One Year Later

Yesterday honored the one year anniversary of the Tucson tragedy, and while thousands of citizens in Arizona gathered to respect the survivors, I silently acknowledged the day I became truly proud to live in the Grand Canyon State.

I'll rewind a bit: I moved to Arizona from California in 2009, and in so doing, I realized my twelve-year stint in the Golden State instilled me with a very California-centric mentality. I wasn't Anthony Kiedis or anything, but I definitely thought many of the country's, if not the world's, most critical developments revolved around California. After all, the mantra of American Idol is, "I'm going to Hollywood!" -- as if such a sojourn is the end all, be all of sojourns. In short, a part of me genuinely thought moving to Arizona made me less important in the grand scheme, because I wouldn't be living in California anymore.

Then, in January 2010, something crazy happened. Many of the country's, if not the world's, most critical developments revolved around Arizona. The SB 1070 debate at the forefront, with the caricatures of Sheriff Joe Arpaio and Governor Jan Brewer in tow, Arizona was the leading topic for news stations' talking head shows and late night comedy monologues. I loved it, but still a bit out of my familiar element, I didn't know how to process it --

-- so I made a comic book. Amazing Arizona Comics became a mini-comic turned epic concept: What if superheroes lived in Arizona, too? How would they react and interact to these already fantastic stories? So, one part political cartoon, one part superhero story, I steadily self-published the first three issues before the end of 2010, trying my best to keep up with the headlines. Sometimes, the news cycle was gracious. Other times, not so much.

Indeed, the biggest challenge so far has just been keeping up. If I see a fun catalyst for a story in the news, my imagination will translate it into a superhero adventure, and I'll want to draw it and distribute it immediately. Unfortunately, I'm just one man! For instance, I'm finally finishing the sixth issue, which guest stars Prince Harry -- yet his Arizona visit was news almost two months ago! Hey, a guy's gotta work, right?! That, and maintaining a great relationship with my future wife, consumes a lot of time; in other words, life happens, but fortunately that's what ultimately fuels the inspiration for this comic, so I can't complain.

And that's what leads me back to the anniversary of the Tucson tragedy. If you don't really know what happened on January 8, 2011, Google it; mine isn't the forum for recap -- nor will I mention the shooter's name. He's received enough press, and, frankly, I don't think we should ever dignify him with mention in the context of that day's survivors. Bluntly -- hey, news outlets, stop flashing that creepy pic in every "One Year Later" montage. At this point, it's distasteful. But I digress.

The day of the Tucson tragedy is as much the stuff of comics as any silly Jan Brewer gaff, but for completely different reasons. That morning one year ago, in a Safeway parking lot, Tucson faced no greater, tangible example of good versus evil -- it was as clear as Superman brawling with Brainiac. Further, the nation saw perfect examples of real heroes -- these are people that stepping in the pathway of bullets to protect others, and/or tackle the villain despite impending danger and harm. There's no other word to describe these people: Heroes.

I was at a comic con selling a mini-comic about heroes in Arizona when I first heard the news about Tucson, and Gaby Giffords. The irony didn't escape me. Some asked if I'd include the incident in the comic. I don't see the need. It's already a good versus evil story. What more can I offer that the actual events haven't -- and, what greater examples of heroism can I interject? My little comic book about current events exploits the reasons I enjoy living in Arizona, but the examples of the brave people that stepped up during the Tucson tragedy are the reasons I'm proud to live here.

To that end, since 2012 is the Grand Canyon State's centennial, I'm going to spend some time on the blog this year discussing the inspirations for Amazing Arizona Comics -- and the local/national news that drives my ongoing interest in current events. I'm excited to document these thoughts, because, like I said, sometimes the comic can't do it fast enough. And, sometimes, you don't need pictures.

The Day of Blond Bombshells

Yesterday was full of blond bombshells.

First of all, in the morning, I had the opportunity to sell some of my comics and see an advanced showing of this summer's first blockbuster Thor at the Tempe Marketplace, thanks to Samurai Comics. The pre-show festivities didn't last long, but I drew several pictures for kids in a short period of time, and enjoyed my fellow geeks engaging in a little cosplay. Events like that always validate why I love being a geek -- because characters like Thor unite people of all ages and inspire creativity in a different light, from sketching to costuming. Stan Lee, did you know what you were starting . . .?

Of course, I was super stoked to see Thor, as the Marvel movies of late have been the best superhero adaptations on film yet. (Smallville is a possible contender for its sheer longevity.) I've often said that I think Iron Man is the best superhero film, period, because it most successfully establishes a global threat while examining its hero's motivations, rather than motivating the hero through personal tragedy -- the best evidence of this is the uber-emo Spider-man 3, which needlessly incorporated Sandman into Spidey's origin, making both villains so tied into Peter Parker's personal history that all ramifications for their actions hardly affected anyone else at all. Heroes are much less selfish than that, and Thor exploits that theme to tell a tale of a god discovering his humanity with two worlds in the balance. No spoiler alerts here: just rest assured that the casting is perfect, the conflicts are poignant, and action is intense. I'll happily see Thor at least one more time in the theater -- and next time I'll pay for it!



That night, I was on the list to perform at Arizona's Encyclopedia Show. The best way to describe the Encyclopedia Show is: it's an episode of SNL with a topic as the guest host. So, acts range from poetry to monologues to skits, with the topic appearing in some way or another every time. Last night's topic was the spectrum of color, and my assignment was "mustard." Colonel Mustard from Clue kept coming to mind, but as a redhead I wondered how I could represent such a blond-hued character effectively. That's when it hit me: in my monologue, Colonel Mustard would reveal his true gingerness, pulling off a blond wig and reading a letter of unashamed introspection to his disapproving father. I've posted the letter at KaraokeFanboy Press, and it's perhaps my most pun-intensive work to date. I was excited to perform something in character, and with theatrical props, to boot. It's nice to know my work can cut the mustard.

Next month: Free Comic Book Day at Samurai Comics, the Kabam poetry slam in Kingman, and Phoenix Comic Con!

Thank You, April . . .

As expected, the coming of spring has blossomed its fair share of creativity, starting with two of the best April Fool's Day jokes I've ever perpetuated, thanks to the persuasive power of the Internet, and its star agent Facebook. Firstly, I basically convinced many of my friends on Facebook that I've had a stalker since 2009 via his or her blog, Big Kaz Fan. On that blog, you'll see the second joke, a video we produced at work featuring the first ever "embroidery tattoo." Fortunately, tweezer removal is a lot less painful than that with a laser.

April 1 was also Phoenix's monthly "First Friday" art walk, which has become less about art and more about adolescents offering "free hugs" to oblige their attention-starved hormones. That night, my friends and I found the Mobile Karaoke Unit, a bicycle-propelled karaoke machine that tours First Friday and other events in metro Phoenix. Much to my delight, I sang the Monkees' "Daydream Believer," and many passers-by stopped to sing along. The MKU is an ingenious idea, I give credit to its K.J. for combining my two favorite hobbies (riding bikes and karaoke) into a virtual portable event. I'll endure hundreds of offers for free, sweaty hugs if it means singing another Monkees tune to the beautiful Phoenix skyline.

April is National Poetry Month, so I've been fulfilling the so-called 30/30 challenge by writing a poem a day until the 30th. I did this last year, too, but I'm much more pleased with this month's efforts so far; of course, I'll probably say the same thing next year, but so it goes as an ever self-critical writer. I try to be my own biggest fan first; if I'm happy, it's one less person to worry about pleasing in the crowd. I'm posting the pieces at KaraokeFanboy Press.

Speaking of performing poetry, I participated in my first competitive "prop slam" last week. Poetry slams (which are three-round readings where participants are scored by judges for the win) discourage props, so when they're allowed, it's often a proverbial show-and-tell of bric-a-brac muses. My girlfriend came in third place using my sombrero, her "Talk Nerdy to Me" T-shirt, and a laptop, and I'm very proud of her . . . but I'm most proud of my second-round performance. I utilized my Superman and Hulk action figures to demonstrate who would win in a fight . . . for five minutes. Mind you, a slam piece is supposed to be three minutes, but I got a little carried away. I tried to display all of Superman's and Hulk's powers, and elaborate on Superman's inner struggle to pull his punches in fear of actually killing his adversary (or the ol' heat vision lobotomy a la the Justice Lords from Justice League Unlimited). Ultimately, Supes won by flying the Hulk into the outer atmosphere, where he passed out, reverted to Banner, and was detained back in Metropolis. In case you were wondering.

Finally, I'm diligently working on Amazing Arizona Comics #4 this month, hoping to have it, and the following issue, complete for the Phoenix Comic Con on Memorial Day weekend. I've changed the story three times to accommodate local current events, and my recent discovery of Retro TV has inspired a story sure to please connoisseurs of Arizona lore and pop culture alike. In the meantime, at the end of the month I'm scheduled to appear at Grand Ave. Live (a local live talk show) as the host of Conspire's weekly open mic, then again at the Encyclopedia Show as a performer addressing "mustard" on the spectrum of color. Thank you, April, for keeping me on my toes.

KaraokeFanboy Weekly #1: The "What Are You Running From?" Issue

Following "KaraokeFanboy 202," I've decided to attempt a weekly newsletter compiling my week's worth of napkin scribbling and cell phone photography, with the occasional drawing or YouTube link tossed in for good measure. The hope is to collect things that have inspired thought and add a little something to them to further the creative process. Sometimes, like this week, they'll share a theme. We'll see how it goes, and if I actually write more than.

*****

KaraokeFanboy Weekly vol. 1, no. 1: The "What Are You Running From?" Issue

*****

First of all, since I moved back to Arizona, I've discovered slam poetry. I've been writing poetry for a long time, and I've had the honor of featuring a few times in Orange County, but the realm of slam is a bit different. It's competitive -- and frankly reminds me a bit of my high school speech and debate, but fortunately the Phoenix area is dense with immense talent, stripping away the awkwardness of that association and challenging my writing to evolve. I've been trying to write more topical pieces; I wrote and read this one just yesterday, an elaboration on a poem I wrote for National Poetry Month. Transcribing it from scratch paper makes it official:

The Greatest Storytellers of Our Time

Forget the poets.
Their nouns are too proper for the common man;
their verbs aren't helping anyone anymore.

Forget the novelists, too.
They're too thick to think of the little things.

Forget the musicians, the movie makers, even the ministers --
they keep telling the same tired tall tales.
If history really repeats itself,
researchers can pinpoint precisely when the circle stops and starts again
by the way these stories rerun.

Skip class.
Your professor has nothing new to say.
His syllabus is just academia's answer to intellectual recycling,
if only he didn't waste the paper.

You really want to learn something?
Gather, ye, at the feet of the adulterer, the cheat.
These are the greatest storytellers of our time.
These, who invest in story like their bonds were at stake;
these, who digest the story, their bread and butter,
but not for a publisher's sake.
They don't sweat over submissions, creators' rights infringements,
The New York Times Best Sellers' list, pop radio top 40 hits --
they're just redefining what "is" is.
(Remember that line?)

The story is the perfect accomplice,
the where-have-you-been,
the, "Tiger, did you learn anything?"
Their story's only ambition is to be the custodian of the status quo,
sweeping their secrets under the carpet so their loved ones never know.

Theirs aren't t he adventures over Reading Rainbow.
When Joseph Campbell wrote of the hard-travelling hero,
he dreamt of stormy seas, Odysseus, Ahab --
he never considered paparazzi, tabloids, sex addition rehab,
but, Great Storyteller, don't apologise for your disgraced celebrity!
That plot device we couldn't see coming, your tarnished integrity,
man, we revel in those twists!
Our faith in you, the hapless victim!
Like Kaiser Sose losing his limp,
like Luke's father slapping him on the wrist,
we're hanging on every word!

Adulterer, cheater, with this, the sermon of your mount,
we're moved by your words,
we feel the spirit --
welifhlakjwehiwiumcnalweoiah!

Oh, I wasn't speaking in tongues.
That's just what my fist typed when it pounded the keyboard.
Even wanton outbursts of raw emotion have something to say,
and sometimes it doesn't make sense.
Great storyteller, I'm finally speaking your language.

So forget the ministers, their holy fables,
and the music makers, their record labels.
Forget the novelists, with their tiding endings.
Forget rhyme and reason.

Forget the poets.

*****

With another new album on the horizon in less than a year, David Gray continues to prove himself my favorite singer/songwriter. Further, I'm officially dubbed the release from his last album, Draw the Line, called "Fugitive," my favorite song. Dave Matthews Band's "Warehouse," held that distinction for a long time, since it's first lines captured a reverence for youth as the foundation for a progressive adulthood: "Hey, restless mind/Don't throw away your playful beginnings." Interestingly, "Fugitive" takes it a step further, as Gray asks, "Is the answer none of the above/Crouched in a hole like a mud-streaked fugitive?" I need some time to understand his analogy, but it makes sense to me now; life often offers us a distinct list of options, and sometimes none of them are what we envisioned for the future. This dissatisfied side of ourselves can only run, like a fugitive from his bonds, for coveted freedom. On top of that vivid lesson, the video for "Fugitive" has some great artwork -- also symbolic of life's endless possibilities, perhaps?



*****

Below: Poster montage on 20th Street and Washington in Phoenix. The voices are getting louder, the fists, more tightly clenched -- on both sides of the argument. I've had a few revelations about the immigration debate lately, mainly, that I lock my door at night. Every night. And I know I'm not the only one. I'm willing to wager that the folks that pasted up these posters do, too. However, if my deadbolt broke, I was too lazy to fix it, and my neighbors decided to stroll in and help themselves to my stuff, I couldn't blame them. Despite the law that demands they resist that urge, my laziness toward the lock was the real problem. Besides, I have some awesome stuff! Who wouldn't want some of it? Now, if my neighbors were completely happy with what they had in their place, maybe they wouldn't peep into my apartment at all, or if they did, we could invite one another over freely. Honestly, that's the real issue, but it's too daunting to address . . . or, as these posters spread, we're too afraid to behold what we may yet become.



*****

Finally, today is the first full day in Arizona without speed cameras in a long time. Speed Cameron mourns his fallen brethren today. Wait, who's Speed Cameron, you ask? Well, click here to find out!

My legs are tired.
Russ, a.k.a. KaraokeFanboy

My Ugly Mug at the Ugly Mug

As I've shamelessly plugged on my blogs for a few weeks now (and what else are blogs for?), I was the featured poet at Two Idiots Peddling Poetry last Wednesday, December 16, at the Ugly Mug in Orange, California. As I've mentioned before, I've been an avid attendee and frequent participant in their open readings for a little over a year now, so I was honored that they'd ask me to feature -- and ecstatic when the host, Ben, decided to dub the night "Two Geeks Peddling Poetry." Both Ben and Steve (the idiots, but hardly) are comic book fanboys like me, so they were happy to pick my scheduled feature night to experiment with the geeky format. Mission accomplished.

To celebrate the "Geek Extravaganza," Ben gave open readers an obscure geek reference to quote before sharing their poetry, and some attendees were kind enough to donate superhero action figures for a toy drive that benefited the Boys & Girls Clubs of Fullerton. Many of my friends and co-workers attended, as well, which was initially intimidating, as I knew a crash-and-burn failure behind the mic would be something they'd never let me forget, but in the end it helped me be myself, rather than the pretentious young poet I could easily become with a stage and fifteen minutes of local fame. I was most grateful for the chance to read a poem about -- and essentially to -- my girlfriend, in attendance all the way from Arizona! It was a national affair!

I read poems from my 2009 Poetry Zine series, which concludes this month with nine out of an initially conceived twelve tiny volumes (one for every month, but I combined the summer and holiday months) and a few other "bonus tracks." Indeed, as an open mic and karaoke enthusiast, an open mic poetry gig is the closest I've come to having an "original gig," complete with "set list" and even "groupies." It was both an exciting and humbling experience, and in the end I actually made money from pimping my creative efforts -- something every artist dreams of. I've considered 2009 my most productive year creatively, from the poetry to Karaoke Comics to the other KaraokeFanboy Press stuff I've self-published, so this was a great way to wrap it up and anticipate a hopefully equally inspired 2010. Who knows what a change in scenery might offer . . . but more on that later.

In the meantime, my sincere thanks to everyone that checked out my ugly mug at the ugly mug, and here's "The Difference," the poem that concluded my set and which is whole-heartedly dedicated to my girlfriend. It's wintry, to boot -- just in time for the holidays!

The Difference

The falling snow is a silent symphony
of endless possibility,
each unique flake a crystalline doorway into
a parallel world.
If I could shrink to their size,
I could walk through their icy thresholds
and behold different you’s and me’s:
like wildly successful corporate you,
and drunk and homeless me.
Country music fan you,
jailed political activist me.
Crazy cat lady you,
underground street fighter me.
Religious cult leader you,
crazy cat lady me.
Playboy bunny you.
Eunuch me.

My every instinct to ruin this moment
with what-ifs and where-we-could-be’s
is hushed by the sound of these worlds
colliding outside the window,
little crescendo cymbals crashing, playing,
and laying the groundwork for this world.
Now the only one that really exists.

Goin' APE, Addendum

A special thanks to John Parkin from the blog Robot 6 for his detailed article about this year's Alternative Press Expo at Comic Book Resources, and for including some quotes from yours truly! Not to brag, but one of my quotes was actually used as the article's headline!

If anyone is checking out my humble little blog as a result of that article, drop me a line, and I'll happily send you a complimentary copy of my first solo self-published comic, Karaoke Comics #1. Otherwise, the rest of my self-published work can be found at KaraokeFanboy Press -- and don't forget to check out my K.O. Comix buddy Brent's new dogs vs. cats apocalyptic western, Dog Town, too!

Goin' APE

San Francisco is the only city I’ve ever been to that charges a cover at the door. The four dollar toll at the Bay Bridge is the promise of exclusivity, like the city itself is a nightclub full of bright flashing colors and the heartbeat of bass-heavy music and strange people that would love to meet you as much as forget you in the morning. All of this is sponsored by Coca-Cola, apparently, if that big glittery billboard that towers over the skyline means anything. Fortunately, every time I’ve visited the city by the bay, I’ve had a purpose -- namely, the Alternative Press Expo, a little comic con for folks like me that make their comics and zines by hand. With APE as a pseudo-professional pivot for the weekend, one can only monkey around so much . . . but sometimes trouble finds its way to you, too.



Barreling Down the Highway

I’ve been making comics with my buddy Brent for years, but we haven’t exhibited at APE together since 2006, so I was excited for a chance to show off our respective works since then. His latest solo effort, Dog Town, is an awesome comic book; even if you don’t read comics, peruse the sketches on his blog and behold his amazing talent. Anyway, he and I rented a car from Orange County and began the northbound trek on the 5 freeway shortly after lunch on Friday afternoon. Thanks to talk radio’s obsession with Bubble Boy, the drive was entertaining enough, and even when the stench of cow country infiltrated the car, Brent and I didn’t whine one bit.

Little did we suspect that the freeway had plenty of “whine” in store for us. Just before the 580 freeway, a truck hauling huge, old-fashioned wine barrels lost one. It shattered in the road and the debris struck a lot of cars in a lot of different ways -- and we were no exception. I swerved to avoid the twisted metal, which in the white headlights looked like the macabre skeleton of a barrel, but it punctured our driver’s side front tire. We pulled over and Brent quickly put on the spare while I called our rental car place to file an incident report. We pulled over in the next closest town, Livermore, to inspect the car in better light and discovered a leak, the possibility of a damaged oil pan.



A tow company was to deliver us a new car but the closest open location was the San Francisco airport, so we killed a few hours eating at Applebee’s. When the tow truck arrived with a nice new Ford Focus, the glassy-eyed driver took his time, which by then was par for our course. Brent watched the guy eat a Lunchable -- you know, a little round piece of bologna, a little square piece of cheese, a faux Ritz cracker. Assemble. Eat. Repeat. When we finally got back on the road, we were in San Francisco within the better part of an hour, and in our hotel room at the Bay Bridge Inn by 11 p.m. When we checked in, the clerk asked if we minded the milk he was storing in our room’s refrigerator. We didn’t. We were utterly exhausted.

What A Bummer

I’ve seriously contemplated sharing this part of our weekend, because I know it’s one Brent would love to forget, but as long as I’ve had the privilege of exploring the inner city in any capacity, I’ve been fascinated by homelessness. I even wrote a comic book about, Doug Deever, Dumpster Diver. I’d like to think my interest transcends mere rubbernecking; I’m genuinely curious in the origins of homelessness, from the traditional stereotype of the shell shocked war veteran, to the strung out alcoholic, to . . . what? The question I always ask, at what point in a person’s life do they run out of loved ones willing to help? How many friends and family would I have to burn through to end up on the street, too? I know the phenomenon is by no means this simple, but in a dense city like San Francisco, where homelessness is rampant, it’s a challenge to look at them as people, and not just part of the ornate architecture. Sometimes it’s better not to.

Consider our Saturday morning, when Brent and I were strolling toward Market Street in the hopes of a Starbucks. Perhaps our minds were eager for APE as we took in the street art, from graffiti to intentional attempts at beautification. At an intersection on 7th Street, in the heart of what appeared to be a skid row, Brent and I caught sight of something I’ll never forget: two homeless folks, an old white man and a black woman, with their hands down the other’s pants. Though I could tell they had been trying to conceal themselves with their jackets, they were beyond the point of subtly, and the man especially was rocking back and forth in a ragged dance of hasty desperation.

You know what they were doing, so don’t make me say it . . . and as much as the sight was admittedly hilarious, it humanized these two people beyond the thought of normal street dressing. Perverse, sure, but no more so than any seemingly “civilized” businessman visiting a strip club or massage parlor -- but in this case, perhaps more -- cherished? In the context of urban survival, perhaps more forgiving, this moment of fleeting respite? I don’t judge them, and, as sick as it sounds, I’m grateful that I shared in that moment of raw intimacy. Beyond the preconception of begging drunks, these are still people, with just as many complicated needs as the rest of us -- and dark reflection of there but for the grace of God go I.



Similarly, several times on our way back to the hotel throughout the weekend, we passed this vintage owl pillow in a locked doorway, and by Sunday evening, I just had to take it and give it a home. What it represents -- discarded old wisdom, ironic discomfort -- epitomizes San Francisco’s homelessness perfectly. I only hope that smell comes out in the wash . . .

The Fresh Maker

Whenever I’m in San Francisco, I have to visit the Mint Karaoke Lounge. I discovered the Mint during APE 2007, and I’ve been a handful of times since. I’ve talked about it here in The Karaoke Chronicles before, but it’s worth mentioning again, because the karaoke starts there at 4 p.m. every day! You gotta love a place that respects karaoke enough to kick it off during the waning daytime hours!

Anyway, so I hoped to get to the Mint Friday night, and even though we were exhausted after The Wine Barrel Incident, I cruised by to see if I could find easy parking, with no luck. Plus, navigating the labyrinth of one-way streets in San Francisco infuriated me after cruising at some 80 mph on the freeways, so I retired earlier than I’d hoped. Saturday night, after Brent and I went to the Cartoon Art Museum APE after party, I hoofed it up Market Street to the lounge, where the one free bar stool in the whole joint was waiting for me.



At first, I was intimidated by the crowd, because I thought the rotation might be too long to get a song in. I threw in my token “Piano Man,” anyway, and thankfully the KJ Frank runs a very tight stage, letting you know who’s going to sing three performers in advance, and playing songs right on top of each other if necessary. He’s also an excellent singer himself, so his passion fuels the vibe in the room. When I approached to sing, I had my drink in tow to swing along to Billy Joel’s piano, but Frank frowned against it. You can see how I mimed a drink, but fortunately the crowd was happy enough to oblige, and I received plenty of praise for my song choice. (My fave pic from the night is here; check out the guy in front worshipping me!) Of course, I let the crowd sing for me during that last chorus, as if the Mint itself was performing for me. As the name implies, it always leaves a great taste in my mouth.

Goin’ APE

APE, the reason we were in San Francisco in the first place, is unlike any other comic book show I’ve attended, and I’ve been to the San Diego Comic Con, the Los Angeles Comic Book and Science Fiction Convention, and trade shows like Frank & Sons in the City of Industry. At APE, the press is truly “alternative,” ranging from traditional zines, to hand drawn mini-comics, to homemade crafts and prints. I’ll be reviewing the stuff I picked up at my comics review blog A Comic A Day, and I’m generally pretty pleased with the haul.

Setting up the K.O. Comix table is always a challenge, because we want our booth to clearly exhibit our work in a visually appealing way. In the past, I’ve brought props to emphasize our books’ themes, like a little Christmas tree to highlight our comic Little Christmas, but this time we kept it simple by stacking up pure product. Dog Town was the centerpiece as far as I was concerned, it being the newest and most professional piece on the table, and I pushed my 2009 Poetry Zine Series for free, just to get that stuff out there. Still, like any other con, I’m talking about comics getting into the hands of consumers, so what makes APE so different?



The simple answer: At APE, there’s no middle man. It’s the artist standing behind his or her work, with potential fans passing by, and sometimes the artist only has a second or two to make an impression. At other cons, retailers or office jockeys push product, which is critical to the industry, but at APE and other zine-friendly shows, the material is usually hot off the press, or straight out of the copy machine at work, into readers’ hands. It’s pure, and brutal, if you’ve poured your heart into something passers-by won’t give a second glance. In that case, pricing is critical; Brent and I both agree that our books are priced to sell, not to make a profit. The assumption is, interest now generates business and profit later. If we actually pursued K.O. Comix with some consistency, we might succeed with that model. Other creators, I encourage you to try it!

So, I’d be remiss not to mention, check out the K.O. Comix blog, and my tangible creative efforts at the KaraokeFanboy Press blog! At the very least, you’ll see some pretty pictures!

Fortunately, the drive home was uneventful. No wine barrels, no shameless homeless folks, no karaoke, no peddling comics. Just two guys worn out by an eclectic weekend. Of course, San Francisco doesn’t charge you to leave the city, which would be equally profitable, but the message is clear . . . Get out! Just like a nightclub, whenever your personal closing time arrives, they want you up and out of there, probably to make room for more folks in such a cramped space. I’m usually ready to leave anyway. I don’t know if I could live in a city so densely populated -- but I certainly like visiting as frequently as possible. I don’t mind the cover charge -- because the memories are priceless.

The Inner Child's Outer Limits -- Another Comic Con Retrospective, part 2

On the heels of my initial thoughts about the subject, retailer-oriented blogs at sites like Mile High Comics and Comics 212 have been lamenting about comics' diminishing presence and influence at Comic Con, even while the industry maintains its reverence as the event's inspiration. Some commentators have already rung the Con's death knell, and while I share their frustrations I'm certainly not eager to agree whole-heartedly yet. Remember, I hope to remain neither optimistic or pessimistic but realistic on the subject; so, while the comic book as a singular entity may be inadvertently ostracized from its own convention, I contend that the spirit of science fiction and fantasy that birthed it will remain in those hallowed halls for decades to come. Just consider the following experiences I enjoyed as a fanboy at Comic Con.

The Clothes Make the Man-Child

First of all, you can take all of the comics out of Comic Con that you want, but you'll never take away the costumes inspired by them! Superman, Captain America, and multitudes of Storm Troopers and Klingons will forever remind the Twilight 'tweens of the future where Comic Con comes from. Now, one of the most frequent questions I'm asked when I tell people I go to Con is, "Oh, do you dress up?" I confess I've thought about it but recently decided that I enjoy wearing fresh clothes each of the four days I attend, and not one Guy Gardner costume four different times. I mean, wearing a costume at Comic Con must be like wearing a uniform to work, right? While you have it on, you must fulfill certain responsibilities -- namely, taking pictures with other geeks like me. It's akin to customer service; even if a patron grabs you on your way to the break room, you're obligated to help. Staying in plain clothes means that when I leave the Con, I can leave the Con behind, that I'm not wearing it on my sleeve -- that I can blend in with the crowd if I just want a coffee at It's A Grind. Still, these makeshift heroes may yet save Comic Con from itself, always reminding it of its roots by blurring the line between fantasy and the reality of San Diego's Gaslamp District for those four memorable days.

Sketch a Falling Star

Wolverine by Jeff Johnson

Another consistent Comic Con phenomenon is what I have dubbed the Sketchbook Spirit. Now, this spirit moves in mysterious ways and usually adapts to the host it inhabits. In some cases, the spirit demands compensation for even the smallest of signs, in this case a pencil or ink sketch. In other cases, grand miracles are performed sans payment, like this crayon-colored sketch from Tiny Titans artist Franco, on the heels of his Eisner win, no less!



Hyperbole aside, this was the first year I decided to visit professionals with a sketchbook in tow, and like some others I've witnessed I selected a theme -- karaoke, of course. I only solicited artists of personal importance to me, and none are more important than Erik Larsen, so despite his response to my weird Dragon-singing-karaoke request ("What the hell?"), he delivered beyond expectation. Generally, I was very pleased with the experience, as it gave my roaming on the floor some purpose, though as I eluded I was intrigued with the inconsistency between some lesser known artists charging for a sketch, while others poured their heart onto a page for free. The inquiry is in the artists' perspective. What's more valuable, the $15 for a sketch now, or an experience that might move me investment in your ongoing product?

It's Not the Size of the Press, It's How You Use It

As a former Small Press exhibitor, I spent a significant amount of time in that minimal section of the convention floor, and I was pleased to purchase a bundled set of mini-comics from Robot Publishing that I've admired for years. Artist Robert Goodin was kind enough to contribute to my sketchbook, too, and he epitomised the essence of that area; he let his Small Press merchandise speak for itself. His peers ranged from brooding isolationists, pushed as far back from the table (and any potential customers) as possible, to practical used car pitchmen, thrusting flyers or samples with the fervor of a Las Vegas porn peddler. Either way, when K.O. Comix had its own table in this venue, I quickly developed the understanding that my comic book will stay with the customer longer than my conversation ever will -- so it has to be good. The comic should make a reader come back to my table every year whether I talk to him or not.

Further, for some, Comic Con is often the only forum for their wares, yet it also pits them against powerhouses like DC and Image. Like artists feeling the Sketchbook Spirit, the question is, do Small Press publishers charge the true cost (plus moderate profit) of their low-run, professionally bound book at the risk of facing low to no sales at all, or do they eat some cost at an event like this for sheer exposure? Frankly, I finally bought those excellent Robot Publishing books because Goodin reduced their price. That's change I can believe in.

As a fledgling self-publisher myself, I sought to distribute samples of my first solo effort, Karaoke Comics #1, at the Con's token freebie table. When I handed the samples to a volunteer on Friday, he scrutinized them, asking, "Are they appropriate for all ages?" Now, the story takes place in a bar, boasts homosexual themes, and ends with me in my underwear, but it's all very subtle, so I was confident when I replied, "Oh, yeah, sure!" I didn't have a lot of copies to offer, so I figured the title would attract enough interested readers to deplete the pile before a child's wayward hand was even a concern. After examining the sample further, the volunteer said, "We'll work with it." I don't know what that means, but the exchange put me off, as I wondered why a younger twenty-something suddenly had control over whether my work would reach a broad audience. As a volunteer, he doesn't have a paying job to lose if some kid sees a crude drawing of me in my underwear, so . . .

In this way, Comic Con is a lot like karaoke. Some come to sing country, others rap, others rock 'n roll, just as some come for Twilight, some for sketches, others for comics and merchandise. Everything isn't for everybody, but anybody should be able to find something there they like. Who would sing a song they don't like? Who would find themselves in an area of the exhibit hall they can't appreciate? The experience is truly what you make it, as far as your inner child will allow. At this point in its career, Comic Con doesn't need to know you. You need to know Comic Con . . . and yourself.

* Other karaoke sketches can be found here, and other Comic Con pics have been posted here!

Taking an About Face -- book

Something strange recently happened to me.

I was beckoned into a stark white room. I don't remember who beckoned me, and in fact I may have heard several voices in legion calling out to me, but I admit walking into the room of my own volition. I remember that much. I wasn't alone in the room very long; I was soon surrounded by a variety of friends, some still in my life today, others I haven't seen in several years. I could hear them, too, but they weren't talking to me. They weren't talking to anybody, but everybody. Some of them even talked about me, like I wasn't in the room, and I responded . . . to no avail. Soon, people I didn't know entered and sought me, not in flesh but in spirit, again talking about me as if I weren't there. I wondered, how did I come to once feel so welcomed, now to feel like a virtual stranger in my own skin?

Then, it struck me. There are two kinds of gatherings like this, like where friends of all walks of life and even some strangers gather in your honor and talk to the ether. One is your funeral.

The other is Facebook.

Yes, I tried Facebook for about three hours. Nearly all of the friends I care about now contacted me within that short period of time, but shortly thereafter some people I didn't know or remember began to "friend" me, too, and my inbox was overwhelmed with unsolicited requests and updates that convinced me one more on-line forum simply wasn't worth it. Friends, if I don't already know where you are or what you're doing, I'll find out via e-mail, text, or telephone. Everyone else, if I'm not talking to you now, I'm probably not interested -- but it doesn't hurt to ask with a content-based e-mail. If we were friends in some capacity before, you need not request the status again now. Let's just pick up where we left off, okay?

Otherwise, I feel you're talking about me like I'm not in the same room with you, as if, "Aw, I really wish I was his friend." Further, if you're not making an effort to read my blogs now, why would you want to read my writing on your wall anyway? It's a reactive, almost retrospective relationship. Like a eulogy. Like a funeral.

In the meantime, summertime has always been blogging time for me, and I've created a new forum for my solo, self-publishing efforts: KaraokeFanboy Press. Just in time for Comic Con (and eventually, APE), I have begun to extract conversation about my printed efforts from here and will now discuss and promote them there -- so check it out for the latest on Karaoke Comics, my 2009 Poetry Zine Series, the Far and Wee fanzine, and more. This blog shall remain my ongoing commentary on comics, coffee, and celebrity -- you know, the three c's of significant living -- while I've finally recently updated my LiveJournal with some more personal allegory, too.

This is where you can turn and face me on the Internet -- if you dare.

The First Karaoke Comics Review Is In!

Storming the Tower graciously took the time to review my complimentary copy of Karaoke Comics #1, and her criticism is constructive and well articulated. Check it out here!

If YOU review comics on-line and would like an advance copy of my first solo self-publishing effort, drop me a line. I'm looking for some comprehensive feedback, and I wouldn't mind a quote or two of praise for the back cover . . .!

Check out a three-page preview of Karaoke Comics #1 at my ComicSpace.

Coming Soon: Karaoke Comics!

Or, why I haven't blogged in awhile. Just a few more pages to go . . .