If you are active on this subreddit, you may have seen my two previous reviews on Garfield (2024) and The Garfield Show (2009). In my Garfield Show review, I stated I could not read the comics because I was illiterate. This is no longer the case. I finally learned how to read. Of course, the first thing I did with my new knowledge was buy every Garfield comic strip collection. I read through every single one. Let out a few chuckles and decided I was ready to create my own. I came on here to share it. Enjoy.
https://preview.redd.it/rhs4lwuzpe5d1.png?width=830&format=png&auto=webp&s=e4c487efceeb0fd0f177996042adbd5d4b6095b3

https://preview.redd.it/wyjzb4kuae5d1.jpg?width=923&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=03ea7b8a182d93974ddebd6a00a61c2d68965038
https://diagonal-lane.blogspot.com/2022/09/death-on-diagonal-lane-is-out.html
Diagonal Days: The comic strip based on the character of the Diagonal Lane novels
For French and German versions of this strip, check out my main cartoon blog pen-slinger.blogspot.com

diagonaldays #humor #comedy #comics #cartoons

NOTE: the 2nd image is the blank template with no core class slots, while the 3rd is the original template with core class slots made by @KeyliiPrillaman on Twitter.
TITAN CLASS:
•Broadside (FOC) (Concept Art).
COMMANDER CLASS:
•Astrotrain (SS86).
LEADER CLASS:
•Warpath (DOTM) (Concept Art/Gamer Edition)
•Transit (ROTB) (Concept Art)
•Off-Road Optimus Prime (ROTB) (Concept Art).
VOYAGER CLASS:
•Slug (AOE)
•Strafe (AOE)
•Shockwave (WFC)
•Hound (SS86).
DELUXE CLASS:
•Elita-1 (Transformers: One)
•Cliffjumper (SS86)
•Stinger 2.0 (AOE)
•Barricade (TLK)
•Bumblebee (2007) (Concept Art)
•Bloodhound (ROTB) (Concept Art)
•Windcharger (SS86)
•Kranix (SS86).
NOTES:
•the SS86 Hound and Astrotrain are completely new molds from the ground up similar to SS86 Ironhide and Ratchet, with hound having a more authentic Jeep mold and having his his g1 cartoon and g1 toy weapons/accesories, while Astrotrain has 2 rifles and has an optional g1 toy chestplate that can be deployed in robot mode and becomes the tail fin in shuttle mode.
•both Hound and Astrotrain would get G1 toy themed recolors if they were made.
•this new Stinger will be a complete update from the original Studio Series Stinger, with better portability, a better robot mode, and other improvements.
•Slug and Srafe are obviously made to go along with the Studio Series AOE Grimlock.
•Cliffjumper is obviously a retool of the new SS86 bumblebee.
•Kranix transforms into his spaceship mode seen in some concept art and comics, and would be retooled into Arblus.
•Windcharger is just a modern updated Windcharger figure, who would be retooled into tailgate and wipeout, and also get a dead retool like Ironhide, ratchet, prowl and brawn in SS86.
•Broadside is obviously based off of his scrapped FOC appearance where he would become the massive autobot transport seen in the game, so he’d be pretty damn big. He’s also would be the first Titan in Studio Series.
•we get an official Busformer toy in Transit.
•the Off-Road Optimus becomes the Mercedes-Benz Armored Heavy Actros seen in the ROTB mainline toys and the concept art.
•the TF: One Elita obviously is made to go along with the other TF: One studio series figures.

NOTE: the 2nd image is the blank template with no core class slots, while the 3rd is the original template with core class slots made by @KeyliiPrillaman on Twitter.
TITAN CLASS:
•Broadside (FOC) (Concept Art).
COMMANDER CLASS:
•Astrotrain (SS86).
LEADER CLASS:
•Warpath (DOTM) (Concept Art/Gamer Edition)
•Transit (ROTB) (Concept Art)
•Off-Road Optimus Prime (ROTB) (Concept Art).
VOYAGER CLASS:
•Slug (AOE)
•Strafe (AOE)
•Shockwave (WFC)
•Hound (SS86).
DELUXE CLASS:
•Elita-1 (Transformers: One)
•Cliffjumper (SS86)
•Stinger 2.0 (AOE)
•Barricade (TLK)
•Bumblebee (2007) (Concept Art)
•Bloodhound (ROTB) (Concept Art)
•Windcharger (SS86)
•Kranix (SS86).
NOTES:
•the SS86 Hound and Astrotrain are completely new molds from the ground up similar to SS86 Ironhide and Ratchet, with hound having a more authentic Jeep mold and having his his g1 cartoon and g1 toy weapons/accesories, while Astrotrain has 2 rifles and has an optional g1 toy chestplate that can be deployed in robot mode and becomes the tail fin in shuttle mode.
•both Hound and Astrotrain would get G1 toy themed recolors if they were made.
•this new Stinger will be a complete update from the original Studio Series Stinger, with better portability, a better robot mode, and other improvements.
•Slug and Srafe are obviously made to go along with the Studio Series AOE Grimlock.
•Cliffjumper is obviously a retool of the new SS86 bumblebee.
•Kranix transforms into his spaceship mode seen in some concept art and comics, and would be retooled into Arblus.
•Windcharger is just a modern updated Windcharger figure, who would be retooled into tailgate and wipeout, and also get a dead retool like Ironhide, ratchet, prowl and brawn in SS86.
•Broadside is obviously based off of his scrapped FOC appearance where he would become the massive autobot transport seen in the game, so he’d be pretty damn big. He’s also would be the first Titan in Studio Series.
•we get an official Busformer toy in Transit.
•the Off-Road Optimus becomes the Mercedes-Benz Armored Heavy Actros seen in the ROTB mainline toys and the concept art.
•the TF: One Elita obviously is made to go along with the other TF: One studio series figures.

https://preview.redd.it/tmymcgs3d85d1.jpg?width=1410&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=3a08f3f306193c3e49e16b180e23693577631434
My Discord
Buy me a cup of coffee (if you want)
Previous Chapter
Chapter Eleven:
(Frankie)
Dawn’s Subaru had a new jasmine scent courtesy of some air fresheners she’d clipped to her middle AC vents. My eyes lazily drifted toward the window as we entered the Old Port. Sunlight spilled down on the hundreds of tourists milling about.
We drove by the Ocean Gateway, morning sunlight reflecting off the harbor. That was Dawn’s favorite word to hear me say. She grinned anytime I said it. “Habbah,” she’d tease as I rolled my eyes.
A massive white cruise ship rested at the docks, having brought a few thousand passengers to Portland from god knows where. They’d start showing up in the last half of May, sporadically through the summer, and finally arrive in full force in early fall, just before winter hit and made everything colder than a witch’s tit.
Inappropriate thoughts about a certain driver sitting beside me bubbled to the surface, and I cleared my throat.
I followed that up with a yawn and shook my head back and forth. Dawn giggled and handed me a Moonbucks coffee I hadn’t even noticed sitting in the console.
“You know me so well,” I sighed in relief, taking a sip of lavender oat milk latte.
“You’re pretty regimented,” Dawn said. “It’s not hard to learn your patterns.”
I looked her over. The black blouse and dark pants gave her a more “business casual meets witchy” look. She’d even toned down her eyeshadow.
“Is that what you’ve been doing in between writing astrology columns? Learning my patterns?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dawn winked.
“I’ve been studying you from every angle these last few weeks,” she said.
Heat flooded my cheeks, and I almost choked on my coffee. Sensing she should move on, the witch mercifully changed topics.
“So, why are we going to this conference again when you’re clearly exhausted after staying up until god knows when looking over. . .,” her voice trailed off, waiting for me to finish.
“An investigative piece on leaking pipes in the West End the city has known about for three years now and seemingly taken no action on,” I completed her sentence.
Sighing, I stifled another yawn and prayed desperately to God that this caffeine would kick in sooner or later.
“It’s the New England Press Cooperative. They have an annual conference in Boston. Every newspaper editor from Burlington to Providence will be there,” I said as we drove by a cargo ship entering the port with several red and brown steel containers. It blocked my view of the few sailboats in the water.
Commercial Street wove around the peninsula’s eastern border passing through the Old Port. Dawn stopped so a few tourists wearing sunhats and carrying bags from the Unholy Donut could cross over to one of the piers.
I loved that our city had a working waterfront, and clearly, millions of other visitors who came here to eat in some of the highest-rated restaurants in the country did as well. Portland was an entirely different place in May and June than it was in January. And it would only get more packed as we approached July and August.
“I thought you said the Lighthouse-Journal hadn’t gone to the conference in a few years,” Dawn said.
“We haven’t. Budget shortfalls mean conferences are typically the first thing to get axed for newspaper staff. But this year is different. I’m actually an invited guest.”
Dawn’s head turned toward me so fast I was worried she’d need a chiropractor.
“You’re a guest speaker? That’s so cool! What are you going to talk about?”
I smiled and twirled my index finger around my ponytail. For some reason, I was having trouble meeting the witch’s excited eyes.
“Not quite a guest speaker. The conference organizers just asked me a few months ago if I’d be willing to join a panel of family-owned newspapers in the region. There aren’t many of us left, and go figure, they want me and two other editors from Vermont and Connecticut to discuss the challenges of keeping a newspaper in the family given ongoing media disruption.”
I probably sounded like I’d read that straight from a pamphlet, but when I finally glanced over at Dawn, she was all smiles. Was she. . . actually impressed? Or was this just a polite act from a woman who had tried on multiple occasions to get into my pants? A woman who would have succeeded if I could get more than three goddamn hours of sleep at night.
Her green eyes were lit with what seemed like honest-to-god enthusiasm for my craft.
“Anyway, they’re paying for my room and meals. Plus, I can meet folks who are in charge of press grants our paper desperately needs and hopefully leave a good impression.”
We drove past several piers, including the entrance to DeMillo’s, a large parking lot that led out to a boat restaurant people flocked to every year. No local I’d ever spoken to frequented the place, but folks From Away just had to eat there.
If you want to pay $35 for a lobster roll, that’s your God-given right, I thought. Welcome to Vacationland, bub. Enjoy your $400-a-night Airbnb that took an affordable housing unit off the market.
“Well, I’ll be sure to attend your panel tonight. There’s also one tomorrow morning I’m interested in on keeping comic strips alive in 2024,” Dawn said.
We left the Old Port, and it wasn’t long before a worn brown and white two-story diner came into view with its worn exterior. A set of stairs led up the right side of the restaurant.
“Ah, Becca’s. You don’t look a day over 75,” I smiled.
Visitors often viewed the diner as the quintessential restaurant where lobstermen ate breakfast or lunch, coming ashore after an early morning of backbreaking work. Some still ate there, and I never had any issues with the place. Its reputation as a Portland staple was powerful enough that Gov. Janice Mylls ate breakfast there the morning after winning her reelection in 2022.
The diner sat wedged between a few industrial spaces with their own piers and docks. Then, just as soon as we spotted it, the restaurant was gone.
“I’ve never actually eaten there. Is it good?” Dawn asked.
I shrugged.
“It’s fine. I’ve never had a bad meal there. I do interviews there sometimes for stories. Folks are friendly enough. Becca’s still retains some of its salt-of-the-Earth flavor that keeps so many people coming back.”
Stretching and feeling a familiar pang in my chest, I grunted.
Sure wish that would stop, I thought, grimacing.
“Are you excited to learn about journalism from all the industry pros tonight and tomorrow?” I asked.
“Strangely enough, I am. I was actually emailing back and forth with a guy named Dorian Fletcher this week about the conference. He writes the horoscopes for a few newspapers in Rhode Island. I’m gonna see if he has any sage wisdom to share. Apparently, he’s been syndicated for almost a decade now.”
My heart fluttered in a good way for once as I tried not to stare too long at the witch. She was. . . learning about the most important thing in my life. Dawn Summers was spending her own money to travel to Boston and attend a conference just to get a better picture of what made me an inky wretch.
Rubbing my arm, I couldn’t help but smile and look up at the Casco Bay Bridge as we drove under it. Butterflies in my stomach scattered to every inch of my abdomen as I realized I’d be spending an entire two days with my colleag— I mean pal.
An entire Friday and Saturday in Boston together while I did my best to wait for these festering feelings to fade away in a “Mr. Stark. . . I don’t feel so good,” moment.
A few minutes later, the blue and white Amtrak logo came into view as we pulled into the Portland Transporation Hub. Every time I came to this place, I couldn’t help but think, Shit. They really tore down a beautiful and historic train station for this awful location?
We grabbed our bags and walked inside a long carpeted room with a long wooden counter that served as the ticket desk. Behind the transportation hub, a handful of busses docked and waited for passengers. Behind the busses stood a rail line where the Downeaster train would pull into the station.
Five times a day the train ran between Brunswick and Boston. We were all set to board the 11:48 a.m. locomotive.
“I can’t believe you’ve never ridden the train before,” I said, sitting down in a row of metal seats by the Downeaster platform exit.
Behind us, a family of seven waited to board a coach bus that would take them to Logan Airport.
“What can I say? I grew up in Cedar Rapids. We didn’t have Amtrak in our town. There’s only one train, and it runs through the southern half of the state. The closest station was like an hour away,” Dawn said, sitting down beside me. She leaned close, and our legs touched. When I raised an eyebrow at her, the witch looked in the opposite direction.
I see you, I thought, shortly before a shiver traveled from my thigh to my brain. And I wish I could see more of you.
My brain betrayed me with a few more thoughts before an announcer called for Downeaster passengers to board from platform C.
Dawn and I nodded to each other, stood, grabbed our bags, and walked down a long enclosed walkway where a conductor held the door open for us.
There, waiting on the rail for about 12 or 13 passengers, stood the Downeaster. A diesel locomotive followed by a cafe/business seating car, four coaches, and a rear locomotive. Another conductor stood by the train and directed passengers to business class or coach.
Dawn and I got in the rearmost coach as it was the least full and sat right in the middle, placing our bags on an oversized luggage rack above the seats.
“Wow. That was a lot easier than boarding a plane,” Dawn said, reclining in her seat.
I just grinned.
“Told ya. Trains rock. Wicked easy to get on and off,” I said.
It wasn’t long before the train pulled away from the hub and began its southward journey to New England’s biggest city.
After crossing the rail bridge over the Fore River, which was my favorite part because it almost looked like the train was hovering over the water, we clipped along at a good pace toward Old Orchard Beach.
The Downeaster raced by houses, across large fields, between patches of forest, and occasionally within sight of the coast.
Dawn checked her phone before turning to me and asked, “So, when was the last time you went to Boston?”
My heart skipped a beat as a woman’s face rocketed into my memory. It’d been a trip like not unlike this one about six months ago. I even sat in the aisle seat, just like then. But sitting beside me then was a marketing executive, not a witch.
The pain must have been obvious on my face because Dawn slowly took my hand.
“FeeDee?” she asked in a softer voice.
I shook my head, chasing away a single name I’d tried my best to burn out of every memory since then.
“Um. . . I went on a trip to the aquarium with my girlfriend at the time,” I said, as more home videos started playing in my head of us holding hands and watching the harbor seals, walking past the jellyfish exhibits, and smiling at the penguins. “Margaret.”
My heart skittered off the rails and crashed into a rock wall as her words echoed through my mind, “I’m sorry, Frankie. That’s just not what I want for us.”
I blinked away tears as my ducts betrayed me in the worst possible way. I didn’t want Drawn to see me crying over the former love of my life! Fuck.
Shitbiscuits, I thought, taking a shallow breath and willing my eyes to stop watering.
“I’m guessing I don’t want to know what happened?” Dawn asked in a low voice.
Shaking my head, I cleared my throat again.
“There’s not much to tell. We wanted different things. We went different ways,” I said, looking outside as we crossed the border into New Hampshire.
An awkward silence filled our two seats as behind us, two men were debating whether a hotdog was a sandwich. If I hadn’t been in such a dour mood, I would have turned around and recommended a YouTube chef who had a podcast about that very subject.
Dawn and I mostly fiddled around on our phones for the trip south.
A couple of hours later, we pulled into Boston North Station. A freight train had delayed us by about 20 minutes, which wasn’t too bad all things considered.
Boston North Station was a huge block of a structure where Downeaster trains terminated. If you had a connection to any other Amtrak train like the Acela or the Lake Shore Limited, you had to hoof it to Boston South Station, a solid 20-minute walk. It wasn’t fun with luggage in tow.
Several pigeons waddled and pecked at different parts of the room. A kiosk with drinks and snacks stood next to a cashier checking his phone.
Several exit gates stood on all different sides of us. I showed Dawn how to scan her Amtrak ticket and be let through the turnstile. It took her a few tries, and I tried not to giggle.
On the other side of the turnstiles stood a Sunken Donuts and a few other restaurants next to a sports memorabilia shop. Above Boston North Station stood a sports arena where their hockey and basketball teams played.
Dawn called us an Uber, and 20 minutes later, we walked into the Shilton Boston Park Plaza Hotel overlooking the Boston Common.
This hotel had hosted the conference for the last five years, though I’d only gotten to stay here once.
A marble pathway led up to the front desk, and I could already see a number of folks walking around with New England Press Conference lanyards and badges. It depressed me the ratio of men to women I saw walking around with lanyards, but that was newspapers for ya. At its peak or at its weakest, the industry would still be dominated by men.
And I’m proud to be pushing back against that, I thought. Even if my newspaper will fold in three years if we don’t boost our subscriptions soon.
The clerk who greeted us wore a black jacket that covered almost all of the ochre skin on his arms. A gold nametag was pinned to his chest. “Bayani” was engraved on the nametag.
His black hair was cropped short, and he wore a million-dollar smile.
“Welcome to the Shilton Boston Park Plaza. Do you have a reservation?” he asked.
I gave him my name, showed my driver’s license, and he typed a few keys on the computer.
“Okay, you’re on the conference guest list, so I don’t need a credit card from you for incidentals. You’ll be in room 507, and the elevators are just around the corner. There’s also a stairwell on the opposite side of the lobby if you need to get your steps in like I do,” he said, flashing us another grin before tapping the Fitwit activity tracker on his wrist. It rested on a black band.
Bayani had a tall, lean body, so clearly he got more steps in every day than I did.
“Did you have a reservation as well?” he asked, turning to Dawn.
“Oh, no. I didn’t have time to make one. I’ll just take whatever you have available,” she said with all the carefree attitude that Dawn Summers carried with her everywhere.
To nobody’s surprise, however, Bayani grimaced and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am. All our rooms are booked for the conference this weekend.”
The witch’s face paled, and I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and ask, “What were you thinking?! Why didn’t you book your room months in advance, put the details in two separate calendars (digital and paper), and then call this morning to reconfirm your reservation like a normal paranoid adult?”
Silence filled the front desk as Dawn literally froze.
I sighed.
“It’s fine. She can stay in my room,” I mumbled.
Dawn looked over at me with a face of apprehension.
“Oh, Frankie, you don’t have to do that. I can really just find another hotel. I’ll bet the Five Seasons has spare rooms.”
I crossed my arms and adjusted the bag on my shoulder.
“Really? Because I’ll bet they’re also booked full as that’s the overflow hotel for people who made conference reservations but missed the cutoff to stay here,” I said.
Like any adult with minor (and totally manageable) travel anxiety, I’d kept up to date with the conference’s email newsletters reminding folks of deadlines to register.
Dawn’s voice was caught in her throat.
I looked at Bayani.
“May I have a second keycard for her, please?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Yes ma’am,” he said, working his magic on the machine and handing a plastic card to Dawn.
She took it shyly and followed me to the elevator after I thanked the clerk.
I wasn’t upset. But I was flustered. My foot kept tapping. She was going to be staying in my room tonight? My hotel room?!
What the fuck were you thinking? I thought, furiously. She could have tried one of the other hundreds of hotels in Boston.
But then that would have made meeting up for panels more difficult since she’d have to get a ride between here and wherever she ended up. And they’d just eat up more time going back and forth. This was easier. . . logistically. Yeah, that’s right. This was about logistics. And absolutely nothing else.
I was sweating by the time we arrived at the fifth floor. Dawn hadn’t said anything. We found room 507 easy enough next to a locked staff laundry facility.
Tapping my card on the sensor, a little green light flashed, and I heard a small clicking noise. Opening the door, we walked inside to find my biggest shock yet. The blood in my veins turned to ice in spite of the fact that I was sweating. Honestly, between the warm front and cold front meeting, a small tornado might form inside my body at any moment. Helen Hunt would race toward the storm in a yellow jeep, yelling at a man beside her in the passenger seat.
“Well, shit,” I muttered. “They were supposed to give me a room with two queen beds.”
A thin black and gray patterned carpet covered the floor everywhere except for the bathroom. A long wooden shelf supported a flat-screen TV showing photos of Boston’s skyline and playing soft instrumental music.
There, sitting against the wall next to a writing desk and a nightstand was a queen bed covered in a white comforter.
A quick phone call down to Bayani confirmed the worst. My room had been changed at the last second due to some unforeseen circumstances. And there weren’t any travel cots available for us to borrow.
This is all The Morrigan’s fault, I thought, rubbing my temples while my heart tried desperately to find its normal rhythm again. It failed spectacularly.
“You look like you’re freaking out,” Dawn said, crossing her arms. I still hadn’t lowered my bag from my shoulder. Because the moment I put it on the ground, time would resume, and this would be our room for the night. OUR room. And OUR bed. Fuck me.
“I AM freaking out. Do you not see the dilemma here?”
“They. . . forgot to fill our ice tray?”
My voice suddenly took a shrill tone. I was almost screeching to the point only bats and billionaire orphans could hear me.
“There’s only one bed!”
Dawn shrugged. Then a wicked grin overtook her lips.
“Oh, that’s no big deal. When we go to sleep tonight, we’ll both just shout, ‘No homo!’ in unison.”
I scowled at her with all my might, and the witch, as usual, deflected it.
“What’s the big deal? We’ve already slept together,” she said, her smile somehow growing more devious.
I stomped my foot.
“That was an accident!”
Dawn put her hands on her hips.
“No, you falling asleep before I fucked you silly was an accident. Us sleeping together during the movie was just a happy coincidence,” she said.
I stood there stammering all the more, looking for some loophole, argument, or comeback. All had forsaken me. Perhaps if I’d gotten more than two hours of sleep last night I could’ve come up with something.
But instead, my face turned the shade of a tomato, and Dawn slowly took my bag, setting it gently on the bed.
In my head, I let out one final shriek. FUCK!