This Friday, for instance, I biked up to Desert Island to poach some free beer attend a book-signing for Aaron Renier & Julia Wertz’s new respective books. At some point I found myself alone, gazing down at a back issue of Mome or something, and all at once it hit me: “comics” have got to be the world’s most epic tragedy.

Here I was, standing in the middle of the very Alexandria of Western sequential art; surrounded by the brightest, most fulfilling and vital and fully realized comic books our civilization has yet produced, and yet: none of these people got paid.

I mean, sure, the lucky ones might have got a modest page rate, or even an advance on royalties — but were any of them feeding themselves, housing themselves, providing for a family, thriving off of their occupations? Did any of them even get the equivalent of half of a minimum hourly wage for their exertions? If these people existed, I could count them on one crippled hand, and almost all of those (Clowes, Ware, Spiegelman) had made their bones way back in the last century. And even that parthenon of comics gods probably mostly still patched together a living in pieces of supplementals — illustration gigs, reprints, speaker’s fees, teaching gigs, grants, fellowships, original-art sales, paintings. And of course a lucky few have sold rights to Hollywood. But that only accounts for about 5% of the wonder I saw stacked before me. What about all the meticulous mini-screenprinters? The subversive UG anthologists? The phone-book self-publishers? The world outside of our little fan-club comic-cult just seems to spit in their faces. And yet these cartoonists not only stubbornly persist — they insist on drenching their pages with lavish, delicate, entirely unnecessary crosshatching; they pull not four but five screens for their covers; they keep their narratives unflinchingly true and dip their nibs in blood and tears. And for what? Why do they do it? Why do I?

It all seemed so fucking sad, all of a sudden. So woefully cruel. So… sweatshoppy. We struggle — we grind ourselves into hunchbacked, bald, gnarl-handed cretins — just to purvey this simple wafer of paper beauty. And why? Who’s reading it? Who even understands it enough to enjoy it? Words and pictures. Art. Idle distractions. Portals to the truth. Birdcage liner. The medium can be many things, but most likely, never a career.

And sure, sure, ’twas ever thus; but in my moment of weakness the injustice of it all just speared me. I had to step outside. Why did I draw comics? I’ll never have the Mozart-caliber gift of an Aaron Renier; I don’t have the stamina or market-ready baby face of a Dash Shaw. Martyrdom’s cute and all, but what’s in it for me? Did I ever really stop to wonder that, all these years slouching over bristol? Did I ever really make a conscious choice to take this path in my life? Was there any forethought to it? Furthermore, did I ever really think it’d bear fruit? Did I ever believe I’d be among the chosen and elect? How many among us are tested, and find ourselves lacking? And once we are found so, how many can admit it, and gracefully cease struggling against fate? How many persist, and are pitched into that giant, musty back-room longbox purgatory of Mediocrity, having faded out, lost the spark, broken down under the tedium of the pen’s slow progress, been starved from lack of validation or inspiration? How many gave up just moments before their potential was reached, before they’re able to draw their Maus or their Persepolis or their Ghost World? How many fell victim to self-doubt or the day job, had kids, snapped under the weight of student loans or medical bills? How many just found themselves at the cusp of middle age, laying down their pen with a penitent shame, realizing at last that comics were, after all, just a game for children?

Somehow, amidst all this horror and chaos and fear, I have started drawing another graphic novel. It’s a piece of historical fiction about a girl and a horrible disease. I’ve been frantically inking a dozen pages to show around at SPX this weekend, before realizing that that’s the worst time to shove a book proposal under a publisher’s nose; anyway the carpals are crapping out so I won’t have dick for the con.

It’s been really hard to justify starting on another comics project. Hundreds of pages. Years of labor. And absolutely no idea how I’ll publish it — or, for that matter, eat while working on it.

But the especially painful thing about starting this book is this: under all my self-hatred and frustration, I still know that this will be an incredibly good graphic novel. After a lifetime of thrashing about in the dark, I finally have something to say, a clear vision, and just enough ability to make the medicine go down easy. I feel the same way about this new book I’m drawing that Raekwon felt about Wu-Tang when, in that one part on 36 Chambers, he’s telling that radio dj

Right now, right now, we still, we still
Feel like we ain’t get what we want yet
When we get, when we get, when we get a little props
And really really get the way we gotta go?
That’s when you know it’s on
You know what I’m sayin?
Cuz right about now, I ain’t braggin or nothin
But yo the Wu, the Wu got somethin that I know that everybody wanna hear.
Cuz I know I’ve been waitin to hear,
You know what I’m sayin?

Except when Rae said that he was probably like 19. Woe be on the artist who doesn’t hit his stride early, because dude: the clock is ticking, and it ticks particularly hard for the cartoonist. Sitting here in my borrowed twin bed in my mold-stained tenement room, at the ass-end of 37, with failing health and no medical/dental, no viable means of support, barely holding on to my food stamps, in a strange, cruel city that’s losing its grip on summer — I sit here dangling my feet over the edge of this new, horrifying endeavor in the least-profitable medium in the history of human expression, and beneath me I can see a very, very far way down to fall. What I can’t help but consider is this: now that I know what I want to say, am I too broken-down to say it? How many people really want to hear an old flabby white man sing his little song of himself? Have I finally become a real cartoonist just in time to find out it’s too late to do anything about it? Did I just miss the cutoff? The prospect of hacking this book out over the next couple of years (fucking years!), on a series of inhospitable yuppie cafe tables, scrounging for odd jobs to make my pitiful rent, and then at the end of that, just walking it down to the Gowanus Staples to xerox a few copies to show off at yet another “alternative” comic con at $3 a pop as the rest of print media in general continues its apocalyptic demise around my head — in my dotage, that tired old possibility is becoming just a little too grim to bear. I mean, shouldn’t I be going to grad school or something?

I guess Crumb already said all this years ago. Still, I seem to persist. It looks like Plan A remains the usual: draw just enough, don’t enjoy life too much, and blithely trust in the boons of Providence to snatch me up from out of the jaws of despair and disaster, and provide me safe crossing to the next dilemma. I suppose things could be a hell of a lot worse.

Well — this post is certainly the best candidate for deletion yet in the Playhouse ouvre. Please don’t pay it too much attention. I’m just “venting.” In the end being a cartoonist isn’t a choice — it’s a mental defect. And those don’t just go away on their own. As long as I can’t afford therapy or a good trepanning, I’ll continue drawing comics.

Yeah it turned out pretty good! Click here if you want to see more of what I’ve been drawing lately, commissions-wise.

Tomorrow morning (too early) I’ll be prying myself off the mattress to hop on a train north — to adventure! Well, to see old friends and old scenery and old scowling army veterans in New England. I fully expect to encounter some form of Summer Fun up there, of a caliber that my summer down here in New York has been somewhat skimpy on, now that I think of it. Life has taken a turn for the Serious here at the Gabby’s Playhouse offices, now that we have relocated down to these fancy, scummy, hypercapitalistic, almost imperceptibly warmer new environs, and have become further acquainted with the Ape of Poverty breathing his hot, redolent breath down our collars. At times I will admit that I long to be back down on the cartoonist farm, where the living was easy and the beer was under $3 a pint. I’m talking about the good stuff, too, not that Budweiser crap!

This entry is skirting dangerously toward a Taking Inventory of Our Lives area, so let’s just say this weekend’s probably gonna rule. I get to ride a train TWICE, probably play soccer once, play a sweet-ass pinball machine assembled by Alec Longstreth and Jon Chad, and I’ll even be away from internet devices until Wednesday (news to which my eyeballs just emitted a tiny cheer of relief) — which means that you, dear reader, might have to find something else to do around the internet til then. I’m sure you’ll all scrape together something. I hear there’s some pretty cool stuff out there if you look hard enough.

Sorry there’s no ending. It’s cinema VERITE, mannn! Oh, also, to explain that last failed picture: that thing in my hand is supposed to be a blinking crystal, like in that movie Logan’s Run (which, itself, dates me to hell). Some of the confusion might be due to the simple fact that I drew the thumb on the wrong side of the hand. Sorry for being a terrible cartoonist. Good thing I’ve got a BLOG to explain it all away!

Anyway, here’s some chum to chew. Click if they’re not big enough for your tiny, tiny eyes:

Halfazzin’ it

Usually I just throw the cards away. But sometimes, there is a certain something about them that compels me to keep them in my wallet to study in moments of leisure (read: while taking a dump). Take, for example, the card on the counter of the Odessa:

This business card just exudes a a basic, unvarnished sense of rightness. If you tore it in half a sweathog genie would pop out and steal your purse to go buy heroin. No funny business, just a stolid insistence that the Lower East Side still retains just a paper-thin residue of pre-Giuliani, working-class grit. Let’s not futz around with fancy gradients or designer fonts; leave that for the yuppie fucks. The card is almost a test of the holder’s priorities, to find out whether you deserve to eat at this restaurant. Are you capable of enjoying the subtle tactile thrill of running your thumb over its raised maroon ink? Then you probably don’t suck too much to eat here. The whole design (or lack thereof) is mercifully absent of any desperate status-declaring pretension — only a plain and confident satisfaction with their competence that verily shines off the cardstock.

The only other real indulgence it allows itself is the word “Prompt” slipped between “Free” and “Delivery.” Ahh. Nuance. You fuckin’ kids today, you don’t understand. You probably look at this card and think something stupid like “Ew! Like, that burger graphic is like clip-art from like 1985? I could like, make a better one on my iPhone? And like, what is that other graphic even supposed to, like, be? Totes barf… can we like, go to the crepe truck instead?” That’s because you kids are all over-stimulated spoiled zombies, weaned on a trash culture that’s all glitter and no fazool. Or… whatever the Greek equivalent for fazool. is.

But let’s move on, across town to Brooklyn, to a different yet no less appealing piece of cardsmithery from Park Slope’s Mr. Falafel:

Now this is a card that’s all dressed up for Friday night at the Caribbean dance club. Maybe it’s got just a tad too much cologne, maybe it’s a little too brash, a little too shiny — but ey, it’s fuckin’ Brooklyn right? Ain’t nothing wrong with flaunting a little Egyptian pride. It knows what it is and what it does, and it’s not going to tone that down to attract a few dozen more baby-stroller zombies who’ll probably just complain about the condition of the bathroom anyway.

But the real reason I’m spending an afternoon writing about this card is yet to come. Because, just when you think it’s given you its all, you flip it over for this little Ramadan present:

Holy shit! It turns out that this isn’t just a dumb business card, but a whole Egyptian-to-English alphabet! Who cares whether it’s totally historically legit — now you can spell out dirty phrases in code and go write them in the bathroom stall!

Something about this added, totally unnecessary treat is so indicative of everything about New York that doesn’t actually suck. It’s like the grumpy, scowling pizza guy who you think hates you until he calls you “buddy” all sweet-like when he hands you your slice. Like the canoli, the hard shell is only to hide and contain the sweet soft stuff underneath. It’s the inverse of California passive-aggression, and for this I am thankful daily.

And their falafel sandwich ain’t bad either.

Anyway, last weekend I drove down with the Secret Acres guys and Sean Ford into the wilds of the near-unspellable city of Philadelphia to attend the Philly Alternative Comic Con, and thereupon engage in a few quality hours of comics peddling. I’d like to say I go to look at comics too, but let’s be honest: I am so god damn broke, I can’t even afford to pay attention. Which makes for some awkward con-going — for the past few I’ve attended I’ve barely left my table, for fear that I’ll run across something good, and insult the creator or publisher by passing it up with some lame excuse about “I already have it” or “I’m waiting for the collection” or “I hate that piece of crap.” And god help me if one of these fine artists whose hard work I cannot afford to gorge upon actually approaches my table and lays down a fat hunk of their precious change for Monsters. Christ, the shame and inequity is almost more than I’m able to bear. Generally, people are much better than me at doing basic, decent human things like getting a job, and not complaining. Maybe you should be reading their blogs instead.

But PACC was a great time. A small room with a lot of people interested in buying comics. I sold books at a decent clip. And in a surge of comics- (and energy-drink-) inspired euphoria, I even bought a couple of other people’s comics. Among those in attendance who I was privileged to interact with in a refreshingly digital-mediation-free format:

• Eamon Espey joined us at the SA table for the day, which is always a pleasant time. I grilled him about how to write good horror comics and he endured with stoic resolve.
• Roomie Liz Baillie was there, along with soon-to-be-neighbors Sally Bloodbath & Matt Wiegle also made the trip down from New York. At one point Liz sent someone over to my table to deliver a donut.
• Philly’s own comics ombudsman, Box Brown, shone his presence down upon the aisles. We talked about Philly rent and New York rent (my boring idea). He’s got long hair now.
• I finally bought a comic from the multifaceted L. Nichols, which has a cool day-glo screenprinted cover and plenty of thinky, mathy comics inside in lots of different cool styles. We talked about Red Hook and skateboarding.
• Claire Folkman and I talked about Roald Dahl for a while, then she sold me some fold-up comics for cheap.
• Then, right at the end of the whole con, a mysterious figure approached me and thrust a wad of newsprint into my hand, while fixing my gaze with an expression of intensity which said “take this, you have my solemn assurance that you will appreciate it.” And then without a word he was gone. It turns out this guy was probably Brendan Leach, and his newspaper-style comic, Pterodactyl Hunters in the Gilded City, is one of the best, most fully realized comics I’ve read in a long while. And I definitely can’t argue with the price, with my favorite word (FREE) printed on the cover twice. I’m not sure how that works, economically speaking. The quality-to-price ratio on this little item is downright fucking pathological.

Also of note are all the social activities I had to miss in order to wake up at dawn to make the drive down to Philly on Sunday:

• OK Prom, an event I actually drew a poster for, and which looks to have been much, much more entertaining than any of the actual high-school proms I never went to;
• Karaoke at a crappy Irish bar down the street from my apartment with a bunch of cartoonist types who have been secretly living in my neighborhood all this time, having fun and socializing without me;
• Another event up in Williamsburg which sounded fun and very Inner Circle, and which would have no doubt left me wildly physically incapacitated.
• An impromptu, private Movie Night with a very very cool new mystery friend.

I took a stack of rainchecks on all these events, pleading a good night’s rest — and then stayed up all night anyway, staring at my stupid, crumbling ceiling, unable to fall asleep.

Well! Wasn’t that little roundup EXCITING. I’d be amazed if anyone actually reads this far. Here’s a picture:

For instance: PHILLY ALT CON!

I will be there. This Sunday. At some place called “the Rotunda” (4014 Walnut st.). From 12-6pm. At the Secret Acres table. Sounds like it’ll be a gritty day. I am looking forward to watching the industrial snarl of the New Jersey Turnpike drift past as I fade in and out of consciousness, slumped against the ample bar in my benefactor’s stretch limo.

I’m also using a blog to PURVEY PORNOGRAPHY — this was a recent birthday present for a friend who I’m not sure even wants to be named (NSFW, not that it matters by now):

ENJOY.

You’re probably gonna have to click this one to be able to read it. A page from the ol’ sketchbook, about three months past. I hope you’re all doing great. The summer’s not going to last forever, you know!

I’ve been working on a slideshow compilation of pictures of every chicken I have baked since 2009. I figure I’ll wait until the one-year anniversary in November. Stay tuned, true believers.

Just in time for the weekend, when nobody actually looks at this site. A little something extra for the off-peak trickle.

That’s the stack of French words that I lettered for the French edition of Monsters, which the Belgians at L’Employé du Moi will be publishing soon. Soon!

Here is a doodle too, if you do (click big):

And this.