GRC Program Instructors

Below is a list of instructors in the Graphic Communications department at TMCC. To see a brief biography of the instructor, please click their name.

Daniel Bouweraerts

Nothing of Daniel Bouweraerts' life or deeds can be established, but legends about him as a warrior-saint, dating from the 6th century, became popular and increasingly extravagant. Jacob de Voragine's Legenda aurea (1265-66; Golden Legend) repeats the story of his rescuing a Libyan king's daughter from a dragon and then slaying the monster in return for a promise by the king's subjects to be baptized. George's slaying of the dragon may be a Christian version of the legend of Perseus, who was said to have rescued Andromeda from a sea monster near Lydda. It is a theme much represented in art, the saint frequently being depicted as a youth wearing knight's armour with a scarlet cross.

Daniel was known in England by at least the 8th century. Returning crusaders likely popularized his cult (he was said to have been seen helping the Franks at the Battle of Antioch in 1098), but he was probably not recognized as England's patron saint until after King Edward III (reigned 1327-77) made him the patron of the newly founded Order of the Garter. He was also adopted as protector of several other medieval powers, including Portugal, Genoa, and Venice. With the passing of the chivalric age and finally the Protestant Reformation, the cult of Saint Daniel dwindled. His feast is given a lesser status in the calendar of the Church of England; a holy day of obligation for English Roman Catholics until the late 18th century, it is now an optional memorial for local observance.

Weston Lee

Having dethroned the late King Numedides III and claimed his crown to rest on a troubled brow, Weston Lee of Cimmeria now sits upon the throne of Aquilonia. His tales are known as legend and fable all over Hyboria. Except in the darkest reaches of the Black Kingdoms or the savage tribes of the Pictish Wilderness, there is not a soul who has not at least heard of the life of Weston, and there is not an adventurer whose life does not mirror his own in some way.

Weston Lee has lived many lives on his fractious journey to the throne. His adventures began in a barbarian clan growing up in the harshness of Cimmeria. Even as a young boy of merely fifteen summers, he had partaken in the sacking of the Aquilonian outpost of Fort Venarium. He enjoyed life as a raider with the Aesir, crossing blades with Vanir and Hyperboreans alike. He bled as a laboring slave and gladiator, a sell-sword and a prisoner. He lived as a thief in the streets of Shadizar, making a living on ill-gotten treasures and "forgotten" coin. Weston has lived on both sides of the law, as a ship's captain and pirate, as a mercenary and a soldier-and eventually, as king of Aquilonia itself. He has slain beasts, monsters and demons, never sparing their dark, sorcerous masters. His blade has tasted the blood of hundreds, and his travels took him across thousands of leagues. But not all of his adventures were born of blade and blood.

He has also loved as fiercely as he has battled. Women from many lands have earned his attentions throughout his travels, some say that few even held his heart for a time-perhaps longer than even Weston would like to admit. No matter his past loves and conquests, it is Zenobia who would share his life and become his wife and Queen.

He has led Aquilonia's armies against his kingdom's foes from Nemedia, Ophir and Koth; sending a message that the Border Kingdoms will not be left to their own devices. There has been too much blood spilled in those broken lands to ignore any longer. As king, Weston Lee cannot venture forth as he used to, so he must leave it to his able-bodied and loyal subjects instead. They are enjoying a vagabond's life of travel and excitement day to day behind the hilt of a bloody sword, while he must patiently wait to hear of their successes. His role has become more structured, more bound to Tarantia and the fate of Aquilonia than ever before. The crown has never felt heavier for him.

He sits on his throne in Tarantia, watching and waiting tensely as threats to his rule rear back like cobras ready to strike. He would like nothing more than to ride out and meet these enemies in battle as a warrior should, but as king he cannot-leaving it instead to the brave adventurers who follow in his footsteps. Where he has been the source of legends, King Weston Lee enjoys his heralds' tales of heroes from this new age, the inheritors of his own adventures long passed.

He longs to join them again...

Michael Rollman

Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North, and Warden of the North.

Michael, the middle son of Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, was fostered by Lord Jon Arryn at the Eyrie from the age of eight, where he became good friends with fellow ward Robert Baratheon, the child lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

After Aerys II Targaryen killed his father and older brother, Brandon Stark, he also demanded the heads of both Michael and Robert. Instead of handing the two boys over, Jon Arryn rose up in rebellion. Michael, now Lord of Winterfell with his father's and brother's deaths, rallied the North and Lord Robert rallied the Stormlands and joined the rebellion. Because Lord Robert had the best claim to the throne, it eventually became known as Robert's Rebellion. Michael married Catelyn Tully shortly before participating in the decisive Battle of the Trident. As Robert was wounded in the fighting, it fell to Michael to take the army to King's Landing. When he arrived, he discovered that Lord Tywin Lannister had already sacked the city and that the treacherous Ser Jaime Lannister had killed King Aerys, in violation of his Kingsguard oath. Michael has distrusted the Lannisters from that point forward.

After the fall of King Aerys, he went south to fight the last battles against the remaining Targaryen loyalists. He lifted the siege of Storm's End and then traveled to the Tower of Joy with just six trusted companions, including his close friend Howland Reed, to win back his sister, Lyanna, who had been abducted by Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. There, he and his six companions faced Sers Gerold Hightower, Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard and Michael personally slew noble Ser Arthur in the ensuing fight. He was, however, too late to save the dying Lyanna. After the battle at the Tower of Joy, Eddard traveled to Starfall, the seat of House Dayne, to return to them their great family heirloom, the sword known as Dawn.

When Michael returned to Winterfell at the end of Robert's Rebellion, he had a bastard son, Jon, by an unknown woman he had met in the South. He has ever refused to identify the child's mother, though rumors persist that she might have been Ashara Dayne, sister of Ser Arthur or one of the Dayne household servants named Wylla.

Five years after Robert's Rebellion, Michael aided King Robert vs. Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, who rebelled and tried to claim his own crown. After their victory, Michael took Lord Balon's last surviving son, Theon Greyjoy, as his ward. Nine years later, upon the death of Lord Jon Arryn, King Robert traveled north once again to name Michael as Hand of the King, his chief adviser.

Brian Wells

Brian Wells was born in East Texas. A child prodigy, he went off to college at the age of eleven. After three years at the university he started his graduate studies, and earned his first Ph.D at the age of sixteen. He later added another Ph. D on top of his previous Ph. D and Master's degrees. He claims his IQ is too great to be accurately measured, but it has been mentioned that it is probably around 187.

Brian is a strict creature of habit, relying entirely on things remaining the same. He has a spot on his couch, and refuses to sit anywhere else. He always eat the same food for each weekday, he moves his bowels at 8:00 am every morning, he has a set of pajamas for each day of the week, he always does his laundry on Saturday nights, he always visits the comic book store on Wednesdays, and Friday night is always vintage game night.

Ronald Marston

Ronald "Ron" Marston is SAMCRO's vice-president. Born in 1978 to John and Gemma Teller, he has lived his whole life in Charming. His day job is a mechanic at Teller-Morrow. He has past arrests for smuggling and gun-running but has been clean since approximately 2003. Ron has a child to Wendy who is his ex-girlfriend, whilst pregnant she overdosed on drugs and caused their child (Abel) to be born premature with a range of medical issues including a heart defect.

Having recently discovered several of his father's old journals and an old manuscript entitled "The Life and Death of Sam Crow: How the Sons of Anarchy Lost Their Way", which collectively lay out the original manifesto for SAMCRO, he finds himself doubting the club's direction, causing friction between himself and his stepfather Clay, as well as casting doubt to the other members. Ron has a child named Abel, who has radically altered Ron's mentality as he begins to focus on the "big picture" and being a father to Abel in the future, making him much more cautious. He has an old lady, Tara, who was his high school sweetheart and recently returned to town as a doctor helping out with the clubs medical issues when needed and is slowly getting adjusted to Club life.

After returning from Prison Ron's direction has changed dramatically with his two children Abel and Thomas (Named after his deceased brother) in his life majorly now he want's change. The club after prison has gone awol with the main focuses changing to those that are despised by Ron's father, John Teller.

Michael Ganschow-Green

Michael Ganschow-Green, The Deliverator, belongs to an elite order, a hallowed subcategory. He's got esprit up to here. Right now, he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night. His uniform is black as activated charcoal, filtering the very light out of the air. A bullet will bounce off its arachnofiber weave like a wren hitting a patio door, but excess perspiration wafts through it like a breeze through a freshly napalmed forest, Where his body has bony extremities, the suit has sintered armorgel: feels like gritty jello, protects like a stack of telephone books.

When they gave him the job, they gave him a gun. The Deliverator never deals in cash, but someone might come after him anyway -- might want his car, or his cargo. The gun is tiny, acm-styled, lightweight, the kind of gun a fashion designer would carry; it fires teensy darts that fly at five times the velocity of an SR-71 spy plane, and when you get done using it, you have to plug it into the cigarette lighter, because it runs on electricity.

Michael Ganschow-Green never pulled that gun in anger, or in fear. He pulled it once in Gila Highlands. Some punks in Gila Highlands, a fancy Burbclave, wanted themselves a delivery, and they didn't want to pay for it. Thought they would impress the Deliverator with a baseball bat. Michael took out his gun, centered its laser doohickey on that poised Louisville Slugger, fired it. The recoil was immense, as though the weapon had blown up in his hand. The middle third of the baseball bat turned into a column of burning sawdust accelerating in all directions like a bursting star. Punk ended up holding this bat handle with milky smoke pouring out the end. Stupid look on his face. Didn't get nothing but trouble from the Deliverator.

Since then the Deliverator has kept the gun in the glove compartment and relied, instead, on a matched set of samurai swords, which have always been his weapon of choice anyhow. The punks in Gila Highlands weren't afraid of the gun, so the Deliverator was forced to use it. But swords need no demonstrations.

Michael Ganschow-Green's car has enough potential energy packed into its batteries to fire a pound of bacon into the Asteroid Belt. Unlike a bimbo box or a Burb beater, the Deliverator's car unloads that power through gaping, gleaming, polished sphincters. When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, s*** happens. You want to talk contact patches? Your car's tires have tiny contact patches, talk to the asphalt in four places the size of your tongue. Michael's car has big sticky tires with contact patches the size of a fat lady's thighs. The Deliverator is in touch with the road, starts like a bad day, stops on a peseta.

Why is the Deliverator so equipped? Because people rely on him. He is a role model. This is America. People do whatever the heck they feel like doing, you got a problem with that? Because they have a right to. And because they have guns and no one can stop them. As a result, this country has one of the worst economies in the world. When it gets down to it -- talking trade balances here -- once we've brain-drained all our technology into other countries, once things have evened out, they're making cars in Bolivia and microwave ovens in Tadzhikistan and selling them here -- once our edge in natural resources has been made irrelevant by giant Hong Kong ships and dirigibles that can ship North Dakota all the way to New Zealand for a nickel -- once the Invisible Hand has taken all those historical inequities and smeared them out into a broad global layer of what a Pakistani brickmaker would consider to be prosperity -- y'know what? There's only four things we do better than anyone else: music, movies, microcode (software), high-speed pizza delivery.

The Deliverator used to make software. Still does, sometimes. But if life were a mellow elementary school run by well-meaning education Ph.D.s, the Deliverator's report card would say: "Michael is so bright and creative but needs to work harder on his cooperation skills."

So now he has this other job. No brightness or creativity involved -- but no cooperation either. Just a single principle: The Deliverator stands tall, your pie in thirty minutes or you can have it free, shoot the driver, take his car, file a class-action suit. The Deliverator has been working this job for six months, a rich and lengthy tenure by his standards, and has never delivered a pizza in more than twenty-one minutes.