Thursday, January 31, 2008


The oppessive cold continues to harrass me into stasis. Ask a circus juggeler to do his act while his hands are tied.
I have twenty pages of pencils to ink sitting in limbo while I reach out from pugatory. Never the twain shall meet.
I sit and wonder if the puplic at large will even see the finished thing as I see it done and real.
I feel like I've been type cast in the wrong movie. Second billing to myself.

Right now I have to pack a bunch of eBay stuff that's late as hell due to illness, business, lack of materials and general malise on my part. So, to those of you who have waited for the items you purchased, please try and understand. No excuse only some reasons.

Right now, I'd like to be at Neils kitchen table and have the time to just talk to an old friend. Both talking and friends seem so difficult to find these days.

Go rent "The Kingdom", if you havn't seen it yet. A film with a deep and glowing heart disguised as an action flick. I nearly wept. The sound track is amazeing.

Where is my teacher, I have so much to say. So little time.

Be safe you dareing adventurers, don't fall.


Tuesday, January 29, 2008



Andy Warhol.

I guess that's true, though I find it depressing.

The next time I try and say something, I'll be sure to either make it so obscure that nobody has a chance to get it and consequently thinks I'm brilliant or I'll just be so blunt I become my own liability.

Sometimes art sucks.

Twenty-four below zero and everything is frozen.

But, "peace to to you all" anyway.


Monday, January 28, 2008



Illness nearly over. Lets all have a big round of applause for synthetic supper penicillin. Woopie.

I've had time to read a bit since the yuchie bits of this whatever, cold flu thingabobbie hit me and so far the most outstanding book I've managed to get under my belt was "A Mighty Heart" by Mariane Pearl. Now, what I've got to say for awhile may seen disjointed, and the rambleings of a man clearly under the influance if to much Dayquil. That's ok with me, but possibly not you. So, fair warning. The average sentiment around my wee town is that I'm a nice chap but a bit odd. So, honestly, the stuff below may offend you in it's , well, circular honesty.

Ok? consider this a disclaimation. As apposed to claymation.

Right then. this has to do with a nasty side effect of supper antibiotics.And terrorism.That being constipation.

I believe my doctor, ( Howdy Dr. B.) when he says, "take these" so I generally do. Now, when one takes a supper anything medical that is supposed to kill every ounce of bactria slash viral lifeforms that happen to causeing you severe discomfort, you can bet good folding money that includes the intestinal track. Yup. You have no, I repeat, no bactria with which to absorbe nutriants commonly known as "food". The result: constipation. No go, no nothing. Tres bad. "specially if you're ill to begin with.So, one finds oneself in solitude and stareing at the opposite wall.

Very very zen. But as all things in this world, this to shall, umm, pass. Strangely enough I found myself in this very position when it did. Pass. And, as fate may have it, being ill at the same time I needed desperatly to blow my nose. Breathing is good. So, as the intestines finally showed a spark of animation I blew the aforementioned nose. It was reall great, no, really really great. Now, in the last few years I've needed my first pair of glasses to read with, so as a nice side effect I rarely have them with me unless I'm either working or reading. At the moment I was not reading or, for that matter, working, well not making art anyway. What do I do you ask? The truth be told, I tend to pray. Being Sufi, this not uncommon as it might seem. We Sufi's tend to pray at least in back of the mind continuously as everyday life is simply a prayer in motion. I had this lovely thought; "thank you for this" well, "movement." Then as I prayed and felt gratitude for what others would seem ungodly and a tad inappropriate, I was thankful for the paper waiting, the really good honk. This lead to thanks for the house I was in that sheltered me in my illness, and so on and soforth down the line. What really blew me away was eventually I found myself giving thanks to the very virus that put in a position to thank.

Life, and all creation revolves. It's a whirling fractal phenomenon of epic proportions. Love is circular, it returns and spins away more vital than before as if by turning it gathers gravity and mass only to return heavier, more real.

Mariane Pearl wrote a book about her late husband Daniel and the beliefs they shared even after his brutal death at the hands of terrorists. It is a book that strikes with brutally delicate simplicity at the very heart of madness and yet remains ever stronger. Frankly, terrorists are breathing constipation. They've been emptied of the basic stuff of life. The stuff that is messy, and unfortunate and grand and real. Automated beings lacking and semblance of human behavior, barely mimicking the species. Any terrorist. Irish, Congolese, Saudi, American, you name it. They stop revolving. A form of soul stasis that makes them move in strait lines contrary to the ultimate order of creation. I find to both terrifying, sad, and maddening.

So, in defiance of fear, in my own way I go from sickness to health and back again as all who wear flesh must. But I'm more than that. I turn. I grow and live inside and out. it may be messy, but it is balance, so refined and superbly orchestrated that it leaves me breathless when it hits me full force. I've placed a link here for the Pearl Foundation. This has everything to do with everything else. Please at least go and look. Love grows and fear is just something we as people, a species, as children of eternity must put aside.

Something Mariane wrote keeps repeating itself in my head: "People often see peace as the simple absence of war, but it is instead the result of courageous actions taken initiate dialogue between civilizations.

See, circular.

As a race, we humans need a good bowel movement.

Then, we talk it over.

This a prayer of thanks.


Monday, January 21, 2008



I've got one and it is. Cold. Really cold. So cold the minimal heat at the studio is wholly inadequate So, having a cold, I'm not working. That is until the cold lets up a bit and my poor wee heater has a fighting chance. Of course my cold has to go as well. It's all so zen. *cough cough weeze weeze*

So. As one sits sleeps and dribbles, we have no choice but to dream of things to amuse ourselves.

Recently discovered Norwegian painter Frits Thaulow is right at the top of my list. If you've availed yourself to some of the links on my "Destinations" page you may have tried the "Lines and Colors" site. I've got the link here: . I would highly recommend that anyone with more than a passing interest in very fine turn of the century landscape go there and enjoy yourselves. Comics have never been all I was about, in fact it's my opinion that the best comics are never just comics. They draw on a vast history of art and artists. Not as some would have it just some sad ironic pastiche with a wink and a nudge, but in a vital creative way. Thaulow's work is astonishing in it's honesty, and affection of time and place. His pallet is one of the most delicate and sensitive to subject. His evocation of time, place, light and air opens a window on the mind and one feels like exploring through the window he opens. If you've a mind to and think you would enjoy something like this, please give it a go.

On another front, I had the chance a few days ago to pick up the DVD of "A Mighty Heart". I was deeply moved and for your basic "closed room" picture, ( at least half the film is shot in only several rooms) the subject was handled with extreme grace, simplicity and humanity. No teens being naughty or cgi monsters anywhere. What a relief, as one gets so very tired of that sometimes. After all, truth is far stranger than any fiction.

Well, that's it my friends, I must go dribble fuss and bitch about the nature of virus's and microbes in general.

Please pray for peace and tolerance. Somebodies gotta do it.


Tuesday, January 15, 2008


Today. What can I say about today that would make sense to those of you that don't have the king kong muse I do?

How can I describe thing that happened today when I sat and took up the pencil? It's the very same cheap give-a-way mechanical I've penciled every comic, every canvas, every doddle for the last twelve years. The logo on the pencil once read "Dow Jones& Co, but has long ago been rubbed into history. Point five millimeter pentel HB leads.

Well, my friends, this is how I'd try, try as valiantly as I can to bring you there. Close your eyes and imagine this: A brand new, showroom perfect 1959 Cadillac, color is up to you. Imagine your best friend, say, "Sam" is in the passenger seat....WAY over on the other side with his head out the window. Sam is your dog. The radio plays some sweet soul music, music that just fits. It's the first blush of spring and every tree and shrub is flowering. Sunlight dazzles your eyes through cool as fuck shades. You have a full tank of gas, and that huge dee-troit engine is humming like like Jane after a good night with Tarzan. You have nowhere to go and that's just fine. You just go, sun sparkling little rainbows on the monster hood. You have a couple'a hundred bucks in your pocket and you don't care 'cause you have no need to buy anything, but you could if you wanted to.

That's what happened to me today.

Just one of those oh, so rare days when everything was synced up to the cosmic yes. They happen so infrequently that I honestly don't remember the last time it happened. But I know this: when it does, I remember what I really do this for. Not the money,(HA!) not the recognition,( minimal at best), and not some inflated sense of self. Nope, just a profound gratitude to be alive and able to do this art thing.

Finally, you pull into a gas station like brutal silk, and the attendant says, "hey, mister, that's a mighty big car ya got there."

"Yup", you say, "and she's paid for.

Sam just smiles.


Monday, January 14, 2008


Back to work today. The time off helped a great deal. There will be a short window of several weeks down the road when I'm ordering more paper from Graphix when I'll be open for commissioned work. So, lets 'ave it then. Rent to pay you know.

By the way, I was wondering if any of you all are reading this blog. I don't know if it matters if I'm just talking to myself or not.

And, yup, I'm still heavily connecting with Dylan these days. Messsiah complex you know. Anyway, I found this........about the most relevant song for today one could ask for.

Series of dreams. Bob Dylan.

I was thinking of a series of dreams

Where nothing comes up to the top.

Everything stays down where it's wounded

And comes to a permanent stop.

Wasn't thinking of anything specific,

Like in a dream, when someone wakes up and screams.

Nothing truly very scientific,

Just thinking of a series of dreams.

Thinking of a series of dreams

Where the time and the tempo drag,

And there's no exit in any direction

'Cept the one that you can't see with your eyes.

Wasn't making any great connections,

Wasn't falling for any intricate schemes.

Nothing that would pass inspection,

Just thinking of a series of dreams.

Dreams where the umbrella is folded,

And into the path you are hurled,

And the cards are no good that you're holding

Unless they're from another world.

In one, the surface was frozen.

In another, I witnessed a crime.

In one, I was running, and in another

All I seemed to be doing was climb

Wasn't looking for any special assistance,

Not going to any great extremes.

I'd already gone the distance,

Just thinking of a series of dreams.

Dreams where the umbrella is folded,

And into the path you are hurled,

And the cards are no good that you're holding

Unless they're from another world.

I'd already gone the distance,

Just thinking of a series of dreams.

Just thinking of a series of dreams.

Just thinking of a series of dreams.

The video is a bit wonky, but the picture is full wide screen, and amazing.

Look, I'm sorry if I've an undying affection for the mans work, but he's of my time as a young man, and remains untouchable.

I only hope my work stands the rigors of decades, though, more likely it'll fade fast after my passing. Yeah, been thinking of my mortality alot lately.

be well you all.........


Saturday, January 12, 2008

More Dylan......Hey, it's my blogg.

.........So sad it's almost unendurable.

And, jokerman lyrics for those of you who couldn't do the link or wouldn't.

"Jokerman"Standing on the water, casting your bread

While the eyes of the idol with the iron head are glowing

distant ships sailing into the mist

You were born with a snake in both of your fists while a hurricane was blowing

Freedom just around the corner for you

But with truth so far off, what good will it do

.Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

So swiftly the sun sets in the sky

You rise up and say goodbye to no one

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread

Both of their futures, so full of dread, you don't show one

Shedding off one more layer of skin

Keeping one step ahead of the persecutor within

.Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

You're a man of the mountain, you can walk on the clouds

Manipulator of crowds, you're a dream twister

You're going to Sodom and Gomorrah

But what do you care ?

Ain't nobody there would want marry your sister

Friend to the martyr, a friend to the woman of shame

You look into the fiery furnace, see the rich man without any name

.Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

Well, the Book of Leviticus and Deuteronomy

The law of the jungle and the sea are your only teachers

In the smoke of the twilight on a milk-white steed

Michelangeo indeed could've carved out your features

Resting in the fields, far from the turbulent space

Half asleep near the stars with a small dog licking your face

.Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

Well, the rifleman's stalking the sick and the lame

Preacherman seeks the same, who'll get there first is uncertain

Nightsticks and water cannons, tear gas, padlocks

Molotow cocktails and rocks behind every curtain

False-hearted judges dying in the webs that they spin

Only a matter of time 'til the night comes stepping in.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

It's a shadowy world, skies are slippery gray

A woman just gave birth to a prince today and dressed him in scarlet

He'll put the priest in his pocket, put the blade to the heat

Take the motherless children off the streetAnd place them at the feet of a harlot

Oh, Jokerman, you know what he wants

Oh, Jokerman, you don't show any response.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman

Glamor with a "U" and Dave with a "D".

As many of you may know, when Stephen and I were just wee, sad little hopefuls back in the days of yore, it was Dave Sim who said, Yes" to us and proceeded to throw us off the deep end into the world of comics. Sink or swim gentlemen and nothing less will do. Let me state for the record the learning curve was unfuckingbelievable. I still got me some serious whiplash. But a better mentor/ friend in this business I've never had. Honest to a fault, compassionate without a trace of pity, he gave us the room to do just as our vision dictated, rarely if ever pulling rank. And then, only suggesting rather than dictating.

I have utterly no hesitation whatsoever in saying out loud and in public that Dave is in my opinion one of the few true originals to ever grace a comics page. Month after month to watch him work was a truely awesome sight. A satirist of the first water, a draftsman of uncanny invention he alternately had me on the floor with laughter and in tears of agony. Ok, you say, I'm just kissing the arse of a lunatic. Sorry mate, just the truth. This artist kisses nobodies arse, ever. Please bear this in mind: I don't necessarily believe everything Neil Gaiman believes, I don't necessarily believe everything Alan Moore believes, I don't necessarily believe what Barry Windsor-Smith believes, I don't necessarily believe everything Stephen Murphy believes, And I don't believe what anyone else believes about Dave. I have my own beliefs. Mine. Tough.

To me Dave will always have my respect and what friendship I have to offer anyone at this time of my life. Again: tough. I believes in those what believes in me.

Now, After finishing a run of monthly books that is unequaled in depth and craftsmanship in a single arch of creativity that I hazard to guess will stand untouched or even challenged seriously for a very, very long time, he's back.

And I'm for one, thrilled. The "Glamour puss" campaign is just amazing to behold. Buy it, no, demand it. I insist. Try something new. With the sad tragic demise of BWS Storyteller, I for one am looking forward to having my socks blown stylishly off. I'm looking forward to a full fat, full sugar, utterly decadent delight that tastes as good coming up as it did going down. " Michael laughs to himself at the clever fashionista tagline the gorgeous Fhionn came up with last evening."

On the home front, WE are mildly impressed by "Black Swan Lane" who's debut album is out now, try the omni-present my space page for samples. Also, "THE BOOK" has hit a hundred and fifty pages, so I'm resting my frizzled mind for a few days. I ain't twenty-five no 'mo.

I'm still looking for a Murshid that can handle my stubborn, unfocused, semi-crazed self. Hey, one can dream.

Peace you guys,


Tuesday, January 8, 2008

JOKERMAN. the reagan years

Just about where my heads at today.......nothing serious.

My favorite Dylan, positively mostly.

For Murph.

Later you lovesick subterraneans.


PS: Work continues.

Sunday, January 6, 2008


I'm grumpy, tired, and half sick to death of my own mind. That can mean only one thing, and one thing only: work on my personal monster of a book is really, and finally working. I mean working in such a way that I doubt I could screw it up. Oh, yeah, I could be whistling past my own tomb, but I seriously doubt it. After all the heart-wrenching planning and the tears of doubt and personal sense of looming doom I'm pretty sure it's all worked. The turning point came this morning two-thirds through the chapter, "house of the blind man".

Now, all I have to do is finish it. Forty - fifty odd pages and finish scripting, and spit shining the whole unholy mess. Rough estimates of an ETA sometime this late spring, early summer.

Nothin to it.

Of course, the fact remains that it may end up in a drawer, unseen until after my passing. Maybe one of those "posthumous" jobs. Maybe not. I know that at the very least, I did it. Maybe that'll be enough. The whole thing has a vague aura of madness about it. A whiff of insanity that's undeniable. But perhaps that's the point. The grand adventure. The daring to fly in the face of what is "current' and "en vogue". I half suspect the book would be better of in the drawer, never to see the light of day, rather than reveal myself a fool to the whole world. For, I also suspect the critical voice at large will just crucify me for it.

If things go as planned you all can hold the nails if you want.

But then again...........just maybe, someone, somewhere, will read it and be changed.

Stranger things have happened.

Oh, just some trivia: I'm currently enthralled by the paintings, ( well the landscapes mostly.) of a gentleman named Glenn Harrington. The Pennsylvania canvases are just lovely. Someday, I hope to have the time to paint pure landscape. Just trees and fields and water and Sky's. A person can dream, eh?

A nod to Dave Sim on the "Glamour puss" project. It looks like a gas.

Y'all behave now y'heah.


PS: the image is of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's death mask.