November 2003 Archives

Much like the mirage of a puddle wavering into being in a dip on a Death Valley freeway, Joey Manley, founder and head guy of the Modern Tales family, materialized in Chicago and asked a few of his cartoonists out to dinner yesterday. We said yes; we, being Tim, Dirk, Matt, and myself, along with a handful of tagging-along types who we subsequently bored into comas. (Sorry, guys.) We talked art, artists, empire-building, and other pitiable nerd babble till the wee hours. It was the kind of unapologetic wallowing that I could really appreciate. Miraculously, I think we all might have come away feeling pretty good about the state of comics in general. Our stake in comics, anyway.

Comics, and I suppose all entrenched businesses, are a little notorious for their reluctance to recognize and adjust to change. And change is happening. A translated, American version of Shonen Jump, a fat, weekly newsprint anthology of manga available everywhere from grocery stores to Barnes & Noble, is outselling the biggest glossy, monthly, direct market 24-to-32-pager four times over. Modern Tales keeps expanding; more sites, more subscribers. Unaffiliated sites with similar business models are popping up, too. And Chris Ware continues to move obscene amounts of books, reportedly with very little help from the direct market (comic book shops) at all.

Are comic shops themselves obselete? Is the direct market doomed? No, I wouldn't say that. But what I do think may be on the way is the welcome switch from comics as fetishistic preoccupation to comics as entertainment.

Kinda pointless to bag-n-board every week's Shonen Jump, and you're probably not gonna find The Acme Novelty Library in the latest price guide. Frankly, I like that. I like it a lot.

Comics are meant to be read. They're not investments, they're pleasant distractions, on par with television and novels. That's just what I feel. The obsession with the medium itself, and the insular, standoffish culture that obsession's spawned, have probably done more harm than the fans and publishers will ever realize. Never mind the absurd special edition foil hologram covers, the rising cover prices, the company-wide crossovers, the complete disregard of and failure to cater to younger readers, the obsessive preoccupation with a single genre, et cetera. If more people don't read comics, it's not because comics in general aren't worth reading. It reminds me a little of Disney producing reams of horrible, poorly-received feature-length cartoons, working the same angle over and over again with less ability each time in the face of diminishing returns, and then blaming the technique (2-D animation) instead of the process (over-management quagmire) for all the bad reviews. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Anyway, webcomics are a good place to be, these days. Stepchildren of the industry, sure. But I have my audience, and I have my dumb stories to tell. That's really all I gave a shit about in the first place.

In conclusion.... some people in Kentucky are blue. That is so funky. (Thanks for the tip-off, Joey.)

So Dylan wrote this thing on webcomics burnout for Comixpedia, one of those sites I really ought to visit more regularly, but keep managing to forget about. It's pretty good. Read it, if you can get a chance. It's over here.

I've see this happen a few times, on the Modern Tales websites and on the 'net in general. Creator burnout, that is. It's never pretty. Print comics suffer from the same phenomenon, but people always seem to be far more forgiving if a deadwood issue of a comic never comes out than if a webpage stops updating. Maybe it has something to do with the instant gratification so many Internet types are used to. Or maybe it's because the cost of a print comic is in the thousands, and webhosting for an online comic ranges from free to a pittance monthly, unless you're unreasonably successful. You can be forgiven for being poor, it seems, but not for being uninspired. I'm sure both online and deadwood readers complain when their favorite funnybook fails to materialize, but the instant accessibility of an online artist to his or her fans means they're a lot more likely to hear that bitching firsthand. Which, really, isn't doing the artist any favors.

Comics are hard enough. Your own fans shouldn't work against you.

This is IMPORTANT.

A couple of months ago, I installed a mailwasher called SpamPal. for the most part, it worked. HOWEVER. It's been labeling some email from my Paypal account as spam/scam-mail, and thus, has been deleting them from the server without me ever having seen them. I'm absolutely certain it's doing this. I though it only happened once or twice, but now, I really don't know. Which sucks.

If you've ordered anything from me since late September and haven't gotten it, WRITE ME AND LET ME KNOW. I've reset SpamPal so that it dumps all mail into a folder and simply flags the shit it thinks is spam, and I've reduced its aggression level. You should get through, and I'll whitelist you when you do. I apologize for this, you'll all get nifty free shit to make up for the wait. I'm incompetent, but I ain't stingy.

Drop a line, K?

I JUST DON'T KNOW WHEN TO STOP, DO I?

I keep picturing Maira waking up and crying after realizing Drim's gone, completely overwhelmed with the stark realization she should have never gone to that frat party.

"Sob, sob. JERK! He didn't even stay for breakfast! He probably thinks I'm a WHORE now!"

And exactly what kinda goddamn jerk would I be if I didn't help plug m'buddy Tony's newest comic venture?

A big one, I'll betcha. Yup.

Rat Boy of He is Just a Rat fame is back in print with a new story, Rat and the Beanstalk. Catch the premiere and fall worshipfully at Tony's feet at the Toronto Comic Jam with DJ Stardust Dakota, on Tuesday, November 25th, from 7:00 to 9:00 pm at the Cameron House at 408 Queen St. West, Toronto. Draw, drink, and dance inexpertly, and help Tony unload a few issues of his new book! Hell, I wish I could go...

So lonely...

In other news, I got spammed again, so I've installed MT-Blacklist. I'll letcha know how well it works as dickhead repellent in a week or so.

So there's the guy named Matt.

I suspect he's a bodhisattva, but we won't get into that. It's very complicated and neither of us have the time, I'm sure. What we will discuss is his shyness.

Matt is very shy. Especially with his photography, which is strange, because it's just so beautiful. I'll occasionally torment him about posting it somewhere where someone other than me can see it, but he'll usually just mutter something about never having the time to do that, and then go back to reading Internet forums for two hours straight.

So I'm posting the pictures for him. Make sure to email him and tell them how transcendent you think they are.

Since I'll be marrying the guy in December, I'm perfectlly willing to admit I may be a little biased. But you can't tell me that he doesn't have a knack for making the most mundane or unpleasant things absolutely riveting. He likes to photograph oilspots in parking spaces and elevator floors, too. But these six are probably my favorites. Enjoy. And makes sure to tell him he should have prints made.

OH SWEET MOTHER OF GOD YES.

YES. YES. YES. It doesn't even EXIST yet and I already LOVE IT.

Too bad Clowes already used the tampon-in-a-teacup gag in Ghost World, though. But as a fellow victim of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, I somehow doubt he's out of horror stories.

For those of you who need background: Find yourself a copy of the "Art School Confidential" story from Dan Clowes' Eightball. All will be revealed. Gloriously, gloriously revealed.

See?

True, Sparkneedle's only just started rolling, and I'm sure I'll disappoint everyone horribly before it's finished, but wow. I couldn't dream of a better endorsement. Thanks, Scott. I'm flattered I'm even on your radar.

So whatta the rest of ya waitin' for? Read it, already!

The first actual pages of Sparkneedle went up about twenty-one minutes ago.

There's pubic hair.

Take a look here.

Most everyone whith a passing interest in American comics is familiar with Dr. Fredric Wertham's medium-annihilating masterpiece, Seduction of the Innocent. Few people can ever really be blamed for single-handedly detroying an entire artform, but Fred managed it, during the height of McCarthyism and the Cold War, by blaming comics for juvenile delinquency, illiteracy, immoral behavior, the promotion of violence, and the glorification of homosexuality via Batman and Robin. (also, by holding Wonder Woman responsible for inspiring lesbianism in her female readers. Sufferin' Sappho!)

Despite a government inquiry that determined that rates of juvenile delinquency had actually fallen in the past few years while comic sales rose, piles of comics were burned in bonfires, entire genres (crime, horror, and romance especially) went extinct, the Comics Code Authority was formed, and publishers turned to the only "safe" comics there were left to publish; garish, simplistic superhero mags and insipid gag comics. Wertham's rabble-rousing, alarmist offal is still name-dropped today by in-the-know members of other threatened media, such as video games and the Internet, as a cautionary tale against the dangers of mass hysteria, the self-perpetuating momentum of moral indignation, and the child-proofing of popular culture.

Simply put, Wertham was an asshole. And he damn near killed comics.

You can download chapter-by-chapter zip files of his infamously froth-mouthed, wild-eyed ravings online here. I've already read this pile of landfill chow, so I can give crazy old man Fred a personal recommendation. Make sure not to miss his obsessive analysis of how close Batman and Robin sit together in most panels.

Jill.

Periods 101... God knows what it was originally called... is an instructional video meant to train brutally retarded girls, through constant, numbing repitition, how to deal when a Red Tide rolls in. It stars a small, gnomish child with a suspisciously malformed face, "Jill," who torments her family for ten minutes straight about THE OPENING BETWEEN HER LEGS OPENING BETWEEN HER LEGS OPENING BETWEEN HER LEGS HEY MOM DO YOU HAVE PERIODS.

The interrogations begin.

If we're not supposed to laugh at the retarded, they shouldn't be forced to act in videos about periods. Unless they're named Corky. Corky was kewl.

Mom begins to crack.

I can't date this thoroughly dated video too accurately, but it looks to me like it was shot in the sixties or seventies... Which is what makes it so strange. Jill goes scampering from one absurdly patient and accomodating family member to the next, extracting word-for-word identical descriptions of the bleed from each one, including Dad. Which is bizarre, because I always thought men in the sixties considered periods a sign of witchcraft.

Suspisciously knowledgeable Dad.

Exhibitionist sis.

The highlight of the video, after repeated and heartfelt mantras about BLOOD INSIDE A WOMAN'S BODY and EVERY FOUR WEEKS FOR THREE OR FOUR DAYS, is when Jill's older sister trots her off into the bathroom to watch her change her SANITARY PAD SANITARY PAD SANITARY PAD, which appears to have been soaked in tomato sauce.

And an extra-special guest appearance by Ragu.

SEE HOW THE PAD STICKS TO MY PANTIES?! SEE?!?! DO YOU SEE, JILL??? I DO NOT PUT IT IN THE TOILET! I PUT IT IN THE NEAREST WASTE BASKET!!!

Remember, Jill: Sticky side DOWN.

The adventure in the bathroom concludes with Jill trying on her own pad and wearing it around "for practice." Which is a relief, honestly, after the concentrated creepiness of the rest of the video. But I suspect a c. 1960s hamster mattress must feel like straddling a pillow for a five-year-old.

My games of "pretend" as a child rarely involved the toilet.

I don't know if skills-for-living videos like this actually work or not, but if they do, they certainly weren't shown to the mainstreamed Special Club in my school. Apart from the corrective surgery that put her in a hilarious full-body cast for a year, Cecilia, the wandering-eyed superstar of our Special Ed, was probably best known for the bloody chairs she left behind her in chorus. Well, that, and the earth-shattering tantrum that got her installed as an honorary member of the high school's cheerleading team. And by "installed," I mean "invaded the pitch at the first football game of the season, dragged a stool down onto the sidelines, and refused to leave."

I miss Cecilia.

Uhm, K.

Propositions, anyone?

Found this in a Linens N' Things. I normally wouldn't go into a Linens N' Things, but I had a gift certificate.

A comprehensive list of everyone who ever buys one of these things should be kept. And the levels of lead in their tapwater should be tripled.

Sparkneedle starts today. KAPOW.

The cheapest I could find this elswhere was for $170.00.

God damn I love Ebay.

Now if only I could get a copy of Ward 81...

Good Lord.

I've said this before, but I'm glad I graduated high school before Columbine. I used to draw mincomics about killing the teachers and burning the building down; They sold pretty well, too. But these days, that would probably be enough to get me OMG PERMANENTLY EXPELLED.

LawforKids is a site for teenagers in Arizona, and perhaps it's my age, but the law's treatment of teenagers seems more draconian and merciless all the time. But I imagine it's easy to expel and jail a kid for carrying a pocketknife in his backpack when you live in mortal fear of your own children.

The "Toons" are horrible flash animations, featuring remarkably emotionless and stilted teenagers. The "Stripz" are comics with no point, no punchline, and no moral. I recommend both. THEN WE CAN GO TO THE PARKING LOT WITH MY BEER THAT I GOT WITH MY FAKE ID AND DRAG RACE!!!1!

Here's something I've been meaning to put online for a while. Since August, really.

Clicky-clicky for a massive, legible image.

A couple of months ago, Dirk, Matt and myself dropped in on "Comix Chicago," a gallery showing of comic art at the Hyde Park Art Center. The cartoonists in the show each used Chicago as a backdrop for their stories; There was original work by Ivan Brunetti, Jessica Abel, Dan Clowes, and, of course, Chris Ware up to see. Hopeless fangirl-at-heart that I am, I made a beeline for Ware's stuff.

The first thing I noticed, with a shiver of perverse glee, is the fact that Chris actually used white-out. As in, he actually fucked up from time to time. Chris Ware. He's been a subject of psychotic, jealous loathing among local cartoonists for God knows how long, due in part to the persistent rumor that he NEVER uses white-out, because he never needs it. (I know that sounds silly, but it's an artist thing. Hard to explain.) Seeing those tiny white dots of correction fluid on the original pages makes the guy less superhuman, but easier to worship, believe me.

The show was accompanied by a small panel, which was slightly surreal; One of the featured speakers, obviously less than well-versed in comics in general, compared Ware's stuff to Venom comics. A guy in the audience hijacked the discussion for about seven minutes straight to plug his own comic, a tragically incompetent DIY deal he passed around with a little too much enthusiasm. And a recent art school grad that had somehow managed to convince someone to give him space for an installation in a comic book show walked us through how we were supposed to interpret photographs pasted to the wall with false frames drawn around them in Sharpie marker lines. Deep.

Still, it was nice seeing the work of people I truly admire up close. Ware's originals are massive. Clowes' aren't. And Ivan has an exact replica of himself in doll form. Very educational.

I guess it's not enough to turn my inbox into a fucking wasteland. Now the little shithoarders are after my blog, too.

In case you're wondering why I don't allow HTML in my comment section, consider Exhibit A. This turned up in an out-of-the way blog entry two hours ago, probably because whichever dipshit did it was hoping I wouldn't notice for a few days. You can't tell from the text alone, but each of the highlighted words was a link to a different prescription drug-peddler's site. The links were automatically disabled when they were posted, but I get to see the bare code in the behind-the-scenes blog editor.

(Annoyed as I am, I'm a little amused that there's a real live drug called "Soma." I guess someone didn't do their summer reading in high school.)

The most disgusting thing about this is it probably had to be done personally; as far as I know, there's no automated way to spam blogs. (If there were, I imagine this would be a much, much bigger problem.) Some goddam retard clicked through my blog, pasted this shit in, and posted it for everyone to see by hand.

Motherfucker, you're so goddam stupid that I can't get up off the floor. Whoever you are, I hope you wake up tomorrow with an ass full of millipedes.

PS: Welcome to the ban list.

This is becomin' a reg'lr cast-o-thousands, ain't it?

And here we have Bloom.

"Bloom" probably isn't his real name, but as far as everyone in Templar is concerned, he hasn't got another. A modestly successful dealer who keeps shop smack dab between the neighborhoods of Skinner and Churchyard, Bloom trades almost exclusively in heroin and cocaine, supplying a small, but steadily increasing number of regular clients. Presentable, reliable, and business-minded, he could probably afford to live far better than that if it weren't for his desire to remain under the radar of both local law enforcement and bigger-time pushers, who might not appreciate real competition.

And then there's his well-documented habit of blowing his profits on antique Nazi and Soviet war relics.

But don't let that fool you: Bloom, as he's happy to let just about anyone know, is a staunch Libertarian, and considers his particular line of work not only morally neutral, but nothing short of political protest.

Bloom is aware of a number of other Templars, but speaks regularly with Lorne and, until recently, the Elliots. He knows better than to talk to Epiphany. He's lost contact with Gene since he stopped stocking hash. But these days, he's probably closest to his cat, Eva. Take that however you will.

Well, the FTP and passwords and whatnot have all been set up and are ready to go. It's official. Can you handle it, sports fans? Sparkneedle premieres on Girlamatic this very Sunday. Don't miss the special first installment, an explanatory passage in which I attempt to decipher what the hell I was thinking when I made this thing.

In my defense, most cartoonists go through some idiotic "experimental" phase. Hell, I'm probably still IN mine. Whether or not it worked, or it's legible, or it's still worth pursuing, that's up to you. For serious.

Of all the comics I've got in production, none will rely more on audience feedback than Sparkneedle. Lucas and Odessa will soldier on to the bittter end, and I honestly don't give a shit what anyone says about Templar when it goes up, because it's such a personal project that I've become completely inflexible about it. But Sparkneedle? Thrown to the wolves. You guys don't like it, I'll shelve it forever. If there's continuing interest, I'll make new chapters. That's the deal. Scout's honor. Interactive, ain't it?

And even if you don't like experimental comics or giving the cartoonists feedback, hey: It's fulla NAKED PEOPLE. Everybody loves ding-a-lings and how'dya-dos, right?

Sunday. Girlamatic. Be there.

Now THIS is more fucking like it.

Film Fights.

Every round at Film Fights, a new title and genre is proposed, and amateur film guys shoot short films based on the proposal. We vote, winner feels special. Ain't the Internet grand? Check 'em out, waste an hour.

More meaningful updates after this week's Lucas and Odessa is off the table.