Spike's Cartoons and Whinging

My coffee table has found JESUS.

...Or rather, found itself forcibly shellaced to Jesus over a three-day period this weekend. Matt took a few pictures before the last coat of varnish was applied.

Clicky-clicky for the unreasonably large version of this image.

I sometimes get handed religious tracts by street preachers and their glassy-eyed acolytes. I really, really doubt that anyone's ever been converted by these things, but they're not without value. Most of 'em have more than their share of hilarity, all of it unintentional. And unintentional humor is always the best kind.

There's something about the desperately earnest, froth-flecked ravings of maudlin, wobbily-drawn doodles that gets to me every time. I can just imagine the authors of the flyers laboring over their little cartoon everymen. Most of the drawings are horrible, sure, but you can't deny the sincerity. The creepy, overbearing sincerity.

I tried to get an decent variety of maniacs in the mix. The base is made up of pages from Michael, a psychotic Catholic propoganda rag from Quebec. It's the kinda paper that gets delivered to people's houses without them actually asking for it, and goes on a little too long about how Jesus Christ's first act upon his return to Earth will be the abolition of credit card debt. Take THAT, "International Bankers!"

GOD IS AN ALE-E-UM. Also: Clones.

Also puttin' in their appearances: Jews for Jesus, who regularly haunt downtown Chicago. The Jehovah's Witnesses, in English and Spanish. Those media darlings of the hour, the Raelians. Various and sundry Protestant and "Bible-Based" goofballs. A booklet from Chicago's very own clone farm, Moody Bible Institute, describing what your first seven days in Hell will be like. (Shakin' in my Chuck Taylors, fellas.) And my absolute favorite Christian denomination, UNMEDICATED SCHIZOPHRENIA.

No comment necessary...

This little gem was found in the Boston subway, and it's the centerpiece of the collection. If I remember Revelation correctly, what we're seeing here is The Whore of Babylon, complete with the "wine of fornication" (or possibly her booze, "the blood of saints"), captioned as "The Modern Union Between Church and State(?!?!?!)," flanked by plural-headed monstrosities labled as "Papal Rome," "The United States of America," and that ol' whipping boy of the ages, "Paganism." There was an email address scrawled onto the page, and a little Google detective work traced it to one Miss Shelley Senner, still quite active in a few windowlicker Yahoo groups (and apparently, married or once-married to a violin-maker). Search her name for extracurricular fun. Sadly, she doesn't seem to have a webpage.

Please, Lord... pay my taxes... and wash my van.

Also worth immortalizing: This flyer I got in the mail, advertising cheesy crucifix charms guaranteed to heap fortune upon the wearer. The text reads like the sermons from 1980s evangelical cable stations, casting honest-to-God miracles in the form of absurdly large inheritances, windfalls, and shiny new cars. Because apparently, once you get past all that "Bible" and "faith" crap, Jesus and Pat Sajak have a lot in common.

That's enough for now. Tomorrow: Back to drawing.

ROCKET SCIENTIST ALERT.

Oh, good. Overprotective parents are whinging about Adult Swim on Cartoon Network, the only block of decent animation for adults currently airing in the entire country. Super. Great. Cuz y'know, I didn't really like having my tastes finally catered to, anyway.

Apparently, this woman looked up from her needledrugs long enough to notice the "TV-PG" rating on FLCL / Furi Kuri / Fooly Cooly. I guess the implied "Decide for yourself whether or not your kids are ready for this" statement encapsulated in the rating wasn't enough for her. So now, she's calling the every imaginable special interest on CN for daring to make FLCL anything less than TV-MA.

OH NOES NOT THE ACLU!!! Tool.

In case you've never seen it, FLCL is... different. I won't try to explain the whole thing here, but it's weird, even for anime. Gas-powered guitars, an indestructible Vespa, an alien housemaid, and Medical Mechanica-brand robots misusing the portal between the hemispheres of an 11-year-old's brain. All I can say is that I recommend it. It's just violently strange, very atypical, and you either love it or despise it.

(PS: I <3 TV-Boy / Canti.)

It's because of people like this woman who feel the need to foam-pad the world that cartoons and comics for anyone over eighteen get so little play in the US, despite the fact that there's an enormous potential audience for them. Nobody wants to get sued because some worthless, oblivious parents let their kids watch TV unsupervised while they're out bar-hopping, and then have the nerve to be outraged when little Chandler brains baby Bratleigh with daddy's Fender.

The show was rated "Parental Guidance Suggested," was airing on a block called ADULT Swim, was recommended to her by 20-somethings, and was on in the middle of the fucking night. What more does she want? How much more obvious could it be? What was she expecting, the goddamn Care Bears?

Her stupidity is agonizing. I can't empathize with anyone this eager to get up in arms about the content of a cartoon that was clearly marked "Use your judgement when deciding whether or not to allow your kids to watch this show." It's like ignoring the R rating at a movie theater, and then being shocked by the bewbies and explosions you see when the lights go down.

I'm really, truly sorry it's not as easy as just setting the V-chip in your TV, lady. Yup, looks like you'll still have to actually pay attention to your kids. Be brave.

This is the kind of witch who gets comic shop owners busted on obscenity charges for having Cherry Poptart on the top rack... in the back of the store... behind a curtain... under a sign reading ADULTS ONLY NO KIDS BEYOND THIS POINT. Because gosh, she just can't believe they're trying to sell such filth to her precious children.

Control your kids. If you don't want them watching FLCL, fine. I don't blame you. It's completely inappropriate for children (and some younger teens), pretty out there, and probably wouldn't make much sense to little kids anyway. But if you can't deduce that from the fifteen flashing warning signs set up around it, I'm amazed you can work your television in the first place. OMG SO MANY SHINY BUTTONS.

(By the way: That wasn't a lollipop. It was a popsicle. And the scene lasted for all of three seconds. If she was reading sexual suggestions into that, she REALLY needs to get out more.)

Scribble scribble scribble VII.

These are the Elliots.

Elliot Jackson is on the left, Elliot Bigelow is on the right. They go by EJ and Bigelow respectively, but most folks just call 'em the Elliots.

EJ's a little run down after years of squatting and alcoholism, so he takes things slower these days. He lives in a shelter, stands on the corners most mornings looking for a day's work, and he's sorta-kinda in recovery. He figures he's a little too old for the game.

Bigs is a lot younger, and would probably be a nice guy, if he could stop getting into fights, telling outrageously unbelieveable lies, and drinking/smoking/shooting/snorting anything he can get his hands on. Nobody in his squat really likes him, since he likes to spend evenings bragging about that time he killed those eight Jamaicans in Palm Beach for pinching his swimsuit model girlfriend's ass... while trying to steal the shoelaces out of a squatmate's boots.

Besides their names, the Elliots don't have a lot in common. But being homeless is a lot safer when you use the buddy system.

The Eliotts squat in Skinner and don't know anyone else yet, although they would probably recognize Reagan. She walks through their part of town on the way to work, and she's hard to miss. Oh, and the Elliots have been recently cut off by Bloom. He doesn't extend credit.

Scribble scribble scribble VI.

Hey everybody, look! It's Morgan! Golly.

Morgan's from Nebraska, which explains the wardrobe. But to her credit, she usually does wear shoes. Usually.

When she was seven, Morgan asked her mom why it rained. Her mom said it was God crying for the sins of the world. Morgan didn't believe her, and went to look up the answer herself. Her curiousity about meteorology evolved into a fascination with astronomy. Now, she's one of those people who's pissed off that she's not living on the moon.

Stargazing from the center of a metropolis like Templar isn't possible, due to light pollution. She makes up for it by buying every book on astronomy she sees... And more recently, books on theology. She spend more time trying to reconcile the two that she probably should.

Still, she probably knows a lot more about the unified field theory and catastrophic star death than most administrative assistants.

Morgan's a little shy. She doesn't know anyone else, not yet. Ben knows about her, though, and she makes him pretty tingly.

It's Tuesday.

You ARE reading this week's Lucas and Odessa...

Aren't you?

Click the banner, folks.

Scribble scribble scribble V.

Consider Scipio.

Around and just after the Civil War, it became popular for emancipated slave families to name their male kids after ancient Roman figures of note. Why? Jesus, who knows. Like all fads, though, it eventually fell out of favor... but Scipio's family never stopped. Which explains Scip's Uncle Jupiter, cousins Nero and Augustus, and nephew Constantine.

Scipio himself is named after the general that flattened Carthage after the third Punic War. His name's properly pronounced "SIP-ee-oh", But "SKIP-ee-oh's" a little easier to get by with. Problem is, most folks want to turn it into "Skippy." Undignified.

That problem kinda fixed itself when he broke six and a half feet.

Scip's a nice enough guy, but... well... exhausting. He alphabetizes his canned goods, and thinks everything imaginable is a carcinogen. He likes to pick at lint that's not there. And I won't even bother trying to explain where he got that chicken. It's just too stupid to recount.

But you've got to admit, not too many guys can wear a black suede kilt with a gila monster sporran and get away with it.

Scipio lives with Epiphany. He's buddies with Gene, Ben, Sonny, and Reagan. He doesn't know Lorne, Eli, Bloom, or the Elliots. His mother is Astrid. She scares him.

Scribble scribble scribble IV.

This is Epiphany. Isn't that a pretty name? Too bad she prefers Pippi.

Pippi... Well, Pippi lives an unexamined life. You might know the type. She does what she feels like doing. Like setting her brother's hair on fire. And kicking holes in drywall that doesn't belong to her.

The principal told her not to come to school anymore, which is fine with her. She doesn't like school. She likes TV. TV and cigarettes. Sometimes, she even likes her boyfriend, Scipio.

Pippi isn't friends with anyone except her little sister, Trinity. She hates Reagan, because she's fat. She hates Gene, because he's stupid. She hates Zora, because she's a kid. She hates Lorne, because he's a smart-ass. She hates Bloom, because he doesn't give freebies. She hates Curio, because she's rich. And she wants to beat the crap out of Ben, simply because she probably could.

FYI

Just so no one gets their feelings hurt: Today is mail-answerin' day. I'm very, very far behind, and I know it. It's not personal; I've been ignoring everyone. So keep your shirts on, kids. You should have an answer inside 24 hours. Thanks for giving me so much to do.

Scribble scribble scribble III.

This is Eli. Hi, Eli.

Eli's a stockbroker. He should be pretty well-off, but he's not. He says that's because his ex-wife is vicious, gold-digging cunt, but I'm sure that's just the gin talking.

He's sort of sensitive these days, but that's okay. The firm talked the intern he threw that fax machine at out of suing, and everyone else is pretty much used to Eli breaking their coffee mugs when the market gets bearish. He makes them all lots and lots of money, so they don't mind. But they try to make sure he's not in the office when important clients drop by.

Eli refuses to talk to any of his neighbors, except for Ben. He thinks they're all criminals or morons. Or both.

(Drawing old characters is fun. I think I'm getting nostalgic.)

Scribble scribble scribble II.

Who's for seconds?

This is Gene and his daughter, Zora.

Gene plays guitar. Gene never stops smiling. Gene's a few shades dumber than your average twelve-year-old. Umbilical cord nooses can do that, sometimes.

Gene can't read music, can't remember what he had for breakfast, and can't really read or write past a third grade level, but he has perfect pitch, composes unusually difficult music and could commit an opera to memory. He's funny that way.

He's friends with Reagan, Curio, and Scipio. He thinks Ben's a genius. He thinks Eli's a little creepy. He thinks Epiphany is from Hell. He's lost Bloom's number.

And don't worry too much about Zora. They have an understanding that she can't smoke out with Dad 'till she's old enough to roll her own.

Scribble scribble scribble.

Goodness, just look at the state of you. You haven't had a sketch in ages. Tsk. Well, I've got just the thing for that.

This is Reagan. She likes Hammer films, Faces of Death videos, and clothes entirely too small for her. She dislikes haircuts.

Last Halloween, she was Female Trouble Divine. Halloween before last, she was Pink Flamingos Divine. Next Halloween, she's going as Hairspray Divine.

Reagan works the night shift at KINGDOM CUM, an adult novelty shop in the Skinner neighborhood of Templar, Arizona. The bat belongs to the store.

She knows Ben, Scipio, and Gene. She doesn't know Eli, Lorne, Bloom, or the Elliots. She wishes she didn't know Curio or Epiphany. You'll meet all of them later.

My test-tube babies be kickin' it OLD SCHOOL.

HAHAHA HOLY SHIT Look what I found!

Modeled beautifully by Matt, th' gentleman friend: An honest-to-Black-Baby-Jeebus homunculus t-shirt.

Left over from our experiments with screenprinting from God knows how long ago, I was entirely sure we'd sold all of these to a shop called The Garment District in Boston, Mass. But lo and behold; A scant handful of 'em seem to have escaped our notice. Until I cleaned out the closet a couple days ago, that is. And there they were, wrapped in plastic and pristine as they day they were printed. Blast from the fuckin' past, I can tell you that.

I don't have many, but I'll stick 'em up in the $$$ section when I have time. And, uh, when I figure out how much I was chargin' for 'em, back then.

Aren't I just the little businesslady....

Going, going...

If you've been thinking of ordering a Con Pack or an issue of SOLID!, folks, you should probably do it soon. I'm nearly out of issues, business is pretty brisk. I may be able to weasel a few more comps out of my editor, but I can't really promise anything. First come, first served.

Atrocity Tourism: Dismount!

Don't believe the hype. Americans haven't cornered the market on simulated, malicious violence.

Dismount!, a Finnish project, was initially limited to Stairs Dismount; A simple physics toy that allowed the player to shove a floppy mannequin down a flight of stairs. Force, speed, and angle of the push could be customized, and points were awarded in accordance with the severity of the damage inflicted. The new game, Truck Dismount, smashes a truck into a wall. If you're lucky, you can flip the mannequin out of the cab and have the truck land on him for a super-high score.

Simple, weird, fun. Download,enjoy. And remember, extra points are awarded for head injuries.

Second best idea ever.

There should be a line of make-up designed to make the wearer look like they've just had the crap kicked out of them. They could call it Shiner.

Dudes who wouldn't dream of wearing eye shadow could carefully paint on a false black eye before they hit the club. Art students and poets could make their symbolic torment by inner demons physical, in the form of congealed bits of fake blood around the nostrils and lips. Phony stitches would be a little harder to pull off, but press-on scabs could be all the rage.

All the appearance of suffering and vicitmization, without any of the actual pain. Bet it would go over big online.

Freaks Sketchbook WIP - Christan and Charity, Final.

Dum de dum dum dum.

Verdict: S'okay. B-minus/C-plus. I know I can do better. But this picture's important; It means the project's officially moved from the planning stage to the "in progress" stage. That's a nice feeling.

Next up: Nik-Nik the Coney Boy. Stay tuned.

I have the best idea ever.

Read the following very, very closely. Because when it becomes a billion dollar business and an international institution, you'll know: You heard it here first.

PORN. WRESTLING.

Someone should found the World Porn Federation. The WPF.

The WPF would be like the WWF, but with show-fucking instead of play-wrestling. So it would be a weekly porn shoot with soap opera intermissions, where everyone's interviewed and gets to talk shit about everyone else, and forge porn alliances, or make porn adversaries, drop and hire managers, that kind of thing. There would be the good porn stars who stand for truth, justice, and multiple orgasms, and the evil porn stars, who always finish first and won't give head and take too much Viagra. And all their "fights" would be oleaginous sex scenes, after which loyalties would switch, and everyone would badmouth everyone else's technique, and there would be instant replays on all the facials.

And there could be Pay-Per-View live events. Like RAW. You wouldn't even have to change the name. Hell, most porn stars wanna act anyway, right?

Tell me this wouldn't work.

Atrocity Tourism: Tolyn's Journal.

As I've mentioned before, I have no interest in most Livejournals.

Livejournals are completely goddamn boring, because most people are completely goddamn boring. That's just a fact. I'm boring, you're boring, we're boring. Very few people have something of interest, importance and gravity to say every single day of their lives.

Fortunately, there's Tolyn.

Tolyn's offline name is Sergeant Coats, of the Oakland Housing Authority Police Department. He's a cop, and he lives in a great, big housing project in California. As you can imagine, his life's pretty entertaining, if not to experience, then certainly to read about. Drug busts, Jedi Mind Tricks, tranny hookers, and hypeheads shooting smack where he walks his dog.

He's a bit of a cynic, but I suppose after ten years in the ghetto, you'd kinda have to be.

Atrocity Tourism: Amy's Taxidermy.

Amy Ritchie plays with dead things. And that's just fine by me.

I first heard about Amy when she was interviewed on the WFMU show Thunk Tank. She does taxidermy, mostly small animals. That isn't unusual, a lot of people do hobby taxidermy. It's just that those people are usually old. And male. Amy's neither.

I wish I'd had a hobby like this when I was in junior high.

Anyway, make sure to check out her rat-skinning photos. They're giving me ideas. I own two pet rats, and I plan on somehow desecrating them after their deaths. Initially, I wanted to mummify them, if only for the challenge of having to carve them little sarcophagi. But with such detailed instructions for the taking online, I might have to change my mind.

Wish I could think of something I could actually use a rat skin for...

*@$!(*@%!!!

So.

That worm going around? The one that exploits a security hole the size of a mountain in the Windows NT/XP family?

Guess who got it.

No, not me. I'm still running '98. But Matt, the boyfriend... yeah.

In case you didn't know, this thing, this MSBLAST thing, allows script-kiddie shitheads to get into your machine and look around a bit. And erase stuff. And leave stuff behind. Sort of sucks. Especially since the only way to fix everything is a reformat and reinstall.

But fortunately, we caught it in time to prevent the hack. He just got the worm, which I guess is just hacker prep-work. After about four hours, we got rid of it. Pretty scary for a minute there, though. Yeah, yeah, we should have had a firewall up, but the one I installed a few weeks ago wasn't playin' nice with Direct Connect (omg warez).

So, yeah. Anyone running NT or XP: UPDATE, folks. We got off lucky. A lot of people aren't gonna.

And we've got Christian to thanks for saving our asses, too. So give 'im a few hits, wouldja?

Freaks Sketchbook WIP - Christian and Charity, Finished Pencils.

Bum chicka bow wow.

I can see a problem with the shoulder on the right only just now, but beyond that, this is ready for ink. Wait'll I completely ruin this. You'll be amazed once I'm done, it's look like a palsy patient's been at it.

That thing above Christian's waistband, by the way, is Charity's right hand. Most of her arm is buried in Christian's body.

Freaks Sketchbook WIP - Christian and Charity, the United Twins.

Finished this just now; first rough for the first image.

Christian is the male. Charity is the dwarfish female protruding from his side. They're twins. Take a minute and harken back to high school biology, and you'll pretty much figure it out for yourself why they qualify as impossible.

Their clothing is roughly mid-1850s, referenced from photographs in the online archives of the Library of Congress. Charity's bad case of "midget face" was copped from Lavinia Warren, famous circus midget and bride of General Tom Thumb, another midget of note.

Fun facts, now: Charity's what they call a parasitic twin. Carnies called them "one-and-a-halfs," and they usually consisted of one fully formed twin and the deformed limbs of a second sticking out from somewhere, like extra arms and legs. Cases of the head of the parasitic twin being outside the host twin's body have been reported, but they're uniformly stunted in size (like Charity) and permanently comatose (unlike Charity).

Christian is a rough-and-tumble type. Note the surly expression and missing eye. Charity is a teetotaling, pious lass. But it's sort of pointless the refuse liquor when you share a liver with a boozehound.

Okay, shutting up now. Next time you see this, it'll be as the final pencils on bristol.

I have no idea how I managed to water damage this.

Fun bonus extra, now: The "original" to the new Sketchbook image.

I found this thing while clearing out a pile of originals from beside the bookcase. It was too much of a wrinkly mess to try to save, but I liked the design on the clothing too much to trash, so I just recreated it.

Betini's from BLIKADA, a comic I'll probably never do. You know how it goes. Details here and here.

Oh, and I've decided I'm gonna go ahead with the FREAKS sketchbook. I've made a list of ten subjects; each gets one extremely detailed ink portrait, and maybe a page of pencil sketches to supplement. The three I'll be posting works-in-progress reports and images for publicly: Juliette the Ape-Girl of Eddington, Christian and Charity, the United Twins, and Nik-Nik the Coney Boy. You also get to hear me drone on endlessly about why, exactly, each one qualifies as "impossible." What fun! Stay tuned.

I like to pretend that this bothers me.

They're shooting another movie outside. The wardrobe truck is parked out on the corner.

There are a lot of movie and television shoots in my neighborhood. ER episodes are pretty common. Ben Affleck inflicted something called Surviving Christmas on the block last winter, and I spent most of the night listening to the hordes of fangirls outside the apartment building squeal every time he twitched.

There's no notice or shooting permit taped to the building's foyer windows, which is odd. There usually is.

My only hint of what this might be about would be the famous guy I walked by on the way to the post office. I'm not good with celebrities, but I've seen him before. Black hair, doughy sort of face, squinty eyes. Can't remember his name. I think he's played an incompetant mob hitman in one or two movies. Maybe.

Senility ay 24, folks. Doesn't get any better than this.

Calling all Comic Book Wannabes...

Dark Horse wants YOU.

In case you didn't know, one of the bigger names in comics is doing a cattle call for new submissions. Time to put your money where your mouth is.

You've got until December.

So I've been thinking...

Ever since Comic-Con, when I saw the digest-sized "sketchbooks" Karen and Clio had for sale, I've been sort of considering something similar.

I like circus freaks. Lots. And I wanna make a sketchbook full of 'em. Original ones. Ones that couldn't possibly exist.

Like this guy, who I've decided was hanged for murder, awakened in the middle of a dissection at a medical college, miraculously survived the removal of most of his organs, and now exhibits himself as The Flayed Man. He stuffs his trousers with cheesecloth to keep 'em up; He doesn't have the flesh necessary to constitute a waistline.

I like the idea of a some nicely-inked, portrait-style illustrations, maybe with short blurbs of carny-talk text, packaged as a booklet. I'd call it FREAK: A Collection of Celebrated Prodigies.

Tell me if this is a stupid idea. Because otherwise, I'm probably gonna do it.

Scribbles!

Frank Villarreal drew me. So special. Dig that fabulous blowout comb. I've never been quite so Plympton-esque.

Unfortunately, he was eaten by Saucer Nazis seconds later for the crime of being brown.

I miss him.

OMG! WEBLOG!

Yeah, so I'm an even bigger tool, now. The front page is officially a "blog." Shameful, I know. Try and soldier through.

In case you're curious, I'm using some freeware CGI code called Moveable Type. It came highly recommended, and I can see why. Easy to use, and hey, look: Comments! Finally, I can know just how truly alone I am when no one ever bothers to remark on anything I ever say. Sob.

So really, this thing's kinda like a Livejournal, now. Except I won't be taking any moronic quizzes, because I'm not under the delusion that you care about what My Little Pony I am, or what level of Hell I would be damned to, or which character from The Matrix I should be. And everything's local, because the thought of depending on anyone else's server gives me hives. And, uhm, I don't pay for it. And it's actually pretty good-looking. And I can say whatever the fuck I want about anything I like without getting dropped from the service. So... you know. But other than all that, yeah, totally a Livejournal.

But hey, while I'm explaning myself: To everyone who ordered schwag this weekend, I'm very, very sorry, but I couldn't ship your orders Saturday. The post office is closed then, much to my surprise. Your shit'll go out Monday, cross my heart... with a lil' somethin' extra for your patience.