Generally speaking, my vintage trumpet, a Bach Stradivarius, has been an obedient, often delightful, and even comforting companion. She—no way around it, it’s a she—has never complained about being shut up in her case and ignored for days, or for being treated as carry-on luggage, or for resting bell down on a stand that sticks up into her gut… Just pick her up, jiggle her three valves, blow a few warm breathes into her mouth, and she’s ready to go. It’s true that on occasion we’ve had our little spats, disagreements over, say, triple tonguing (which she hates) or sorting out the low C sharp which stubbornly refuses to stay on pitch. “It’s not me,” she says, “it’s you!” To which I respond by flushing her out with soapy water.

Recently, on a gaming news site that’s been irrelevant for months, a story was posted about how a young lass who was seeking companionship through one of the many online dating services felt that while she identified herself as a gamer, stated she needed to keep the fact a secret (why this site is irrelevant to gaming). Her reasoning? She wanted a potential suitor to see her as something more than a person who’s extremely adept at handling a joystick (yay double entendres!) So, in an online environment, where many of the users are socially awkward, and trying to find some way to establish a rapport with someone, she opted to leave out nearly 90% of what guys could easily connect with her on. Which led me to one, very simple truth which is this woman, is simply not a gamer.

Today’s strip is all about fire! I wanted to create a strip with Ben and Winslow having a seemingly normal (or what passes for normal in their world) conversation, oblivious to the flames that had suddenly burst to life on their heads. And then at the end, I would hit you all with a profound message or something. See what I did there? I’m educating you through laughter and flammability. And that’s not an easy thing to do. I’m sure my Nobel is already in the mail.

Remember that? Remember rollerblading? We used to do that! All the time! We should do that again! C’mon! Let’s go rollerblading!

Yeah, I’m serious. Mine are in that old sports crate in the garage. You know, the one with that empty racquetball can, maroon neoprene elbow sleeve, and my rollerblades! Purchased in 1987, 1991, and 1993, respectively. My kneepads are in there, too, although I didn’t see my wrist guards. I was always losing my wrist guards. Fudge! I bet we could find your rollerblades. I bet we could. Let’s find ‘em!

All of the characters in Ben & Winslow exhibit some sort of exaggerated aspect of my own personality. All of them except Laura, who is the strip’s embodiment of my wife.

The conversation in this strip may have actually happened a few weeks ago. At least that’s what my wife will tell you, but she’s a liar.