Sir Clarkington cruises around his production complex barefoot, in blue shorts and a gray tank top, at a solid 210. His wavy, dark blonde hair, speckled with silver and trimmed tight to the sides of his head, is pulled down past his shoulders in a ponytail. He seems to be everywhere at once, moving quickly about, with the bottoms of his feet getting blacker as the day unfolds. It's another 14-hour workday, and the battle is on, as Clark navigates his way through the compound intricacies of non-linear editing, 37-digit memorizations, and brisk catwalks across towering iron scaffolds.

But then the moon appears and our man takes a brief pause for the cause...reappearing with a warm glass of saki and smiling like a great white through a bottomless menagerie of road stories. A few of us gather 'round for tonight's selection, which often have a familiar theme:

Blurry nights in faraway lands, senoritas a-plenty, and barroom squabbles precipitated by gallons of imported brew, served in an endless parade of thick mugs. Then, 2:00 AM brings the whirling red lights of the locals, as Clark and company hastily leave behind a pile of doormen or rowdy barflies, in an assemblage of disorientated mutterings, bubbling out of bloodied mouths and noses.

But it's all in good fun.

Mix a little Scottish whiskey with German rum and Canadian beer for a radically eclectic bloodline, and what do you expect? A "We are the World" Diplomat of International Relations to Afghanistan? I think not.

Instead, we have my logical answer to the following hypothetical: If you had to fight your way out of a bar of ornery bikers, and you could choose only one person to assist you with this messy task - of all the people you have ever met - who would it be?

For me, that's easy - bring in Sir Clarkington and lets' throw some fists, elbows and feet as we dance our way out of this maze of bearded hoodlums. Let's use chairs, bottles and their weapons against them, as beer guts, protruding like basketballs through Harley t-shirts, ricochet around us in a crossfire of unconsciousness. Of course, we do have to take a few shots, as well. But as tendons snap and knuckles shatter against his granite jaw, my man will not fall. It's an awesome display of will. Clark will not let me down for he innately has all the snarling resolve of a starving Rottweiller.

Then as we victoriously reach the neon street Nirvana outside, we run laughing down a desolate alley out back, gutter water splashing in our wake, as the piercing drone of the whirling reds fades into the distance...and I follow my bro into another friendly neighborhood bar for a nightcap.

We sit casually among a stiff assortment of "old money" patrons as the tinkerings of some Dean Martin classic crackles away on a vintage jukebox. The bow-tied bartender (reluctantly) serves Clark his vodka and me my virgin bloody Mary with the mechanical ambivalence of a mortician...and a smirk. Clark spares him a beating.

Instead, I listen as the invisible gears and complex cluster of wires fire freely behind his forehead. He explains, with the articulation of a nuclear physicist, the particulars of his latest innovation. Something about how this three terabyte server can store motion capture files from the Avid through a prototype auto-save function...or something like that. I nod approvingly.

He tilts his head back and downs the last of his drink, then slams the glass firmly against the bar. Its baseball bat crack serves as a not-so-subtle cue for our undertaker to rush over for a refill. Wisely, he does. But in this moment, there is no hint of malice or irritation in my man's face...and little trace of the 30-something years of brawling and boozing. For Sir Clarkington is at once a transcendent amalgamation of science, art, and unwavering friendship; a loyal soul, brilliant mind and massive heart in a gladiator's body.

Our Creator must have some sense of humor...

Now Clark gets the last laugh.