, if not every episode, I push myself to try something new, to explore new techniques, to learn new skills. Jigsaw is the place where I can push the boundaries of my comfort zone, secure in the knowledge that even if the end product isn’t as entertaining as I would hope, it’s free, so I can ignore any complaints I might get at least I have done something new, with the hope of becoming a better craftsman.

I could go through the past episodes trying to list everything I was hoping to accomplish, but I think we’d all be bored to tears. Instead, I’ll just let you know ahead of time the focus of Season Four: Writing. Over the course of the show, the content has been getting more and more improvised. Rough outlines taped to a tripod and revised over the course of shooting. It was fine, although it makes my friends in production grind their teeth a bit.

I finally broke the story for Season Four, and it is abundantly clear that this method won’t work. So it’s time to challenge myself in a new way. I’ll have to write the entire season before I shoot a single frame of footage. Twenty episodes, three to five minutes a piece, four arcs, one giant story. Pretty much the equivalent of four half-hour episodes.

Two hours of content. That I want to have completely written in time to start shooting in January. Which, my calendar informs me, is less than a month away. Oh, and if I want to start posting content in January, I’ll need to have most of the shooting done, because the interaction between the four mini-arcs requires me to film episode 401 at the same time as episodes 415 and 419, and 416-418 have to happen before then, and probably 417 and 408 need to be shot concurrently, and…

Well, you can see it’s a big mess. Oh, and I need to build at least two new puppets before I can start filming. Maybe three.

But you’ll be happy to hear the new monitor face is just about done.

Needs glue. And ink. And battle-damage.

With that in mind, I’ll be shooting a video before Xmas. A very short one. Doing triple duty as an apology for downtime, teaser for s.4, and holiday thing. Of course, it would be unprofessional of me to admit that I just got that idea as I was writing this. So I’ll pretend instead that the idea came to me in the shower earlier. Sounds way more writerly.

As I start banging my head against scripts, I will also be forcing myself to add content to this space (“writing begets writing” and all that). I will also likely be posting build videos for the new puppets, so all my new friends in puppetland can look at my process and realize I’m way more clueless than they thought. Hi, puppetfriends.

Okay. That’s a bit of prelude, and I’m out of time. Must run to the wine shop before work, as I’m cooking a chicken later. I will not be blogging about the chicken.

Similarly, if you were registered for this blog and you no longer are, that means your email/username combo was waaaaay too much like a bot and/or not incredibly amusing. If you really have some pressing comment to make, contact me, I’ll make it right.

To answer a question from months ago and only a few posts back, no. No I have not started blogging again. What can I say? Most of my thoughts are 140 characters or less, and therefore Twitterable.

I have a cold. I need to go to bed now. The only thing preventing me from signing up for Netflix right now is the fact that the computer next to the bed is too ancient to do On Demand movies. Instead, I will probably watch some old zombie movie I already own. Which, really, isn’t that bad.

I’ve said too much. Landshark.

*edited to add Oh yeah, and by the way: the show isn’t dead. It really really isn’t. Milton and Kranium are now making demands of me. It’s like a labor dispute of sorts, and when we all can sit down at a table and hash things out, we’ll start up with Season Four. I will not, however, promise that it will be worth the wait. It might be. But I don’t know yet.

NOW I’ve said to much. Noonan.

“I’m sorry?”

“The sausage guy. He’s usually at this table on Wednesdays?”

“Oh, he’s in the hospital.”

“Well, shoot. Is he okay?”

“Don’t know. He probably won’t be coming back.”

“Is he that sick?”

“I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.”

“…I don’t, what–”

“The farmer’s market has ‘disinvited’ him from returning.”

“Why? His sausages were incredible.”

“I probably shouldn’t talk about it.”

“Is there any way we can start a petition, or–”

“They found out he was cording, alright?”

“Cording?”

“It’s… it turns out that sausage guy had an umbilical fetish.”

“I don’t know what–”

“He was taking the sausage casings and attaching them to his belly button.”

“What? How did he–”

“Then he would hire men to… well, to provide nourishment. Through the tube.”

“Provide–”

“They found pictures.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Believe me, you’re not the only one. Anyway, it seems he thought he could actually make a real umbilical.”

“A real–”

“They found him in his bedroom with an Xacto blade, trying to pull his intestines through his belly button.”

“Oh my god.”

“He almost bled to death.”

“I… I just…”

“Yep.”

“…his sausage was so good.”

“Breaks yer heart, doesn’t it?”

This thing appeared in my head this morning. I am of the opinion that, somewhere in England, Warren Ellis is thinking about funny robots and doesn’t know why.

Meanwhile, I think my favorite puppet thing on the web is fast becoming “Patrick Duffy & the Crab“, wherein Patrick Duffy hangs out with a giant crab. Simple premise, solid writing, ultra low-key performances. Makes me cackle, then laugh silently, then wipe tears from my eyes.

Have I started blogging again? Hm.

I haven’t seen these episodes for a while (I really should get Jay to burn me a copy one of these days). It’s weird, because at the time, the production values were so far above anything I’d produced — this is in-between seasons 2 and 3, mind you. It still looks a bit slicker than the current stuff. I’m not totally sold on the writing, though, at least the first episode; I spent a long time on these scripts, long enough that I may have lost some of the spontaneity that comes from when I just wing it. Or it could just be that I’m looking back at stuff I made a year and a half ago. I’ve doubled the number of episodes since then. Naturally I’ll be a bit better at it than I was.

Enough babbling. I got the email today that AT&T were finally going to go live with the episodes. Might as well, seeing as how they paid us for them and everything. Episode 1 is up today, the rest should be up over the next few weeks.

This response, originally intended for the comments, has spiraled out of control, and therefore I am putting it here. Feel free to ridicule this post on your own blog, or in the comments.

Hmm.

Firstly, anyone who claims that Citizen Kane is the film that proved movies could be art is playing fairly loose with the history of cinema. I’ll grant that it is one of the movies people use as an example now of early artistic film, one that serves as a gateway flick for people who want to explore the more artistic side of filmmaking. But it is a bit like the fourth comment in a thread proudly proclaiming “First!” There jes ain’t no sech animal.

That said, I think the real argument here is whether Games (or ANY popular medium) want to even bother with the label of “Art.” Frustratingly, it’s impossible to engage in this conversation without having some sort of working definition of what Art actually IS, a conversation that has been going on for a century with no consensus in sight. The latter half of the 20th century was one long argument over the nature of art. Most of what came out of that argument was that anything that was created before the argument began was automatically called Art, everything that happened later had to earn the moniker. Painting, illustration, sculpture, classical music, classic literature — automatically passed. Film, TV, modern music, conceptual art, performance art — that’s not art, that’s trash.

So it goes, with each new medium growing and asking to be called Art, whether the term is applicable or not. Personally (and I say this as somebody who strives to work in the medium), I can’t think of a single moment of Television that I’ve ever watched that I would call Art. Very few movies are Art. Popular books are usually not Art. Most comics, not Art either. And I haven’t played more than two or three games that were even approximating Art (I’d say Passage is the argument that it’s possible at all, for me).

You know what? Art isn’t a guarantee of entertainment. The fact that I haven’t seen Art on TV doesn’t mean TV isn’t my favorite medium. When I’m deciding what movie I want to watch, Art almost never factors into the decision. I admit to giving a second chance to comics with more Artistic conceits, but I’m far more excited about a new Ex Machina trade, say, than the Wolverton Bible.

The Big Lie is that something being Art automatically means you’ll like it. Unfortunately, when you do all the reading, listen to all the arguments, and really examine what it is that defines Art, it comes down to a weird mixture of posturing and fame.

There’s a story my old art teacher told about visiting the Louvre. He talked about the room with the Mona Lisa in it. He talked about how there were lines snaking around the building of people waiting to get a glimpse of the Mona Lisa, which was in a ten foot enclosure of bullet-proof glass. What boggled his mind was that the rest of the room was covered in other paintings by da Vinci. Small, delicate landscapes, other portraits, all of which were painted by the same great man, all of which were arguably better paintings than the Mona Lisa, and all of which you could walk right up to, put your nose an inch away from, no lines, no glass.

That’s Art.

The Mona Lisa is one of the greatest works of Art of all time not because it’s a great painting, but because it’s a pretty good painting that everybody has agreed is one of the greatest works of Art of all time. The Mona Lisa is an icon of the entirety of da Vinci’s career, and is a symbol for what Art is (even to me, as you’ll note by the use of this story to illustrate my point).

This is slightly different than mass-market popularity; most people, when asked, wouldn’t be able to tell you whether or not they like the Mona Lisa. You don’t typically see Mona Lisa posters in dorms or living rooms. Everybody knows it, few people ever actually pay attention to it. It’s Important without being Popular. Which is a neat trick.

No, while people often recognize Art, they spend most of their time with Other things. TV shows. Action movies. Superhero comics. World of Warcraft. Things that, for the most part, nobody would mistake for Art. What they are, and the point I’ve been trying so very hard to work towards, is Craft.

Things that are Good, things that are Well-Made, those are Craft. As in, well-crafted. By Craftspersons. Take TV. Sports Night, for example, is an incredibly well-assembled, well-paced, brilliantly performed comedy/drama with excellent writing, precision editing, and seamless direction. Apart from a few choices forced upon the creators by the network (the laugh track being the most glaring), the show is damn near perfect. It isn’t Art, though. It’s something else. It is a shining example of the Craft of Television.

Once you take “Art” out of the equation, things get so much easier. Craft is something demonstrable. Something is well-crafted or it isn’t. Sure, Arrested Development isn’t to my particular taste, but I cannot deny it is a supremely well-crafted show. I can appreciate it for how it’s put together, how individual performances play off each other, how the camera moves to manipulate the thoughts and emotions of the viewer, how and where the sound effects and music play into the scenes to intensify the experience, &c. I don’t have to like the show in order to respect it. Because I’m looking at it through the lens of Craft.

Video Games don’t NEED to be Art, see? They are Games. Games are for Playing. And what they need to worry about is Craft. How many times have we seen a review that praises a game’s ideas and then curses its interface? Or that notes its solid gameplay while mocking its voice acting? Video Games are the lovely little mash-up of all the Crafts of the last hundred years, but all this striving for Art has them a bit misguided. The best games I’ve ever played remembered that every moment needed to be Crafted. Skilled people (to use the term “artisan” here might cause confusion, as well it should, because it’s sort of at the root of the whole thing) creating solid things. Crafting a unique interactive experience.

So while I agree that it’s time for Video Games to grow up, I propose a clarification. Lamb, you ended your piece with this line:

The first step to being a grown up is calling yourself one – sooner or later, the rest of the world will come around.

The point at which the rest of the world comes around is when you stop worrying how you’re perceived and get on with your adult life. The respect (and really, isn’t this all we’re talking about here?) comes AFTER you do the amazing work, not before.

YES.

The challenge was to create a new mini-episode of Jigsaw every weekday in the month of February. Today is the final day.

Monday through Friday. 5 episodes a week. 20 episodes total.

Not only did I succeed, but I managed to get all but one of them up before the end of normal East Coast business hours. Only two of them were posted after 2pm EST. And both of those were lengthy renders.

Wish list for season 4?

• MORE RAM. Or perhaps a new computer altogether.
• A better lighting kit. So the lamp doesn’t surge halfway through a take, exposing camera tricks.
• Mic that actually feeds into the computer, for voice over work that doesn’t sound crappy. This may require item 1b.

Comments? Thoughts? What would you like to see in the next season (keeping in mind that I have no idea when that season will be, apart from “at least three months from now”)?

I found this pen in the first couple days of February, and brought it home, knowing that if I got stuck for subject matter for season π, I could always do something with it. I mean, it really does say “Economic Stimulus Payment” on it, with the website of the IRS. Completely boggles my mind.

After a month, I still hadn’t used it. Today would have to be the day. But of course, I also hadn’t been able to figure out a punchline for it. So it dawned on me last night that the punch line could be the delivery. And so, this episode.

Sorry, awesome amazing person who sent me fan mail this morning talking about how much your kid loves the show; I hope you don’t mind a little drunken humor.

I had the basic idea for this last night, but was too tired to film it. Then I woke up with more of the idea finished, but realized I had to clean my desk in order to film it. Which was sort of a good thing, because the desk was an unusable mess.

File this under “more ideas for weird inventions I may come back to if I ever develop a longer, big-budget Jigsaw for any reason.” If nothing else, this Jigsaw π experiment has helped flesh out the show bible a bit.

One of these days I really should write the show bible.

A little insomnia last night led me to Hulu once again, and led me to discover they have Robocop in their library.

I must have had a copy of that movie in high school. That is the only thing that would explain why every frame is completely imprinted on the back of my retinas. I must have seen Robocop 50 times. And yet — and yet — I don’t know that I ever understood half of it.

It holds up surprisingly well. May be forced to actually buy it. Largely because watching Peter Weller work the robo suit is pretty astounding. Also, Kurtwood Smith. Dude.

No, I have no idea what prompted this rant.

It could not possibly have had anything to do with work. That’s just crazy talk.

Watching this episode, Girl said something to the effect of “People must not believe that all of this is just you.” It was grammatically less confused when she said it, but the gist remains; it is odd to think that, due to the fact that one of my characters has taken on my illness, another character would have to take his place. Both Milton and I were too sick to improvise a song. Kranium was perfectly healthy. It makes no sense whatsoever.

Which is not to say I didn’t feel sick while recording the song; I did discover the limits of my impaired lung capacity while recording the thumping bass sound. A coughing fit resulted that could be heard outside the house. This is why editing is such a useful tool.

Only one week left of the daily experiment. It might still kill me. We shall see. It astounds me that Ze Frank did this for an entire year. To be fair, though, at the time Ze Frank was more or less in the business of doing weird stuff like this. He also had viewers, which is not something I’m burdened with to any great extent. Something in the not wanting to disappoint thousands of strangers, likely a great motivator. If I don’t make it to next Friday, only a hundred or so would even notice. Which makes me very much looking forward to taking a little break.

Excuse me, the Coughening has begun.

DOLLHOUSE just isn’t very good. It could get better. I’m not holding my breath.