Webcomics Weekend 09

I went to a weekend gathering for webcomic authors and enjoyers alike, and good times were had! You could say it was authoritatively enjoyed.

Speaking of authoritativity, the event was spearheaded and organized by Meredith Gran, who does a really great comic about a young octopus who lives in New York City, trying to make it out there. Ok, that is not what the comic is about. But you should go read it and see what it is about!

My accomp-hort Cindy came along and took some pictures. We didn't snap a lot, but here are a few which you may use to waft some of the ambiance into those gaping nostrils you call eyeballs.



Here I am bookended by the dynamic damefella duo, Emily and Joey, who produce the comic that is called a softer world. These are really cool people to hang out with and talk to and stuff! Here Emily rifles through her mad wad of Benjies, or at least I'm pretty sure those are Benjies. Cause that's what we're all about here, knocking down sick bank and leafing through our pimpin' hustle-bucks. Joey is the sort of dude who seems like he is always on the verge of either beating the shit out of you, or giving you a hug, in a precisely equal distribution of probability.

Oh yeah, up there I think is one of those moments where I was talking to someone while pretending to be Ryan North, poised in front of all his dinosaur merchandise. He would pretend to be me too, and brandish vivid tales about how he drew a lot of pages about a guy who likes candy corn or something, and possibly wore a hat at one point. Our marks were none the wiser to the ruse. You see, we play pranks as a thing we do.



Here Chris(!!!) and Joey and Ryan prepare for a panel discussion, comparing notes on how to be a hilarious bunch of outrageous motherfuckers.

By the way, is Dr. McNinja great? Uh let me think.

YEAH, IT IS.



I eat cake which is shaped like a pork chop. You will have to take my word for it that that was the shape of the cake. Ryan is holding an alligator head for some reason, which is confusing.

Ryan is a really nice guy. I think being a really nice guy might be his super power or something. It's kind of a dumb super power and it makes it really easy to defeat him in the martial combats.

Also one of his powers is being very TALL.



Eventually I sat in the proximity of my own shit and pretended to not be Ryan for a while. I drew some stuff for people who liked my comic. (But not sick burns, I saved those for my foes.) Everybody who approached me was really cool. What can I say, everyone who likes my stuff is amazing almost by definition.

Jeffrey is the grand arch-magnate of Topatoco and is an exceptional human being as well. He and I once drew crude frogs that wore capes, once upon a slippery era long-sopped by time’s absorbent sponge. The Topatoco HQ is quite an impressive compound and looks like a wonderful place to do business. Jeffrey probably has one of the sweetest gigs in the world, possibly second only to what I do, which is basically nothing at all. I mean I draw stuff sometimes, but whatever.

The pot of gold at the end of the cultural rainbow...

Is me.

And anyone who chooses to stand up for diversity, strong civic spirit, and multi-cultural harmony in the community.

When I originally included this mural in Problem Sleuth, I found it on the internet and thought it was particularly striking. I had no idea at the time that it was physically located about 15 minutes from where I lived, in Cambridge MA.

Naturally I had to go celebrate its existence as well as my physical proximity to it by standing in front of it. Intrepid fellow diversity enthusiast Tyler came along too, and here you see him somewhat nonplussed by the mischievous stowaway clinging to his hapless personage.

Prior to discovering the mural was local, I had wondered how to get information on the artist in order to give credit. Now that is possible. Let us all bask in the majesty of David Fitcher's painterly vision.

There is an amazing amount of these "cultural urban murals" in the Boston area. Fichter's work is apparently everywhere, including two striking works of genius less than a block from my residence. I'll take a photo of those too some time.

But there is a lot of lesser talent glomming on to otherwise respectable city surfaces as well. Mr. Galvez's heart is in the right place, I suppose.

Fichter's stuff may be a little thematically silly, but at least it's very well executed. Galvez's shit is just fucking pandemonium. The composition is an airy, rambling hodgepodge of disagreeable-looking horseshit. These grotesque harbingers of diversity at once frenzy to stoke my nightmares, or whatever you call the type of dream you'd like to shake by the collar and backhand repeatedly. Where do I start with this thing?

1) I've never seen a man employ a conductor's baton and rollerskates to assist him in his quest for spare change.

2) Affable street walkers hustle up a buck on the lemon-lime road. Any takers? How about the kid to the left with the broken foot and the overalls 20 sizes too big for him?

3) This Village People understudy wears on his face the one emotion, regardless of race or creed, with which we are all intimately familiar: profound shame.

3.5) Random-ass black woman: check.

4) "What should I do with all this empty, blood-red space in the background? How about I just sprinkle in a few malingering ragdoll dipshits?"

5) It was probably a perfectly nice old lady this was referenced from. The decision to use this *particular* photo of her, and make her a dominating 9-foot fixture in the mural: DUBIOUS. She's probably been dead for years. Her legacy: BOUNDLESS, SOUL-PUMICING TERROR.

6) Is this some sort of black trucker vampire? Is this child in danger? I might suspect so, but she looks so sinister herself that she's likely his netherworldly superior.

7) I don't... I don't even know.

8) Punk rockers are a culture too. Get him in there. It reminds us that despite appearances, deep down we are all alike: harrowingly one-dimensional.

9) Other cultures can at times be quite flamboyant! This man has passionate feelings in his bosom, and they must take the shape of rhythm come hell or high water. He'd sooner cut out his heart than cease wailing on his bongos. If someone snuck up behind him and pulled his hat down over his head, can you really say you'd have the maturity to not laugh at his expense? The answer is no.

10) Fanciful headwear on a black woman: check.

11) Is this a culture? What sort of culture is it? Caucasians who wear togas while playing jazz? Are we saying that embarrassingly drunk people comprise a culture unto themselves? Memo to this guy: you are fired from Diversity.

12) Disturbing encroachment on chubbykid moneyshot: check.

13) And these people? Perhaps this man is a poor caricature of Ray Romano? I am going to guess that this family is vaguely Mediterranean due to the bit of chest hair poking out from the man's shirt to the right. The hairy dude also seems to be rather oily. Is it really TOO much to ask that our murals celebrating racial diversity not be subtly racist too? Additionally -- the woman appears to be trying her best to not cause me physical harm with her facial expression. She is not succeeding.

Also to the upper right, it looks like camera glare has obscured the Indian family riding their fucking magic carpet, thus sparing you a joke about them. THIS TIME.

THE END OF PROBLEM SLEUTH.

03/10/08 - 03/10/09.

3 detectives
365 days
1621 pages
1915 images
142 megabytes
45,000 words
0 sacred urns toppled
0 mystic ruins desecrated
0 hallowed tombs defiled

A couple hundred people tuned in on the first day. A couple hundred thousand tuned in on the last.

The beginning was humble in ways that go beyond a simple reader count. Humble might not even be the right word. The word's blade might need to be dulled further -- from something used to slice butter, to something used to ladle paste into the mouth of an infant.

I was wondering what sort of story to make, so I drew a detective on a blank canvas. Then I thought he should be in a room, of course. Probably a detective's office, because that's where detectives usually are. He needed a phone and a gun. Clearly those two items would alone suffice, I thought. The wall over there looked a little blank so I drew a safe. A window for ambience. A door for exit, which may or may not have been locked; I wasn't sure yet.

What I was also oblivious to was the two other detectives who would show up later, and to their adjacent offices. I was oblivious to the world of imagination, and the desk-made fort that would be its gateway. I didn't know the window lead there either, and I didn't know you could only get to that place I didn't know about if it was plugged in. I didn't know about the candy in his pocket, the dames in their dollhouse, the kingpin in his ship, or the weasel in his palace.

Those I's would be dotted by your suggestions, and the T's would be crossed by my reaction to them. It was a storytelling game of cat and mouse, and you presumably just finished reading the aftermath of our year-long, Tom and Jerry-style rampage through the house.

And if at the beginning you told me I would have a group of characters fight a single giant monster every day for almost six months, I would have told you... well, I would have told you that sounds awesome! But then I probably wouldn't have done it. Because I would have known I was going to do it. And what fun would that have been?

It's hard to believe it's done, I'm sure mostly for me personally. If you do the math, you'll note I produced an average of more than 5 images per day, every single day for that year-long stretch. In retrospect, it was a matter of routine inseparable from day to day existence. I didn't notice the effort, and I didn't notice the year. It wasn't a labor. It was just what I did.

But I guess it's more than just a shift in habitual momentum. There's a note of melancholy. These detectives won't be up to their antics anymore (unless I make deliberate exceptions to their retirement, of course). It seems strange to me that these characters have become so well defined in my mind, even though they've never uttered a single word. It was never supposed to be that way. It was just supposed to be about a cruddy-looking dude in his office.

But that said, I'm pretty excited to get working on something new. And maybe, if you're not all that busy, we could take the first step of this amazing new journey together.

Thanks for reading!

- Andrew.

If you drew a comic called Super Frog at age 11

Then take a number.

Jeffrey-OC/WIGU-Rowland and I both got ours at the deli counter of weird coincidences involving crudely drawn amphibious superheroes. My immediate thought was this was like an especially shitty or an especially awesome episode of Lost. Maybe it is both.

The year was 1986, and as he tells it, Jeff's 11 year-old mind conceived of a hero named Superfrog (no space).

Flash forward to the year 1990, a time when my 11 year-old mind would independently duplicate this feat, and bring into the world -- again -- a hero named Super Frog (but with a space!)



This cover stirs visions of a an intrepid young lad soldiering through that night sky with a thin, purple magic marker, thrashing in every conceivable direction like a crazed raccoon trying to escape an empty swimming pool. But it looks like he eventually and quite understandably muttered "fuck this" and stomped off to plunder the kitchen for some delicious Slimer-themed Ecto Cooler Hi-C.

You'll note some striking similarities between my and Jeff's work, aside from breadth of ambition. (Amphibition?)

They both dwelt on swampy planets. Though mine was supposed to be Earth, since my story followed a Superman template. I figured he might as well since he shared a prefix with that hero. Jeff's looks like it fits into more of a Star Wars mold, which would make "Amphibia" somewhat akin to Yoda's swampy planet I guess.

Also note that while Jeff's planet was plagued by a "terrorist group called MEGA", my story was published by MEGA comics. This is obviously a word one dare not leave uncapitalized. Also both these frogs had really cool underground lairs.

But I'm afraid that's where the similarities end.

11 year-old Jeff's handwriting is actually better than mine is today, let alone the grisly marks which I pawned off as letters at age 11. You'll also note Jeff could actually string together a pretty decent sentence. "But, Amphibia was not without its evil forces…" Note the fairly sophisticated use of the double negative to take a little something off the sentence for rhetorical purposes. He could have taken the easy route and said "Amphibia had so many evil forces!" Or, "Amphibia had all hella evil forces up ins, yo!" if he wanted to produce a tone of jocular irony. (Although I doubt that sort of irony had been invented yet in 1986.) The point is, he wasn't using language as a blunt instrument to say what he wanted to say.

Whereas I took that blunt instrument, used it to murder a family of four, and hid the bodies in my garage. You will observe this sample.

It's actually hard for me to believe an 11 year-old did this. To me it doesn't look very far beyond the reach of a 6 year-old. Where does one even begin dissecting this?

Ok, the Dr. Claw-style boss wants his henchman with an upsettingly phallic hat to go down to the "science plant". Where they do science. He wants him to steal some science. Fair enough. Then he instructs him to take a "disgise", and we shortly receive a humorous payoff. His disguise is simply a jacket. Ha ha, right?

Maybe. Except that I explicitly remember that I did not intend for this to be a joke. I was serious. That was his serious disguise.

Then at gunpoint, or maybe tube of Ben-Gaypoint, he commands the aardvark fellow to surrender the main project. Like, the main science thing they do. He wants him to hand over the big science thing. But it turns out he "already launched it". He launched all the science they were working on into space, and he is sorry about it. Maybe if the snake with the dick hat got there a little earlier, all that science would still be there.

Then later on in the comic when I got tired of all this storytelling bullshit, I went and drew a map. This was my first hack at a comic, and I don't think I actually even liked comics. All I really wanted to do was design the next Super Mario Bros. game and mail it to some Japanese developers. I actually tried to do this several times, and I just assumed whoever looked at it would be blown away by my ideas while making little hushed noises of polite awe in that distinctly Japanese way.

When I was 11 my teachers thought I was retarded. This isn't some sort of joke to make you laugh. This is actually true. For a while thereafter I resented the accusation. But looking back on this work I'm starting to think they might have been technically right. Whatever the case, I don't know why I ever had the notion that I was artistically inclined before age 11.

But in looking through this archive of relics, it's pretty clear my artistic development took a major leap in the following year. I did this drawing when I was 12. Ok, so it's obviously inspired very heavily by Rob Liefeld's work in the early 90s. Still, looking back on it I think it's probably better than anything Liefeld ever did. I even came up with a kickass signature brand for that year, "DREW92". WHOA, COOL DUDE!!!

Then from there it appears my artwork enjoyed pretty | brisk | strides through the rest of high school. Actually that first image there seems somewhat reminiscent of a Problem Sleuth villain, even though I drew it about 15 years ago.

My and Jeff's stroll down Super Frog lane is reminding me the more things change, the more they stay the same. Don't believe me?





Mob boss villains separated by two decades.



You're eventually supposed to grow out of shit like this, right?
I don't know why I didn't scan the rest of Super Frog. The samples above are from an archive consisting of photos I took about five years ago. I'm not sure what my thinking was at the time.

I'll see if I can dig up the original book and scan all of it. If I do, I'll post it. But I'll be trailing behind Jeff's documentation of his old comic, which I suppose is only fitting. He was always ahead of the curve on this Superfrog/Super[space]Frog business.

Oh, also another guy cropped up who did a Superfrog (Super-Frog, with a dash!) when he was a youngster.

Look, if you are 11 and you are a boy, here's what's up. You're going to be drawing a COMIC. That comic will be about a FROG. That frog is also gonna be SUPER. This is what your DNA will tell you to do, and if you don't do it there's probably something wrong with you. This is what SCIENCE says will happen, and this can be verified, assuming some dumbass doesn't go ahead and launch that science into space first.

BLOG REDUX: Bon Voyage, Tim and George

I'm really just reposting this article from my old blog so Byron can link to it in his new blog.

Originally posted: 06/24/08
---------------------------------------

Tim Russert and George Carlin both recently passed away, and it is time to honor their memory with the somber gravity that can only be conveyed by that sappy acoustic version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.

It is also time for us to acknowledge that their very real souls have moved on to the very real afterlife, where their transient physical identities will persist relentlessly for all eternity.

As such I have put together this collage in memoriam as is the stoic tradition of this blog [EDIT: RE: MY OLD BLOG]. So keep a seat warm for me, George. I can’t wait for your bit on the 10 words you can’t say in heaven! And Tim, keep giving ‘em hell! ;)

How do I prank thee? Let me qwantz the ways.

Ok so here's what up.

I was recently embroiled (am still embroiled???) in this exotic prankster's feud with this guy who draws dinosaurs saying things. Ok he doesn't really draw them but anyway. It was fun (is still fun???) but then due to some mental handicap specific to the needlessly officious I deleted some of my earlier prankins because the news section was getting a little long in the tooth. VERTICALLY SPEAKING.

It was like a great venerable redwood and I was sort of like an especially angry Paul Bunyan, or just some really terrifically huge dude with an axe who hates trees, and possibly harbors disdain for the very concept of HEIGHT ITSELF.

So I did this and dusted my hands but then some people started yelling at me.

So I'm like, ok, I guess I can put it all back up somehow, even though that stuff I deleted is gone forever. I don't exactly have a stout archival repository for every frivolous little EPIC FUCKING BATTLESCAPE AMONG WORLD CLASS PRACTICAL JAPESTERS that happens to flutter through the perfumey breeze of my life.

I promised I'd take a crack at reconstructing what I said, and in the process probably charting new frontiers in the realm of dubious fidelity.

Anyway why don't we take this thing from the top. Ryan said this once upon a time, and I have emboldened the key point.

February 4th, 2009: Andrew "MS Paint Adventures" Hussie has been putting together some videos with his friend Jan van den Hemel where they re-edit some Star Trek: TNG footage into hilarious short videos. They're great, you guys! I recommend watching them in order because it is comedy gold that builds on itself really nicely. Andrew Hussie is quickly becoming the only person whose house I park outside at night. I just want to watch him eat his dinner.

And I was tickled he said it, but then I went on to say (probably) something like this.

Ryan, you're not fooling anyone sitting in your car, sort of ducking down behind your dashboard like that. [I think I probably mentioned something about opera glasses, or goggles here, which he retrieved from his glovebox. I'm not sure why I would suggest he keep such a thing in his glovebox. I think my motivation was probably to use language to cast him as a bit of a lithe-fingered fop. I'm going to go ahead and assume that I was successful in this respect, and blow my whistle while hoisting my arms for the touchdown sign like football refs do whenever they're in the vicinity of a sick burn.

Also I mentioned something about how I was eating a turkey sandwich or something. Oops, I should probably return to my "voice".]

Ryan, I am eating a turkey sandwich or something.

Ok, Ryan caught wind of all that PRETTY QUICK.

February 5th, 2009: UPDATE: Last night Andrew had a open-faced turkey sandwich with a glass of water. He took a bite and chewed, frowning at his dinner. He sprinkled some pepper on top, and took another bite. The sandwich appeared to satisfy him now, and he dispatched it quickly, drinking the water all in one go at the end. Impressive. He then reached for his empty glass, turning it upside down and using it like a microphone. I couldn't hear clearly, but it sounded like he was reciting "Baby Got Back", sitting there at the dinner table. I felt like he was putting on a show for my benefit. I got suspicious - did he know he was being watched? But then some water slide down the glass onto his lap and he jumped up, brushing his slacks down and running out of the room, cursing. It was that little detail that made the whole evening worthwhile.

I said something kind of complicated in response to this… wait, oops, hang on…

Ryan. I'm going to say something kind of complicated in response to this. The basic gist of it will be that while you are distracted by my outrageous domestic broadcast and its embarrassing void of self-awareness, I took the opportunity to deploy a servant through my cellar door and into the yard and had him shove a whole can of cookie dough into your car's tailpipe.

CHECK AND MATE, prank buddy.

Alright I didn't say that last part, but in just transcribing it now, oh man. It was just so sweet how I did that to his car.

Ryan didn't really see it that way though.

February 6th, 2009: Okay, so I guess Andrew has, like, a butler? Who he pays to stuff food into my car's exhaust pipe? And that's fine, that's cool. We all need jobs. But when I drive home and my car stalls out a few minutes in and it's because the tail pipe is blocked with chocolate-chip cookie dough, it's not that awesome. Andrew's house is at the end of a deserted lane surrounded by a bunch of fields, and now I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere.

So I walk back to Andrew's place - takes about 20 minutes. I ring the doorbell. No answer. I knock on the door. All the lights are on; I know he's home. I go round back and I stand in the dark of his back yard and I can see him there in his living room. His soggy slacks are spread out on the couch. His underpants are tasteful. He's rapping again. It sounds like - yes, it's Rapper's Delight. Andrew's really belting it: "Have you ever went over a friend's house to eat / And the food just aint no good? / I mean the macaroni's soggy, the peas are mushed / and the chicken tastes like wood."

I've never realized how much of that song is about food.

At this point I don't actually need to make up an approximate ridiculous reply, because I can submit word for word the ACTUAL RIDICULOUS REPLY which I typed. On a KEYBOARD:

Ok, well it seems Mr. North didn't totally appreciate the Pop n Fresh emissions test I had old Snootington slip into his muffler. Some people just don't know how to take a joke.

February 9th, 2009: I woke up parked outside my house. Andrew was nowhere to be seen. My shirt was folded neatly in my lap and I was wearing a very nice pair of suspenders. Someone had written on my chest: "Human Hug Factory". I couldn't remember, but I knew - I know - that everything will be alright.

As I slip back into "hypothetical reply" mode for some reason again, I'm caused to wonder by Ryan's tone if he is treating my submission to Urban Dictionary as a sort of sweeping denouement to our grand mutual Prankisode.

I could hardly fault him if his intent was a "rhetorical wind-down", a sort of genteel "that's all, folks" in the manner so comfortable and form-fitting to men of North's class and distinction.

Could it be that this borderline-psychotic transcription poses as the final blunt thud on the horse's soft carcass? Or could it be the calm in the storm before North's next ferocious gotcha?

Oh Jesus.

I'd better get back to my mansion and order those goodfornothing butlers back to their fucking battle stations…

Star Trek Edits

Recently I helped a friend edit some episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I've collected them all on this web page here.

Some other things of note: Wil Wheaton (Wesley Crusher) from the show has seen them and written about it in his blog. The videos have also appeared on TV, a on a G4 broadcast called Attack of the Show. (It is mentioned in item number 4 on that clip.) They went as far as getting in costumes and sort of "acting out" the scenes from the particular episode they showed. Cool!

A few other notes on this, and some FAQish sort of stuff...

These were edited by Jan Van den Hemel, who's obviously pretty awesome at this. I helped him make these by writing these sort of "scripts", suggesting how to arrange clips, what lines to dub, and what sort of visual effects to try out. I also usually supply the, uh, external resources. Jan supplies a lot of input to the "scripting" process too. The result I think is a pretty effective fusion of our senses of humor, but of course all the technical editing gravitas is pure Jan.

We will probably keep making these videos, as long as it stays fun. We'll keep doing Star Trek for a while, but will likely also try using samples from other TV shows and movies later.