More Misadventures in Marketing: Now that You Unmention It…

Acting advertising creative director Mr. X was having a mid-afternoon creative session with his newly-hired American expatriate copywriter (who just happens to be the “Ginger-haired Man” mentioned in a previous blog entry). They are working on a pitch for a television advertisement to promote a line of male undergarments that have a European style but are fashioned to suit the more petite Asian male body type. The assignment was vexing enough — given the advertising restrictions in the select Asian countries the client wanted to target — without the client also wanting the duo to create a catchy jingle to help make the ad more memorable. (This was at a time before jingles started their slow decline in popularity in favor of synchronisation – at least in that part of the world.)

Now, creating jingles was not as easy as it may appear, as both the Ginger-haired Man and myse— Mr. X, I mean… would continue to attest. However, this jingle was a very rare exception, though Mr. X would attribute that more to dumb luck and quick-thinking diplomacy than creative skill. Well, okay, there was some creative skill involved, but not intentionally.

(I am getting ahead of myself [or is Mr. X getting ahead of… oh, nevermind].)

The duo’s discussion of the product benefits outlined in the advertising creative brief prompted the Ginger-haired Man to share with Mr. X his past attempts to purchase an intimate gift for her Malaysian-born wife in an American Victoria’s Secret. After several returns and repurchases and a final return, the Ginger-haired Man discovered that he could not find any lingerie that would fit his shapely spouse properly, and thus comfortably. He later learned that buying “unmentionables” for his wife was completely out of the question since the only underclothes in the U.S. that provided the best fit for her are those in American teenage girl sizes.

“So her underpants were loose,” Mr. X summarized cheekily.

The Ginger-haired Man smiled, eyes sparkling with inspiration that at the time had nothing to do with the pitch, as he repeated Mr. X’s statement to the tune of “the Thundercats are loose.” This quickly led to a mutual impromptu rewrite of the entire 1980s “Thundercats” cartoon theme:

The Underpants are on the move,

The Underpants are loose!

Elastic band’s not holding tight,

The Underpants are loose!

Under, under, under, Underpants!

Under, under, under, Underpants!

Underpants!

As immature as it was, the duo couldn’t help glowing with pride at their comical creation — and they sang the song again with added fervor.

“That is a really catchy tune,” began a voice from the open doorway. Unbeknownst to the creative duo, the owner of the undergarment company was visiting the ad agency, and the account director had chosen that moment to introduce him to the “creative geniuses” that were handling the advertisement pitch. “However,” the voice, now icy, continued, “I believe that jingle does not describe our products, only the opposite.”

The creative duo looked up at the new arrival in astonishment, and saw the unpleasant glint in the elder eyes that were fixed intently upon them. The owner of the undergarment company folded his arms, clearing awaiting an explanation.

Mr. X shifted uncomfortably in his seat while a thought flashed through the Ginger-haired Man’s mind. The American took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully as he responded in a respectful, scholarly manner (which Mr. X would later refer to as the man’s “professor voice”). “You are correct, sir. We were considering using the ‘Brand-X’ concept whereby we would feature a man who was not using your product and being noticeably uncomfortable as he tries to go through his daily routine. Then he would run into his business colleague, who is wearing your brand of undergarment and appears more comfortable and confident. The voice over would then tell the first man what he should be wearing.”

The elder eyes narrowed. “So the jingle is about what happens when you don’t use our product?”

“Exactly,” the Ginger-haired Man said. “We understand that it is pretty radi… uh, different, than what jingles usually do, but that is just one of the concepts we were considering for…”

“No,” the elder man interrupted, his voice softening a little. “Let’s use this idea, and this jingle. Please repeat it again.”

And that was how the Thundercats helped save the duo’s ad business (at least that day). Of course, legally they couldn’t use the exact tune, or even those jokily reworded lyrics. They were essentially changed to: “Your underpants are moving down; your underpants are loose…” translated into Mandarin and Korean. It was sung by children’s choirs in a very taunting manner toward the “Brand X” gentleman, a brilliant talent with uncanny physical comedy prowess that would rival that of Dick Van Dyke or Rowan Atkinson (I believe someone in the agency made a very accurate assessment of him as a “Korean Mr. Bean”).

Of course, it was a challenge trying to meet the advertising regulations of various Asian regions with a single version of the advertisement (for example, some places forbade the ad from showing the actual product [even in the package]). Further, other restrictions regarding the time of day and airing frequency for such a “taboo” ad also worked against our intrepid advertisers. Despite this, business was booming enough for the company that dealt with “unmentionables” to be something to talk about.

A Stolen Moment

All the man could see was red.

The man didn’t know then that he had been shot. All he knew at the time was that his body was exploding with the most excruciating pain he had ever experienced. And then a cloying wave of euphoria suddenly washed over him. The shock was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. The man had felt himself falling. And then…

The man felt nothing.

And all the man could see was white.

The white was intense, like a blinding light. But the man couldn’t close or even shield his eyes; he seemed to have no hand or eyelids with which to do so.

He didn’t seem to have… anything. No limbs. No breath. No body. No mass. Just a sense of… self.

And a sense of sight, though that could have been debatable.

The light seemed to be completely white at first, but now the man could make out slight shimmers of dull colors here and there. The colors seemed to be shifting in all directions, like shapes swimming through a fog, fading in and out of his field of vision.

The man could also hear… something. Lots of somethings. But the noises were very faint... muffled... as if they were distant and underwater.

By all accounts, the man should have been frightened. But all he felt was… serenity.

Suddenly, one sound became much clearer, though not completely sharp. It was a voice, a girl's voice.

A familiar deep voice rich and thick with a British accent.

"It's okay, Xummy. You've just had a bit of a shock."

"Dan?" the man tried to say, except he couldn't hear his voice. He would say it felt caught in his throat... if he had a throat.

The fog of colors seemed to lift somewhat... enough for the man to be happily looking in those sparkling sea-green eyes that he had been longing to see again for over nine years.

"It's me," the voice said to the man, as if she had heard him. While her eyes were very close, her voice seemed to come from very far away.

"But you're..." the man couldn't say. A realization struck him. "Am I...?"

Her unblinking eyes seemed to dart about a bit, as if she were shaking her head. And that's when the man realized that he couldn't make out her head at all, and could barely see the rest of her face. Only those beautiful eyes. "No, not really," the voice said soothingly. "It's usually best to leave endies be, but how often does a chance like this come along?"

The man caught the wicked tone, and saw the matching mischievous flicker in her eyes when she said that. He could almost imagine Dan’s puckish grin; how badly he wished that he could have seen it.

"Listen, Xummy... there is something I need to tell you.” The faraway voice suddenly sounded very soft… and desperate. “Something I should have told you... that night. But I was...” She paused. “Anyway, I want you to know that I--"

The man suddenly felt his heart bump in his chest with a surge of blinding pain. Everything went red again, and then black.

*****

The man opened his eyes, but his vision was fuzzy and confused. Without the aid of his spectacles, he had to turn to his other senses. He felt something light yet firm clamped to his face over his nose and mouth. It smelled like rubbing alcohol on an inflatable mattress. There was a burning itch in his nose and throat, as well as… “down there.” His mouth tasted of cotton. There was a loud recurrent hissing noise that seemed to be all around him, as well as a rhythmic beeping and a strange, unsteady mechanical drone humming and chugging just to his right. He stretched out an aching finger and encountered a thin starched bedsheet, and then a thick blanket. Both were tightly tucked to hold him in a slightly reclined, yet upright position.

It took a few minutes for the man to surmise that he was in a hospital room. His sensory analysis was constantly interrupted. Each breath, forced into a steady rhythm by the ventilator that astonishingly rumbled unrhythmically beside the bed, stabbed deep into the man’s right chest and released an icy river of pain down the length of his torso.

But that may as well have been a dull ache compared to the anguish of losing his first love for a second time.

The man almost wondered if that “white experience” was only a dream, but he knew it couldn’t have been. His dreams always faded into obscurity the instant he awakened. There had been a rare moment when he felt that he is close to recalling a small, murky fragment of detail, but it would always elude his cognitive grasp.

But every sight, every word, of his bizarre reunion with Danielle is fully retained in his mind with crystal clarity. Not like a dream, but a vividly real memory.

A voice caught the man’s ear; a female voice calling out in Cantonese. Through his hazy vision he could make out the shape of a nurse moving from the doorway of his room. He couldn’t help but smile faintly because she sounded annoyed.

The man managed to keep his eyes open, though it took some effort, and eventually he saw a bleary figure in white standing near the foot of his bed. His doctor, he concluded. The figure, a male, began to rattle off a number of statements in Cantonese. His tone was clinical and precise (as the man would expect from a doctor), and yet, surprisingly, it did not resonate any annoyance of even the slightest degree.

But, of course, aside from a few numbers, none of the words made sense. The man tried to hold up a hand, but it hurt too much to do that. Speaking also proved to be a struggle. The man wasn’t sure if it was due to the ventilator, the nasogastric tube, or his own fatigue. “I don’t… understand…” he eventually managed to rasp.

“Oh. My apologies,” the doctor suddenly said, and introduced himself as his surgeon who removed the bullet, among other tasks. He then proceeded to reiterate what he had said earlier in English. Not that the man’s understanding improved much. Fractures in his eighth right posterior rib and right fourth anterior rib. Diaphragmatic rupture. Punctured right lung and pleural lining. Some liver damage. To the man’s tired mind, the surgeon’s explanation of what had to be corrected during the surgery was just additional “white noise,” only a little more soothing than that of the ventilator. The man’s interest began to dim as the surgeon proclaimed how lucky his patient was. Lucky that the damage was minimal as the bullet lodged into that fourth anterior rib instead of ricocheting throughout the man’s chest cavity. And lucky that his operating team managed to resuscitate the man despite him being in the prone position.

That last statement made the man’s dull eyes suddenly snap to attention. The cold chill that gnawed at his right lung with every exhale seemed to creep over his entire body. “Re… resus…?” he tried to say.

The surgeon repeated his last sentence in a steady tone, as if it were an everyday occurrence. He then added a few details regarding a complication with the anesthesia during the surgery that resulted in cardiac arrest. While the medical team had successfully revived him, for about four-and-a-half minutes the man was clinically dead.

This latest piece of information was too much for the man to absorb. It felt like a great weight was pressed against his head. The man groaned as he wearily laid back against the headboard of his hospital bed. He could barely feel any surprise from the surgeon’s next revelation that the operation was conducted three days prior, even though, to the man, it seemed as if he was foolishly confronting the gunman in the convenience store about 15 minutes ago.

The man saw another shape, another nurse, appear in the doorway and say something to the surgeon in Cantonese. “I need to leave,” the surgeon said to the man. “You get some rest.” He followed the nurse into the corridor, slowly closing the door behind him.

The man closed his eyes, exhausted, despite having literally slept for days. He was clinically dead. The man mulled that thought over in his head several times, as well as the memory of his unbelievable experience with Danielle. Had he truly “crossed over” for a brief moment and saw his first love? He wanted to believe that with all of his heart, but his rational mind couldn’t help but wonder if it was all some fantasy his subconscious created in his mind to help him cope with the shock.

Despite his deliberation, the man was certain of three things.

First: the experience did happen.

Second: he was very thankful for it.

And third:

“I love you too, Dan,” the man whispered in his head. Tears seeped through closed eyelids for several long minutes as he eventually drifted into a restless sleep.

Parting Shot

Hong Kong, 1989.

The man stepped out of the warm night air and into the air-conditioned micro-climate of the Chat Jai convenience store. He paused for a moment before the propped-open doors to scan the shelves along the front counter before him. The store was very similar to the 7-Elevens he had remembered visiting as a boy when he had lived in the United States in the early-1970s, except here the Western snack items were intermingled with some locally produced treats. As the English and Cantonese labels vied for his attention, the man felt as if he had stepped into a strange alternate world that was familiar yet different. He chuckled silently to himself as he realized that, in some regards, he had.

The smooth-skinned Chinese woman behind the counter, whose rough expression hinted her true age, looked up from her tabloid magazine and eyed the man intently. Her brow furrowed; she didn't seem to approve of him blocking the doorway — even though there was nobody else in the store.

The man walked forward and smiled warmly before his mouth fumbled across a sentence in Cantonese. He had only been in Hong Kong for a few months, and was still learning the language (his employer and co-workers spoke English so there was no language barrier at work). The man did know enough at least to awkwardly ask for directions, order food, enquire about a price (as well as count his change), and, thankfully, to request a cup of coffee.

The woman behind the counter didn't return the smile. She conveyed a Cantonese reply in a low flat tone, pointing to a self-serve coffee station near the back of the store. She sounded annoyed, but the man didn't take it personally. It seemed to him that everyone in Hong Kong sounded annoyed, if not mildly angry, when speaking in Cantonese. If fact, the man discovered that acting annoyed actually helped him perfect the diction of the few rudimentary phrases he knew.

The man nodded his thanks to the woman, who turned her eyes back to her magazine in obvious dismissal. He pushed his loose glasses back to the top of his nose before heading past the short shopping aisles toward his objective. As he grudgingly pulled a Styrofoam cup from the tall stack next to the simmering coffee pot, the man recalled when a co-worker brought Chat Jai coffee to the workplace and how everyone else seemed to consider it an exotic delight. The man, however, found it to be horribly acrid. He preferred the rich and smooth brew from the hole-in-the-wall local coffee shop across the street. Unfortunately, that place did not stay open past 11, and the man needed the caffeine now. He had two more comic book pages of backgrounds to fill before he could "call it a day."

The man had recently finished college in London and was working in an entry-level international marketing (re: sales) position for a Singaporean insurance firm when a friend there managed to hook him up with a job opportunity as a background artist in a modest manhua studio in Hong Kong. Within two months, he had relocated and now spent most of his waking hours transforming the head artist's few rough sketch lines in the otherwise blank spaces of comic book pages into elaborate architecture, or lavish forests, or battered asteroids — whatever the story called for. The man did very good work, but it was hard work. And it was long work. (The head artist would say it was "slow work," but the man's speed was improving. The man didn't mind putting in longer hours to make sure he stayed on production schedule; the last thing he wanted to be was a spanner in the works.) In addition to the long hours, the job didn't provide much pay. Just enough to cover the basics (since the studio provided quarters in the form of a small room with a bed and a portable stove), plus a little extra to set aside for emergencies. But the man had dreamed of drawing comic books since he had first picked up a copy of Justice League of America #111 from the spinner rack of, interestingly enough, a Texas 7-Eleven in 1973 — his ten-year-old eyes recognizing characters from the SuperFriends programme he had seen on Saturday-morning television. Now he was part of a team that was drawing Hong Kong action comics, and he enjoyed it. So the job was, to the man, worth it... at least at the time.

The man was just about to pour his cup of coffee when he heard a young male voice shouting in Cantonese behind him. This voice was definitely annoyed. The man turned and saw the back of a short male figure in a grey hooded sweat jacket and jeans pointing a small revolver at the cashier, who was nervously moving what little money was available in the cash register into a small plastic store bag on the counter.

The hooded robber kept his gun poised toward the woman as he grabbed one handle of the bag with his free hand. He looked quickly at the contents inside and yelled something else to the cashier in Cantonese — sounding quite angry this time.

The man's heart raced when he heard the cashier's undecipherable pleas abruptly silenced by the sharp click of the revolver's hammer, and saw the gun rise to the level of the woman's terrified face.

"Hey!"

The robber quickly looked over his shoulder toward the man's shout. He was wearing sunglasses to obscure some of his face, but the agape mouth denoted the gunman's surprise to discover someone else was in the store.

The man's eyes narrowed with outrage as the robber, and the robber's weapon, whirled toward him. Unfazed, the man's muscles bunched as his fight-or-flight response was unexpectedly readying his body for the former. The reason was perhaps not as much due to his 10-plus years of martial arts training as the youthful motivation behind it. As a boy, the man dreamed of being Bruce Lee, "beating up bad guys" alongside the Green Hornet. And now, over a decade later, a "bad guy" was standing before him, and he definitely deserved a beating.

Fortunately, the training had taught the man long ago how to exercise discipline... and restraint.

"You have what you want," the man rumbled, pointing toward the exit. "Now go!"

The gunman seemed to scoff at the man. Whether he understood English or not, the terse demand was quite clear. The robber muttered something in Cantonese as he lowered his gun and left the store with his light plunder.

The man then noticed that the cashier had dropped to the floor while he was facing the gunman. He quickly moved behind the counter in order to help her to her feet, unaware that the robber hadn't moved far beyond the doorway.

The man barely heard the gunshot when something very small — yet felt very large — tore into his back. His breath, forced out of his body from the initial impact, refused to reenter as intense pain flared through his entire being, overwhelming all of his senses. He barely felt his glasses slip off his face as he tipped back and plunged into unconsciousness.

Caught in the grip of gravity, the lenses of the man's tumbling eyepiece gleamed under the fluorescent lights for a brief instant, then shattered on the sticky tile floor.

　

To be continued.

Director's Commentary II

(Nighttime at the Yukinori household. XUM is again seated at a modest desk in his den dictating notes in his digital recorder. NAMIKO enters carrying a wide, flat, and worn cardboard box. XUM turns toward her, placing the recorder on the desk, forgetting to turn it off.)

NAMIKO: Hey, Xum. I was going through some old boxes for Goodwill donations, and look what I found.

XUM: My old manhua file! I wondered what happened to that.

(NAMIKO sets the box on the desk and starts picking out some yellowed, zipatone-crusted art pages.)

NAMIKO: You showed me a few pieces before, but I haven't seen everything. There actually isn't much here...

XUM: Well, the studio wouldn't let me keep much of the original art. I've got a bunch of semi-legible photocopies boxed away... somewhere. They did let me keep some sketches and thumbnails, and...

NAMIKO: And this.

(NAMIKO pulls out an A5-sized piece of watercolor paper in a mylar sleeve, which makes it the most prestine-looking piece in the box. XUM draws a breath.)

XUM: Oh, wow... "The Last Time I Saw Dan."

(XUM sits silently for a beat, looking at the india-ink image on the paper, his eyes drawn to the twin pools of green acryllics that are the focus of the piece. NAMIKO touches her husband's shoulder gingerly.)

NAMIKO: So when are you going to blog about that?

XUM: I already blogged about...

NAMIKO: ...the last time you had "seen and touched" Dan, I know. You know what I mean.

XUM: I don't know for sure what I saw at the Malaysian...

NAMIKO: I don't mean your near encounter with the... whatzit called? Pollyanna...?

XUM: Pontianak.

NAMIKO: Right. That's what you said it was.

XUM: To be clear, I didn't say I saw a pontianak for sure. The bomoh who cleansed the Malaysian Security Exchange Commission building said there was a pontianak there. What I saw was just a quick glance of...

NAMIKO: But who knows what would have happened if you didn't look away, and decided to follow...

XUM: Well, if it was a pontianak, I wouldn't be here now.

NAMIKO: You honestly believe that?

XUM: I do. Many people there believe it too. I remember the Malaysian government seriously discussing establishing laws to govern the use of "black magic." (A pause.) And there were a number of weird things happening in that building before the bomoh came. Elevators and lights going wonky, and the like. The bomoh said there were a number of other spirits making mischief in...

NAMIKO: (Laughter.)

XUM: What?

NAMIKO: You. (Her fingers make air quotes as she mimicks XUM's voice.) "Making mischief." I mean, who says that? (Laughter.)

XUM: I do.

NAMIKO: Mm-hmm. You sure do. (Her fingers lightly touch a corner of the drawing's plastic covering. Her voice now takes a serious tone.) I know why you are dodging my question, Xum... but you should really tell that story. I mean, that was an amazing thing you went through.

XUM: I... I'll think about it.

NAMIKO: Okay. (She smiles a wicked grin.) I don't suppose you are thinking of "making some mischief" with me right now?

XUM: Do you have to ask?

(XUM snaps off the recorder while NAMIKO snaps off the lights. CUT TO BLACK.)

Secrets of a Super-Hero Sketch Artist: This Is a Job for... the Voiceman!

The latest theme of "The Line It Is Drawn" (a feature of the "Comics Should Be Good" blog on the ComicBookResources.com website) was in honor of the 50-year anniversary of James Bond films, so comic book fans were asked to submit Twitter suggestions for pairing or "mashing up" comic book characters with James Bond characters.

One suggestion in particular caught my eye: "James Bond tries to seduce Wonder Woman." It would answer the age-old question of what happens when the irresistible force meets the unseducable object. However, it was another suggestion, "James Bond infiltrates the Hall of Doom to steal a microchip," that inspired me to use the SuperFriends version of Wonder Woman for the piece. So the scenario was fairly obvious: an Alex Toth SuperFriends-style James Bond would make a pass at Wonder Woman while they were searching for a microchip on the Hall of Doom. As I started to sketch another one of my usual mock covers, based on the SuperFriends "TV Comic" from the 1970s and 1980s, I reasoned that it would be more fitting to make this submission a mock animation cel that would look as if it had been from the SuperFriends programme itself.

So the dialogue that I had intended for the comic cover idea would not go to waste, I also decided to mock up a fake SuperFriends episode script to add to the drawing.

I had just finished the final Photoshop adjustments to the piece when I felt Namiko's hand on my shoulder.

"That looks really good," she said, regarding the image on my Wacom tablet screen. "I can see your style in it."

I mulled my wife's words for a brief moment. It wasn't my style but Alex Toth's that I was aiming for, but her compliment was sincere. "Thanks," I replied.

"But you know who should really look at it?"

"Indeed I do." I clicked open my Internet browser window, where a draft e-mail to Shannon Farnon was awaiting an attachment.

Some of you may realize that I have had the privilege of interviewing Shannon Farnon, the original voice of Wonder Woman on the SuperFriends programme, for the ToonZone website a few years back. When I started conducting interviews with animation voice actors for the old Comics2Film website in the early naughties, I eventually considered Shannon Farnon to be the "holy grail" of voice-actor interviews. This was probably due to the fifth issue of Back Issue, a comic-book-related interview magazine, which featured a spotlight on Wonder Woman on television. The magazine included a series of interviews from almost all of the actresses that had portrayed the Amazing Amazon up until that time. One of the few actresses not featured was Shannon, which was a surprise to me. Shannon was in my mind the quintessential Wonder Woman. She was the first actress to play the role in a regular series, and I always heard her voice in my head when I read Wonder Woman dialogue in comic books. The only plausible explanation I could think of for her omission in Back Issue #5 was that she was extremely difficult to find. Unfortunately, life and work had displaced the free time I had devoted to the Comics2Film interviews, so it would be a number of years before I would start to even think about tracking Shannon down.

Thanks to the website Toonzone, I had managed to make connections with some inside people from both Warner Brothers Studios and the Cartoon Network. So when time freed up for me get back to animation interviews, Shannon was at the top of my list. As seasons of the SuperFriends programme were starting to be released on DVD by Warner Home Video at the time, I e-mailed my contact at Warners and asked what my chances were in locating Shannon Farnon for an interview. He responded with a phone number to a Hollywood talent agency and a simple message to "ask for Samantha; she'll hook you up."

I had done so, and 20 minutes later Shannon herself had called me on my mobile to arrange a time. It was the easiest interview I had ever arranged. And I am honored to say that Shannon and I have stayed in regular contact since.

Elated upon receiving an e-mail from Shannon regarding how much she liked the piece, I felt surprisingly bold enough to suggest we create a dialogue sound clip to add to this week's submission, whereby Shannon would reprise her Wonder Woman role and rebuff Bond's advances. She agreed, to my delight.

My face lit up as I made Namiko the third to know. She had one question.

"So who is going to do Bond?"

Now I was by no means a master vocal impressionist, but I had been told that my mimicry of the Sean Connery James Bond, inspired by my first viewing of a Bond film (which, interestingly enough, was a re-showing of the first Bond film, "Dr. No," at a London cinema in December 1979), was dead on. I remembered making my best friend Dan shoot Sarsi out of her nose one time at a London eatery when I used my "Connery voice" to re-enact an old Sesame Street routine with Simon the Soundman ordering a "buck buck buck ba-caw sandwich."

Namiko cocked her head to one side at my response. "Come again?"

"I am going to play Bond," I repeated. "You heard my impression of Sean Connery."

"I heard your impression of Sean Connery playing the Swedish Chef," she said with an amused smirk."And that was a few years ago. I never heard you do Sean Connery as Bond."

"Really?"

"Really." There was a playful flicker in her dark chocolate eyes. "C'mon. Let's hear it. Use your line to 'seduce' me."

I brushed Namiko's mock sarcasm aside as I stepped behind her. Encircling my arms around her slim waist, I pressed my lips softly against her right ear, tightened my thyroarytenoid muscles, and purred in my best British-Scottish accent:

"I don't suppose, Wonder Woman, that I could interest you to be a SuperFriend with... benefits?"

Namiko tried to suppress a giggle, which escaped as an audible snort from her nose. Then she nearly doubled over with laughter.

"What? The line's not that funny."

She took a few moments to regain some semblance of composure. "I'm sorry," she gasped, "who are you supposed to be again?"

I shifted my voice once more. "Bond... James Bond."

She shook her head. "English... Johnny English." I could see the seriousness behind her smile.

Another thing I love about Namiko: I can always count on her to cash my reality checks. Even spending much of the next day listening and repeating various Bond YouTube video clips hardly improved the situation.

"So what are you going to do?" Namiko eventually asked. "Shannon is, of course, the big deal with the audio extra, but you can't use it for a Bond tribute without Bond."

As always, Namiko was right. I deliberated for a moment. "I think I know someone who can help."

My Warner contact had on a number of occasions told me about Will Rodgers, a long-time SuperFriends fan who had compiled the most extensive and complete SuperFriends episode guide I had ever seen on the interwebs. In fact, his guide had served as key research for my Shannon Farnon interview (and, sadly, was no longer online). The Warner contact had also told me that Will was a radio personality nicknamed "The Voiceman" due to his talent for impersonating various voices -- including several cast members of the SuperFriends programme, as well as suave-sounding actors like Larry Hagman and Adam West. So I reasoned that James Bond shouldn't be too much of a stretch for him.

I had managed to first connect with Will myself via a SuperFriends-themed fan message board a few years ago, and a simple Facebook message connected us again. Will was more than happy to help out, though he admitted he had never portrayed Sean Connery before. And while the recordings he quickly turned around were not dead-on Connery, his voice did carry the Bond smugness perfectly. As an added bonus, Will's take had a little hint of Michael Rye (voice actor for the SuperFriends Green Lantern and Apache Chief roles) which added more realism to my fake clip; if James Bond ever did appear on the SuperFriends, one of the regular cast members such as Rye would have provided the voice.

You can check out the the finished version of the mock SuperFriends animation cel, and the fake audio clip, by scrolling down on this “Line” web page. I cannot thank Shannon and Will enough for bringing life to my 41st submission to "The Line It Is Drawn" — especially on such short notice. And thank you for your interest in this fun little lark that, along with the blog, allows me to exercise the right side of my brain on a regular basis.

And if the "Line" ever decides to do a Johnny English tribute, I am so there!

Wish I Was There, Episode 2: Feeling "EPIC!"

The man had been waiting a while now. No, not that man, but a good friend of "the man" from previous entries, though I do understand the confusion. So perhaps I shouldn't refer to him as "the man" here. Therefore, I will highlight a key attribute of the protagonist and hereby refer to this person as "the ginger-haired man." (Catchy name, no?)

Now then...

The ginger-haired man had been waiting a while now, as have the other comic convention attendees standing in the long queue with him. The crowd had started to get a little restless at the realization that the object of their wait would be arriving "fashionably late." But several people had managed to entertain themselves by discussing possible scenarios to explain the person's delayed arrival. They ranged from the realistic (press junket at the entrance, phoning in voice-over ADR from his hotel room) to the far-fetched (stepped out to quickly quell a disturbance on Melva IV). The ginger-haired man had his smartphone and a list of unattended e-mails to occupy his wait time, so he only half-listened, smiling with amusement at the creativity surrounding him. Finally, the queue began to move, signalling that the awaited guest had finally arrived.

The line snaked steadily through the maze of retractable belt barricades. It would be about 15 minutes before the ginger-haired man would be able to first catch a glimpse of the person he had came to see. A bald, septuagenarian British gentleman was seated at an autograph table, talking briefly to fans at the head of the line, signing his name on photographs, action figures, and other memorabilia that bared his likeness -- or at least had an association to his most recognized role in both television and cinema as a stalwart starship captain.

As the ginger-haired man approached closer, his mind struggled to contain a rising excitement, and apprehension. His previous experiences with meeting famous people had been... awkward, to say the least. He did not want this rare opportunity to be spoiled by inconversable nervousness, or worse, by "geeking out" over the gentleman's science fiction show. So while waiting in line he had been going over in his head everything he wanted to say when he finally met the gentleman. He wanted to talk about how he greatly admired his acting, and not just for his most famous television role, but also his lesser-known yet amazing work that he had seen on stage and had heard on British radio -- in particular, the recent Money Supermarket "Epic" adverts in which the gentleman's atypical delivery made them all the more brilliant. All of these thoughts were mentally articulated and rehearsed and memorized and arranged neatly in his brain, ready for recitation. Just like in college when he would force his mind to absorb and file a hefty chunk of information in preparation for an exam. However, when he handed his autograph ticket to the show volunteer and was ushered to the autograph table, the ginger-haired man was suddenly awed by the sheer presence of the gentleman seated before him -- as long as it took him to find his voice.

"Uh... Hi," the ginger-haired man managed to say.

"How are you?" The gentleman's accented voice was warm and even, yet bold and powerful enough to send the ginger-haired man's neat mental stack of talking points tumbling around in his brain.

Just like cramming for an exam, except to the ginger-haired man, the exam was now over, and everything he had memorized was suddenly forgotten.

Fortunately, he could focus on the piece he had brought for the gentleman to sign: the main reason he had purchased an autograph ticket and stood in line for the past 45 minutes instead of milling with the rest of the crowd about the convention floor. The ginger-haired man presented a color print of a "mock comic book cover" illustration that featured the actor, politely asking the gentleman to make an autograph out to the man who created it.

“He’s a big fan,” the ginger-haired man explained.

The gentleman peered down at the artwork at his fingertips, noting a depiction of himself in his most popular role, literally doing the impossible.

“Oh, I see…” he smiled. The tip of the gentleman’s silver-ink Sharpee glided across the glossy coating of the photo paper, forming a dedication to the artist followed by his own signature.

The ginger-haired man graciously thanked the gentleman. "When he gets this, he is going to feel ‘epic’ -- that's for sure."

The gentleman's eyes flickered with recognition of the reference to his Money Supermarket voice-over work. His face and voice beamed. “That’s great,” he said sincerely. He looked once more at the illustration. “How I wish I could do that in real life,” he mused.

The ginger-haired man returned the gentleman’s smile. “Maybe someday, you will,” he replied, thinking of the potential roles the gentleman has yet to play, and the power of modern movie magic. It would be a short while later, after he made his departure from the signature station, that the ginger-haired man would bite his lip upon the realization that he didn’t verbally express that last part.

But right now, the ginger-haired man thanked the gentleman again and held out his right hand as he said his goodbye. The gentleman didn’t return the handshake as expected, surprisingly using his left hand to gently squeeze the ginger-haired man’s, smiling warmly. “Take care, now.”

"Thank you. You too."

(The ginger-haired man would later discover from a convention volunteer that the gentleman was suffering from severe arthritis that day and thus shouldn't be shaking hands. The ginger-haired man never suspected it at the time [a virtuoso display of the gentleman's craft], and was deeply honored that the gentleman had accepted his hand anyway.)


******

The illustration that the ginger-haired man held also depicted the gentleman's primary nemesis in his signature television series, and the American actor that portrayed this one-letter-named character was seated behind a table next to that of the gentleman, also signing autographs. So he Q-ed... er, queued up to meet him as well.

The ginger-haired man again felt that familiar pang of nervous apprehension as he approached the American actor. Admittedly, he wasn't familiar with the American actor's body of work outside of the role depicted in the illustration, some audio books, and a few animation voice-over parts. While in the queue he had tried to come up with what he would hope to be a unique question to ask the actor. Having seemingly failed in that task (more likely due to an abundance of self-criticism than lack of creativity), he decided to simply engage in "small talk" and let the artwork serve as the unique aspect of the brief conversation.

The actor regarded the drawing for a moment before he lifted his black pen.

"How about here?" he began, pointing to one of the few lighter-colored areas of the illustration, which was actually the face of his character's "partner" in the comic book cover fantasy scenario. "Is that good?"

"Yeah, that's fine," the ginger-haired man said. He actually wanted to say "appropriate." Having the actor's signature obscure the other illustrated adversary's face, and thus leave his character's visage unblemished, hinted a sly deviousness that befitted his most famous role.

The ginger-haired man thanked the actor before making way for the next fan. He paused for a moment to look back at the still-massive autograph queue behind him -- the slow rat race he patiently endured -- and smiled with satisfaction before disappearing into the convention crowd.

[The previous dramatization, and hopefully accurate depiction, of events is in recognition and appreciation for the great lengths the ginger-haired man had gone through at the 2012 Wizard World Ohio Con in order to present me with this wonderful gift. Words cannot possibly express the extent of my gratitude, so I will simply say thank you to the Ginger-Haired Man, Sir Patrick Stewart and Mr. John De Lancie -- thank you for making me feel "epic."]

That’s My Boy!

A few of you reading this blog had already pointed out to me that the timelines between when my son Isamu was born and when I had met Namiko didn’t quite match up. And while I have eventually explained the discrepancy, some people are still asking me why I referred to Isamu as “my” son when I blogged about the reality of Santa Claus, when it is clear that I am not his biological father.

This question reminded me of one of my first da—outings with both Namiko and Isamu in 2005. We were taking advantage of the “Indian Summer” in the Bay Area to go kite flying in Crissy Field. Namiko was deftly handling the kite string while I sat on the grass watching. Isamu was next to me, strapped in his shaded stroller, gurgling and laughing as his tiny hands reached out and tried to follow the movement of the kite as it swooped and danced in the Saturday afternoon sky.

Then it happened. Most likely a combination of a very strong Pacific wind and my selection of a very old kite string. Suffice to say, the kite broke free from its restraint and pinwheeled off to the far side of the field.

I was momentarily distracted by the sight of Namiko’s shapely form running after the errant kite, until I was reminded of a special ability that is likely inherent in most 11-month-olds: the power to sense the nearby presence of the mother, as well as a built-in alarm system that activates when the mother is physically out of range.

I quickly unstrapped the crying child and brought him to my shoulder in a feeble attempt to comfort him, and to my surprise he calmed down immediately. Isamu then turned towards the kite, still in the air. He pointed and giggled at it while it continued its slow spinning freefall.

It was then that a pair of older women paused in their powerwalk to admire Isamu. They approached us and made cute faces and waves, all to the child’s delight.

“Your son is beautiful,” one of the women said.

And in some Schrödinger-inspired parallel universe, I responded with: “Oh, he’s not really my son. He belongs to a woman I’m dating. Well, she wouldn’t exactly say we were dating, but we go out often. And we have kissed a few times. So we are more than friends. Um… she’s not here right now…” And most likely I was faced with some perplexed stares, with one of the women perhaps reaching for her mobile to report what she perceived to be a kidnapping in progress.

But in the world we know as ours, I simply replied, “Thank you.”

Now, one of the reasons I said that was because it was easier (and I didn’t want to be hauled off to jail). But another, more important reason, is that I actually did feel very proud of Isamu at that moment. The way he smiled, and laughed, and made the women gush as they resumed their exercise with a cute little “bye-bye” wave. I had to admit, I used to have an indifferent attitude towards children, but ever since he first snatched my finger, Isamu had stolen my heart.

A short while later, Namiko returned with the stringless kite.

“Everything okay here?” she asked. Isamu was still in my arms, playfully tugging at my hair.

“Just fine,” I said. “He cried a little when you ran off, but…”

“Oh, yeah. He does that when I leave him at day care. Usually takes him an hour to calm down…” her voice cut off as surprise immediately surfaced on her face. “Wow, he must really like you. He’s not even reaching out for me to take him.” Her voice had a slight hint of disappointment lining the amazement.

“Well, the feeling’s mutual.” I said. “Do you want to take him while I restring the kite?”

“And interrupt this big male-bonding moment? No way!” she smiled.

I’d like to believe that’s when Isamu first considered me as a father to him. It’s definitely when Isamu first felt like a son to me. As Isamu grew, he’s always known the truth about his parentage, but we don’t see a need to diminish the importance of our relationship with more technically accurate terms like “step-father” or “step-son”.  While I may not be his father, I am Isamu’s dad.

And while Isamu may not be my flesh-and-blood, he is my son.