Comix

Is it me or does there seem to be LOADS of bookish girl cartoonists on the internet these days.

This seems to be the WINNING EQUASION:

Female PLUS Cats PLUS literary references DIVIDED BY awkward situations MULTIPLIED BY Tumblr = joy to the world.

Artists I think win are:
"Comiques" by Anne Emond




"Hark, A Vagrant" by Kate Beaton



"Kate or Die" by Kate, I presume




"Cat Vs Human" by um ... A human, I guess ...




Yep, that's it.

SM

RIP my magazines #3: Articles

I'm throwing out my old magazines / giving them to school kids! Some of these are over ten years old and have a lot of PERSONAL VALUE so I'm cutting out the best bits to form a scrap-book. Here are the highlights:


'The Art of Rap' by 'Hip Hop Historian' Henry Louis Gates Jr. About HJG's then new book anthology of rap lyrics. I studied this guy at university - very helpful with my dissertation. I was also attracted to THE PICTURE accompanying the article: hundreds of illustrated floating heads of hip-hop from Cab Calloway to Lupe Fiasco. Yep.


'Mycology 101: The Vice Guide to Really Fascinating Mushrooms' by David Fischer. Informative article about delicious, deadly and hallucinogenic mushrooms. Article accompanied by a fashion photo shoot of models looking for mushrooms.


'Secret Societies, Ancient Sects and Cryptic Cults' by Anon. I love Thrasher Magazine. This article on various conspiracy theories is kind of thrown next to some skate photos with not connection or explanation. The writer, a man after my own heart, clearly states that he got all his information off the internet and writing is often punctuated with phrases like:"It is often said (by lunatics)", making a not-all-that-serious work. Article covers Freemasons, Illuminati, CIA and New World Order. Strangely, I've been reading 'The Valley of Fear' by Arthur Conan Doyle in which the Freemasons pay a bit part, so I found a reread of this article quite interesting.


'Not in Our Name' by Ian Winwood. Remember the antiwar protests in twothousandandsomething? Part article, part interview with alt.metal band System of a Down, this is KERRANG Magazine being a bit political. Looking back on it now, it all seems very dramatic, much like the more recent riots all over the coutnry are being made out to be at the moment...


'Gorey and Me' by Johnny Ryan. Sort article about the relationship between Vice cartoonist Ryan and AMAZING writter and illustrator Edward Gorey. Humorous descriptions of EG's cat-scratched legs, interesting facts - which of the Three Stooges is EG's favourite? (the one with the bangs) - and a touching ending, describing a very real final encounted watching television before Gorey's death.


'I was a Drum Leader for Boardrum 77' by Kid Millions. This sounds like an amazing experience: 77 drummers under the Brookyn Bridge arranged in a kind of spiral, all playing together, conducted by the band Boredoms. A bit artsy-fartsy, perhaps, but what a great musical event. One of the drummers tries to describe it.

RIP my magazines #2 Interviews

I'm throwing out my old magazines / giving them to school kids! Some of these are over ten years old and have a lot of PERSONAL VALUE so I'm cutting out the best bits to form a scrap-book. Here are the highlights:

Interviews:

Artists

Winston Smith - Legendary photomontage-master. Designed album covers for 'punk lowlifes' (his quote) Dead Kennedeys and Green Day. (Document Skateboarding Magazine)

Ray Sierra - Designer of overly-large gangster t-shirts with ghettoized cartoon characters on them. (Vice Magazine)


Music - From Thrasher Skateboard Magazine - See my TUMBLR for music videos...

Citizen Fish - 3 of the 4 members of Subhumans in punk rock / ska band.

Hieroglyrics - independent hip hop collective including Del Tha Dunky Homosapien who raved about starting their new label.

Misc.
Jason Lee - EARL from 'My Name is Earl', who can't skate during the filming process because he might do himself a mischeif: kinda figured.

R.I.P. my Old Magazines #1 How To ...

I'm throwing out my old magazines / giving them to school kids! Some of these are over ten years old and have a lot of PERSONAL VALUE so I'm cutting out the best bits to form a scrap-book. Here are the highlights:

1.) Toy Machine Advert 'How to Be Punk' (Skateboard Magazine, 2002)
Apart from the educating me on the DOs and DON'Ts of PUNK CULTURE, I remember making a stencil of one of the icons (a urinating turtle with a mohawk) - I was into Banksy at the time - and my friend used this in his art project.

Other 'How Tos' that I have saved from magazines include:
* How to Headbang (circular, figure of 8 and 'original') - Kingpin Magazine
* Make Ghetto Speakers from your Earphones (put them in empty glasses) - Kingpin Magazine
* How to pin a pair of handcuffs (with a hairpin) - Sleaze Magazine
* AND MY FAVOURITE - the method for a roast chicken dinner - Sleaze Magazine

Prayer

Dear Lord,

Praise

We are so grateful for the beautiful summer that is pleasing to all the senses – our personal, favourite sights, sounds, tastes, smells and feelings and how they spark off nostalgia – but also our spirits are lifted naturally by the sun’s rays and this is how you designed us to be! We are thankful for your glorious creation that speaks of your creativity, authority and generosity.
World

Yet as I speak and as we pray today, conflict is breaking out all over the world to deface your creation. The cycles of hatred and fear can seem never ending:
Syria, Mexico, Africa, China, Afghanistan and finally Tottenham: a community described as having its “heart torn out”. We pray for these communities that they would know your heart.

We thank you for the people of Norway who, rather than tearing themselves apart after the recent tragedy there, have banded together to comfort and support one another.
Mission

May our brothers and sisters around the world be replenished with heart, hope and Spirit.
Thank you for Gerster family, celebrating the encouragement of a positive church retreat in the Japanese Church in Switzerland that Hans-Ueli and Wendy Pastor.
We pray also for Andreas and Elisabeth, both undertaking summer training courses preparing for the future and that the whole family would have a refreshing and strengthening holiday.
Church

Finally, to bring before you anyone who is suffering in anyway – because of illness, stress, financial difficulties, bereavement, or any other reason – knowing that you are our rock in times of trouble.
And we bring forward anyone who is rejoicing today because of a birthday, wedding, anniversary, summer holiday, new job, promotion, new child, new house, or any other reason, knowing that you do all things for our good and that we may glorify you in our lives.
And that is what we live to do.

In your name,

Amen

Summer Reading

1. Nick Hornby - 'High Fidelity'
Why? On the hall table. Dad got it for Andrew, but he went travelling in Asia ...
Is is good? Yes. Lots of talk about music and girls and a not-totally-unlikeable narrator.
****

2. David Nicholls - 'One Day'
Why? A present from Sandra. Read it on the train to / from Cumbria.
Is is good? Friends in love. Not something that I'd jump to read but I enjoyed it for lots of reasons. A dishy female lead character, an annoying, selfish male lead, a bit of a twist and a rewarding ending. Good fun.
***

3. Ryu Murikami '69'
Why? Brousing in the library. Looking for the other Hukuri (?) Murikami.
Is is good? ANOTHER book about music, girls and growing up. A more likeable, yet still selfish narrator who organises a music festival with his friends. Also uses CAPS LOCK for emphasis which reminds me of a childhood favourite 'Molesworth' (Seale). I really liked this.
****

4. Douglas Coupland 'Generation X'
Why? Brousing in the library.
Is it good? It is seminal and I would recommend it to everyone. Storytelling is not dead! Some of these stories could be Twilight Zone or Dead Kennedeys' songs. Therefore I am a massive fan. However, there are bits that I don't like, such as the 'slang' definitions and the need to overintellectualize everything - just get on the tell the story! WOuld definitely recommend it though, in the same way that I'd recommend the Twilight Zone / Dead Kennedys ...
****

5. John Buchan 'The Thirty-Nine Steps'
Why? Library brousing. Talking about old films with my aunty; this is one of my dad's favourite films. Apparently the book is quite different so ...
Any good? Not about music or girls (no female characters at all) -- so a refreshing change! Great 1930s vocabulary and jaunty pace. Thrilling even.
***

6. Edgar Allen Poe 'Selected Tales'
Why? Library brousing from the CLASSICS SECTION.
Any good? Of course! Again, total departure from sex, drugs and roll 'n' roll, in favour for gothic houses, murder and 'phantasm'. Seriously, I've read three stories already ('Tell-Tale Heart' 'Fall of the House of Usher' and 'The Black Cat') and they are all fairly similar ... wonderfully written though!
****

Your Scene Sucks #2 -- Crustpunk

By far the smelliest of all the scenesters, the Crustpunk embodies the D.I.Y. punk ethos with his nihilistic attitude and “freegan” diet. Typically an extremely unkempt individual with patches and pins barely holding together his soiled wardrobe, the Crustie goes months on end without bathing, ensuring his unemployment.

When not attending politically radical protests and Food Not Bombs events, the Crustie can be found panhandling on city streets with his banjo and emaciated dog at his side. Despite being anti-corporation, the majority of his earnings goes towards beer. The Crustpunks are also anti-authority, anti-work, anti-government, anti-religion, anti-showers, but are somehow not anti-five-day-old-burrito in the Trader Joe's dumpster.

Even though he lives a nomadic lifestyle squatting in abandoned buildings and train-hopping, the Crustie never strays too far from home. Eventually he'll need to hit up mom and dad in the suburbs for more cash, so he can stay poor.

Famous Crusts:
Leftover Crack
Allstar F*ing Hipsters

Your Scene Sucks

http://yourscenesucks.com/

she more closely resembles a warrior from mortal kombat than an actual human being. tattoos cover every inch of her body, facial piercings obscure her features, and the subdermal brass knuckle implant wards off anyone who doesn't take the body mod lifestyle seriously. small children burst into tears when she walks by, and aunt beverly has trouble recognizing her at family reunions.
yes, she might look like something out of hellraiser, but that doesn't stop her from posing nude at suicidegirls.com. thank god for the altporn audience, because no one in the "real world" would hire her- not even the local gas station.

as soon as she gets her first sg paycheck, she's rushing out to get that earth crisis facial tattoo she's always wanted.

BOW TIE

Best Hype Men #5

Neville Staple

Best Hype Men #3 and #4

Slipknot's Chris Fenn (#3 -- the one with the nose) and Shawn "Clown" Crahan (#6)

Best Hype Men #2

Erotic Volvo from Misty's Big Adventure. Amazing.

Best Hype Men #1

Flava Flav - Obvcourse

Episode One: The Trail

I.

He was the sort of man that committed three crimes before breakfast.

And, in the end, he was caught.

There are many judges in the world, and all of them can be bribed. As any crimial will know, all judges can be bribed, execpt one. And - would you belive it - our hero was brought before the only straight judge in the world.

The trail commenced, as trails do and, at the end, the judge gave the verdict.

"The facts are plain. You are guilty as hell. And this time it's death. The only thing that could save you is if someone would step in your place. But that wouldn't be even - even Steven. To make things square, we'd have to find someone who has never done anything wrong. Nothing. Not even lied to make thier girlfriend feel more secure about an old pair of trousers. You know anyone that fits that description, boy?"

Our hero couldn't think of anyone that he knew who was perfect, not even the nice old lady next door - to cut a long story short she was a bit of a racist.

"No, your honour." He said. "Lord knows I've tried, but I can't say I've ever found any one who is perfect."

A file was passed onto the judge's desk. He flicked through the pages. And looked down at our hero.

"Well," he said "You may not be able to find the perfect substitute, but looks like we've found one. The only perfect man in the world - and he is willing to take your sentence.

"Not only is this man perfect - his files show that he has never committed a single crime and our 'experts' have found no stain upon his character. Not only that, but he is definitely human - no smoke and mirrors there.

"Now let me make this clear. There is nothing that you can do to save yourself from the punishment you deserve - nothing, except to accept the help of this man, the only man on earth who could pay the penalty for your life. Do you accept?"

And, hardly believing what was happening, our hero did indeed accept.

The sentence was death. The execution was televised.

Justice was done and our hero returned home to celebrate his freedom. He told himself that he would be eternally grateful to this kind stranger and try to follow his example.

But unlike his saviour, our hero wasn't perfect so he ended up commiting only two crimes before breakfast the next day.

To be continued ...

Next time: 'Episode Two: Three Days Later'

'The End' #3

Flash Fiction #3: The End

'The End' - In which a young punk tries to survive in a post-apocalyptic Morecombe...

I went to the end of Morecombe Bay and bought fish and chips. Forgoing the Northerner’s choice of curry sauce, I plumped for the traditional salt and vinegar.

Outside, I leant on the rail as the grease permeated the paper bag and looked out to sea. I thought of the spot where the Chinese cockle pickers died. They were picking cockles and were cut off by the tide. I speared a chip with the little plastic fork and though to California. The wind blew cold specks of ocean into my face.

I was thinking about California because of a band called Rancid. They have many good songs, one is called ‘To the End of the East Bay’. It is about touring with your band, having good times, trying to get signed and the ups and downs of that whole gig. They were considered the real deal: tattoos, shaved heads, Mohicans, leather jackets and studs. I was at the seaside in Lancashire in October – I think that’s pretty punk too: my very own bay experience.

The Bleach Boys, Argy Bargy and 3CR were playing tonight. I loitered outside the old ‘Carleton’ club but I didn’t have a ticket to get in, to tread the sticky floors and sup the suspicious cider. Further down the bay, there was a bunch of underage oiks sheltering in a grafittied bus stop, wrapped in their leather jackets and rollup smoke.
One of them must have a spare ticket, particularly if there was a plastic pint of snakebite on the line, so I stepped out into the road to chance my luck.

Morecombe was like San Francisco in some ways. As Tim Armstrong says: “This ain’t no Mecca – This place is f*cked.”

In Morecombe, the shops were shut, some windows nailed down. The old women wore plastic bags on their heads to protect their curls from the spitting North rain. Bus drivers were mean and only the lonely statue of Eric seemed to smile, immortalised in his skipping dance, waiting for a chance partner and a tourist photo opportunity – perhaps even a “bring me sunshine”. The punks with their cider laughed and said that Morecombe looked like he was moshing.

Flash Fiction #2 - Also called "The End"

The boys thought Grandfather Claude was exciting: he had fought in actual wars and he had medals to prove it. He also had an air rifle that fired metal pellets and he went hunting in the woods. He even killed rabbits for his dinner.
“Did you enjoy the pie?” He asked, when Mum and Jenny, the little sister, were out of ear shot, “got the rabbit myself.”
“Have you killed many rabbits, Grandfather Claude?”
“Oh yes, hundreds, maybe.” He said with a wink.

He had tried taking the boys out hunting with him, but they always made too much noise, squeaking and crashing through the undergrowth, pretending to be tigers.
“We’ll get something one day.” He would always say.

***

One evening, Grandfather Claude was babysitting. After dinner, the boys went up stairs to play with their G.I. Joes and Jenny chose a film to watch. They sat together, Jenny’s tiny body nestled against her grandfather, and the Walt Disney theme tune started. Jenny had chosen a new film called Bambi.
As the deer ran, throwing up clouds of snow and the music rose, he felt her, pressed against him, sensing the crescendo was fatal. She hid her face in his shoulder. Holding his breath, he braced himself against the sofa.
The gun shot thundered.
Pale flakes fell from the darkening sky and, knowing what they hadn’t seen, Claude watched the fawn look for his mother in the white silence. As the music struck a mournful chord, he felt her quiet sobs drop tears onto his shirt. He put his arm around her and watched Bambi walk away, into the blizzard.
“It’s just a story.” He said.

***

As his daughter idly chatted to him, Claude watched the boys playing soldiers in the back garden. He did not drink his tea.
“Grandfather Claude, can we go tracking rabbits in the woods with your rifle today?”
“Well boys, I actually gave that old rifle to Mrs Jones who runs the church jumble sale.”
“What?”
“The truth is, boys, your old Grandfather is getting too ancient to be playing with such dangerous things as rifles. See these hands? Too shaky. It wouldn’t be safe would it?”
The boys, almost in tears, flounced away. His daughter rolled her eyes and followed them into the garden.
With a steady hand, Claude picked up his tea cup and took a sip, thinking of the rifle lying disowned and safe in a dark space in the attic.

Flash Fiction - "The End" - Final Draft

Flash Fiction: ‘The End’ #1

I was walking to school, listening to a live recording of The Doors on my walkman. My older brother made the mix tape.
It was almost “The End” as the great man stepped up to the microphone.
“Hey, mister light man! You’ve got to turn those lights way down!... I’m not kidding – you’ve got to turn those lights way down! ... C’mon!”
I could picture the audience crowded around, a mass of hair, mud and drugged-out haze, gazing up at the main stage, vibing off every word.
There was a pause as, I imagine, the lights remained at their level of obtrusive but professional brightness.
To this the great man said “Ah, wadda we care.”
And he began to sing into my ears as I ascended the stairs to my first lesson.
***
Sitting in English with a pen between my teeth, I listened to my teacher as she recited the monologue from As You Like It, introducing The Reduced Shakespeare Company’s performance of Romeo and Juliet (14 minutes long).
With the feedback of rock ‘n’ roll still ringing in my mind, I thought “If all the world’s a stage, what happens to stage divers?”
Whether that thought was philosophy or Beavis and Butthead, we all dutifully perform our entrances and exits. Some stick in the mind more persistently than others – looking through the collected Shakespeare at school, I found my favourite exit, the exit of Antigonus from The Winter’s Tale: ‘Exit, pursued by a bear’.
But rock ‘n’ roll had the plane crash, drug overdose, murder, heart attack, electrocution (playing guitar in the bath), cancer, pills, drowning, skiing accident, the speeding powerboat, the shotgun.
Shocking, sad and intriguing, but also mysterious. Skatalite and trombone legend Don Drummond allegedly committed suicide while institutionalized in Belle Vue Asylum, Kingston in 1969. Jim Morrison’s fatal heart failure in 1971 is disputed to this day.
***
I saw a black and white seventies picture of his grave. Before his father placed the plaque reading ΚΑΤΑ ΤΟΝ ΔΑΙΜΟΝΑ ΕΑΥΤΟΥ - "according to his own daemon", before Mladen Mikulin brought a bust for the vandals and thieves, before the French officials placed their shield (which was also stolen), there were the monuments.
Hyacinths, rosaries, charms, cigarette butts, cups half full in a final toast, abstract objects of personal value and, finally, his lyrics written in chalk – C’est la fin, mon merveilleux ami – loving tributes made by people that actually “got him”, that may have been washed away by Parisian rain, but if I close my eyes and press “rewind” on my walkman, he steps back into the spotlight.

‘The End’ #2

Introduction
These are stories for artists and creators of work. People might stamp it as finished or beyond hope of resurrection, but the artist’s eye will always look at THE END from a different perspective.

Chapter One
Cienfuegos, Cuba, 1939. The postman called with a large package. It was received by a thin young man with a nose and a sweet disposition, a cartoonist called Antonio Prohias. Antonio politely thanked the postman and took the parcel into the kitchen. He opened it in silence. It was a collection of his drawings, targeted at a prestigious newspaper. It had been returned unopened. Antonio sat looking at this parcel for a long time.
Thirty-two years later, Antonio Prohias finally laid these drawings to rest in a cenotaph for Cartoonist Profiles. His more auspicious, recognised and celebrated creations gathered around the grave to pay their respects to their brother ‘Agapito’ – ‘The Unborn’. They looked like the demons of Bosch and Breugel and they all had inherited Antonio’s nose: El Hombre Sinestro, the Russian Communist Tovarich and Prohias’ legacy to the world, the MAD stalwarts, the Black Spy and the White Spy. No trinitrotoluene, no bullet holes, no intricate weapons of cartoon destruction. Symmetrical arms folded and heads bowed – a momentary reverent armistice.

Chapter Two
Manhattan, New York, 1972. Robert Mapplerthorpe dropped a jar containing an unborn human foetus. Forever scavenging for inspirational “found” objects to use in his art, he got it from an abandoned hospital on Staten Island (which has since been demolished). It slipped from his excited fingers and crashed to the ground. He stood there with formaldehyde splashes on his shoes. With a blank look on his face, he said to his companion, the poet Patti Smith, “You go in. I’ll clean this up.”
...

Flash Fiction: ‘The End’ #1

Chapter One --
The crowd clapped and whistled. The waiting guitar noodled. Over the humdrum a voice is heard.
“Hey, mister light man! You’ve got to turn those lights way down! I’m not kidding – you’ve got to turn those lights way down! ... C’mon!”
The man with the mic waited for the lights to go down. They didn’t. The crowd cheered. A tambourine beat, waiting, waiting.
Seconds passed and the great man said, “Ah, wadda we care.”
And he began to sing.

Chapter Two –
The second part of the story is told by rock journalist Dave Philips. He looks majestic in a Hawaiian shirt and board shorts, like Kaputnik from MAD magazine; horn-rimmed glasses, a corn-cob pipe gripped in his teeth. He clears his throat and lists names into the recorder.

“Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, Otis Redding, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, Elvis Presley, Keith Moon, Sid Vicious, Bon Scott, Ian Curtis, John Bonham, John Lennon, Bob Marley, Phil Lynott, Peter Tosh, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Per Yngve “Dead” Ohlin, Johnny Thunders, Freddy Mercury, Øystein "Euronymous" Aarseth, Frank Zappa, Kurt Cobain, Brad Nowell, Jeff Buckley, Screaming Lord Such, Ian Dury, Kirsty MacColl, Joey Ramone, Joe Strummer, Johnny Cash, Dimebag Darrell, Ike Turner, Michael Jackson, Les Paul, Malcolm McLaren, Ronnie James Dio, Paul Gray, Peter Quaife, and counting ...

“Dramatic, gripping, ripping, bloated, tragic, glorious, death has always ridden the coattails of rock music.

“Plane crashes, drug overdoses, murders, heart attacks, electrocution (by guitar), cancer, drowning, skiing accidents, being mown in half by a speeding powerboat.

“Some are more mysterious. Skatalite and trombone legend Don Drummond allegedly committed suicide while institutionalized in Belle Vue Asylum, Kingston in 1969. Jim Morrison’s fatal heart failure in 1971 is disputed to this day –“
I cut him off there by pressing the STOP button.

Chapter Three --
Thieves first robbed the grave in 1973. In 1981, to mark the tenth anniversary of his death, a bust was erected on the site. This was subject to all kinds of atrocities before being stolen seven years later. Finally, his father placed a flat stone on the grave
that reads ΚΑΤΑ ΤΟΝ ΔΑΙΜΟΝΑ ΕΑΥΤΟΥ - "according to his own daemon".
It has yet to be stolen and it is stuck tight.
Though the hallowed site knows many stories, my favourite is the one when Patty Smith visited in the autumn of 1973. She wrote it so beautifully: Rimbaud on her heart and hyacinths in her hand, following the strings of French graffiti like Theseus to an unmarked grave, reading C’est la fin, mon merveilleux ami in the rain.

Shuffle #1

I won't see you tonight,
falling away from me,
sitting 'round at home.

The short end of the stick,
marching on a dead road,
ever and a day.

Bad Town, shifting Sands;
Hello Again.

SM