Love By Trial and Error

Pen and ink with watercolor, 1999

A Name That Should Be An Adjective

This one was done in watercolor and pen and ink back in ’93 after an intense study of Thomas Nast. It was part of a freebie fundraiser project for WFMU, the great little station in NJ that has a signal strong enough to reach Manhattan, from where the Great Prevaricator holds forth daily. I am amazed that he’s still standing, on the top of the world, no less. Busted for Oxycontin abuse, this pudgy pundit’s credibility among his vast Republican audience is never questioned. Almost 20 years later, all I would have to do to bring this image up to date in Photoshop is whiten the hair, add some wrinkles and “lasso” the pile of shit, then  “free transform” it to about ten times its current scale.

  Much is made of the Diebold theft of the previous election and the earlier Florida cabal that sealed Gore’s (and Iraq’s) fate—both by such close margins. But what about the low IQ, racist, xenophobic, superstitious sector of voters that this blowhard delivers into the Republican fold every single election? Speaking of campaign finance reform, what are the economic tendrils which reach beyond his mere advertisers?

"Must" Reading

This charming bookplate will be included in the whopper (about 250 pages) anthology NO ME, which will be released this April at the Stumptown Comics Festival in Portland, OR.  
  The black & white extravaganza will feature line works by scores of pen-pushers personally invited by Jason T. Miles to submit work in exchange for three free copies.  These will no doubt fetch a pretty penny at auction, should cash-strapped artists decide to pay rent rather than bequeath bagged copies to their heirs. A very small edition will be available for sale to the public.

  A longtime employee of Fantagraphics, Miles soldiers on there, wearing many hats. This project, though, is his sole production. Good luck to all of us!

Wretched Excess

This one appeared as the back cover of Fantagraphics' Zero Zero. Mid '90s, but I don't remember the exact year, only that 100 MB was considered to be a lot of memory back then. So to bring this up to date you'd have to include cell phones (20); digital devices (50); DVDs (1000); I forgot Sports Memorabilia (100 lbs.). I'm sure there's other stuff I've forgotten, but memory--the biological variety--is maxed out.

A Seasonal Post

This one appeared in The New Yorker magazine, Winter, '94. I was with my late brother Keith in a Village cafe in mid-December. He introduced me as to the waiter as "a cartoonist for The New Yorker" though I had only a couple things published in the magazine then. A elegant old dame sitting a few tables away introduced herself and said to me, "I've always wanted to see Zeus hurling lightning bolts at Santa, saying 'Tis my season!'" I had another idea sketched-out that I was going to submit later in the morning, so as a complete crapshoot I did this the rough for this one in a cab uptown. The lowercase gods were with me then. These days I could use a favor from Jove, though I could do without the bloodletting, barbarism (Jerry Sandusky would have been a normative Roman), lack of plumbing and superstition. Happy Holidays To All!

Thoughts About Weed

This strip was published in Heavy Metal when Mark Martin was the cartoon editor. Let’s see…66 minus 48 is 18. My long relationship with cannabis went through yet more twists and turns after this strip was done (in addition to the 48 minus 28 years prior) before I arrived to this irrevocable position to put it down for good. After a brief psychic and physical struggle for a season or two, I finally got past the yen to toke. I don’t want to miss a moment of real life! (continued under strip...)

 somebody refer to weed as “The Buddha.” It’s anything but. Cannabis Sativa (or Indica for the more jaded) is a cruel dominatrix who exacts a heavy toll for all the so-called gifts she bestows.

  These days, unless you’re growing it yourself, chances are high that the stuff has Mexican blood on it. I’m also not buying the concept that this addictive drug is an herb—the more often you get high, the more you want to stay that way and you’ll need stronger and more expensive shit to stay there, period. The health risks are tangible: increased susceptibility to oral and throat cancer; the spleen function is impaired; memory function is blighted; worst of all, if you are combining weed with tobacco use, your chances of contracting lung cancer are increased fourfold. Why do you think the cartoonist Dave Sheridan died in his mid ‘30s and the great Nat King Cole died in his mid ‘40s? “Medical” marijuana for anyone but the terminally ill? See final paragraph.

  If you are an artist or musician and weed is part of your muse process, you won’t have the sustaining stamina needed for the long haul. If you smoke several times a day, get it down just once; if several times a week, then one day. If several times monthly, then make it weekly. Or go cold turkey, little sapling. Failing that, try the real Buddha. On the other hand, if you are one of those rare and lucky people who can take it or leave it and your sole source of attaining a pot high is through occasional joints at parties or gifts from friends, more power to you. Still, beware. Few people who are able to truly appreciate a marijuana high can leave it alone for long. That smoky plateau is an egocentric, selfish state of mind that makes you less empathetic to your loved ones, though you keep trying to tell yourself that it’s bringing you closer. What little comforts are you denying them for the continuation of your expensive and stinking habit?

  It also makes you vulnerable, dulling the adrenaline you need for sheer survival. You must be able to trust your intuition at all times. Wake up! You still have the rest of your life to muddle through, knowing that you’re closer to a clarity and inner peace far more beautiful than all of those pipe dreams could ever have provided.

  Despite all of the above, I’m for legalization—if only to stop the violence in Mexico and the end of this disgusting “Medical Marijuana” movement. I don’t want to see anybody behind bars for dealing or using. The heavy toll on the individual and society by perfectly legal alcohol is far more serious. On the other hand, buzzed driving is drunk driving—and mandatory blood/saliva tests should be taken at all accident sites. There, I have spoken.

  

An Offer You Can't Refuse

  Like many who suddenly become Seniors, I turn to the great literature and movies of my youth as reference points to gain a better foothold on this shifting dirt of mortality. To note the passing of an earlier age I hereby conjure up the voice of Upton Sinclair in his 1909 muckraking classic “The Jungle.” And why not? The internet is a vast Babel where History is yours for the ransacking. You, too, can be another pulsing frequency with a few deft mouse clicks.    

  In addition to the heartrending and thoroughly accurate accounts of slaughterhouse working conditions informed from undercover experience, Sinclair describes how economic blight and deprivation impact cultural standards. Within the immigrant Polish community in which many Chicago meat workers lived there was an Old World tradition that wedding guests compensated newlyweds for their lavish feast with gifts of money or high value items. Yet in America many invited revelers were living on the brink of survival, so the wedding banquet was only a temporary reprieve from starvation. These destitute guests had neither the means nor the inclination to contribute anything besides big appetites to the celebration. After the feast, before the customary time for toasts and presentation of gifts, some disreputable diners would exit out the banquet hall windows and jump to the street below. The hapless bride and groom would be ruined even before their first wedding night.

  Bear with me. The drawing you see above was sent to Michael Wilde in ’96 (thanks to him for taking a digital shot recently). Not so long ago it was common for artists to embellish their letters and envelopes with quick sketches and doodles. Of course, correspondence has changed for the obvious reasons—the immediacy of the phone, social networking and email has made the slower exchange of ideas seem quaint. Yet these modern modes prod like alarm clocks. A well-conceived piece of writing demands rumination. There is an assumption that failure to respond immediately is some kind of lapse. But some ideas and emotions need to be absorbed before they are met in a worthy response. Part of the writing process entails showering these received ideas with attention and letting the field of present experience gradually illuminate them. Doodling and sketching are a way to get in the writing zone, or to compliment words that have been set down--and a well designed envelope is always a pleasure to receive. Some artists, most notably S. Clay Wilson, use embellished correspondence as a warm-up exercise.

  Back to “The Jungle.” Though we aren’t (yet) reduced to handling cattle carcasses, most of us are struggling just to stay afloat. There are few, if any, positive predictions on the shape of things to come in the world economy. As an Icelandic wag remarked after the crash of Nokia, “We are all turning to porridge.” To step outside of the survival realm and to pretend that we are men of ideas with an innate need to communicate at the soul level is a neat trick for a cash-strapped man to perform. So when a  friend or reader takes the time to imbue life with meaning via a personal contact—a feast that is shared with no other--it’s not uncommon for the recipient of that gift to jump out of the window like a sneaky Stockyards wedding guest by firing off a breezy email or simply not responding at all. Whether this is a personal failure or a savvy way to stay alive is not my judgment call to make. Only a wedding-leaper knows his true motives. But the lapse in substantive response is definitely a trend—and Facebook, tweeting, blogging, etc. don’t qualify as earnest personal communication. The obvious virtues of these social media are speed, mass replication and glitzy form; content is still dependent on old-fashioned individual consciousness.

  Re: the drawing above. This is apparently a non-negotiable deal. Once you’ve made that bargain, it’s Tip-Taps, No Trade-Backs. But if I could somehow do it again, I’d exchange my Immortal Soul for Eternal Peace.