An ambulance explosion in the back and now a brutal frontal assault. These people must take their admission wait times seriously.

Bob was going to shoot a bunch of smashing glass for Panel 2 when he suddenly realized he still had a lot of unused smashing-glass frames that he’d shot for the previous episode. He still intends to smash the glass he’s collected anyway, but at least he was ahead of the game on this page.

New Vote Incentive! This is actually a sketch Max-The-Artist did at a life-drawing workshop, so it is Arty, but NSFW. Be warned. It’s also full res, so it will be all big n’ naked on your screen. Not one of our characters though!

And more below!

Quick mention! Max-The-Artist was pleased that one of the Coke commercials he storyboarded aired during the Olympics. He’s done several Coke commercials, but this one was promoted all over the world. Kind of a thrill. It’s the one where street murals develop a sudden craving for Coca-Cola and seek to slake their jonesing via a billboard display.



Shattering Realizations

At midnight, even as this comic is posted, I turn sixty. 60. Six-zero. One of those big round numbers that looks so terrifyingly weighty when typed on the computer screen. I haven’t had to fill out any forms that ask what age group I’m in – at least not recently – but I’m sure that when I see that I’ve moved down yet another notch, right out of the 50-59 zone, it will be another shock to the system. Hell, some of the forms just give up at that point and just provide a checkbox for 60+, like from that point on it’s just spare change until death.

They may be right, but they don’t have to be so dismissive about it.

It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. You do get provided with certain warning signs that 60 may be approaching. Little hints, like excessive cake candles and the occasional grandchild. I’m well aware of how the math works. I even tried to pretend I was sixty for the past year so that when it finally happened I’d be used to it. But I was kidding myself. The day approaches. I’m currently, right at this moment, still a sprightly 59 here in California. But – even as I type this – I am 60 in New York. Yes. I can feel it; feel my Advanced Age moving westward across the United States like a grim shadow of Decrepitude, bringing with it even more hair loss, aching joints, and a mailbox full of AARP promotional materials.

But for right now, for the next two hours and twelve minutes, I’m still 59. Damn, that number seems so… well, not young, maybe, but definitely still “fifty-ish.” Stretching a point, you could even claim it to be “middle aged.” Not 60 though. Sixty is old. Consarn it.

But it’s happening. Guess I’ll just try to enjoy it. Sure, I may feel the occasional urge to yell at kids to get off my lawn, but only because I need them a safe distance from my cake.

Which will probably be exploding. As usual.

— Bob out

ends up getting sent to a hospital full of insurgents


Followup: As it turned out, my wife had secretly arranged for my younger son to fly down for a visit. A delightful surprise. So he and I ran out to the desert to play in an old quarry.

Old guy attempt at coolness:


And my son John showing me how it is done.

So the day wasn’t quite as sedate as I expected, but a lot of fun!

— B