Hi, Everybody!

Hey Look! It's Dork Tower by John Kovalic:

DORKS OF THE TOWER

"Hey, Marcia. Come and see the satanist."

  That one still cracks me up.
   I have no great affection for gaming, but then I'm always suspicious when a noun becomes a verb without warning. Like "party". It is interesting to me that, right around the time-that "party" became a verb (I party, you party, he/she/it parties, we party, you party, they party), what it was describing had actually ceased to exist and the sort of characters that Kevin Smith has made a career out of documenting had taken over. In my day, when those fellows too over the keg, you knew that you should have left half an hour ago.
   You might well ask what has this to do with John Kovalic and his excellent comic book, Dork Tower.
   You might well ask what is wrong with the characters that Kevin Smith documents?
   You would ask in vain, however, for I confine my closely reasoned arguments to the back pages of Cerebus.
   Uh. Cerebus? The comic book that I draw?
   Yes. Yes. Twenty-three years now (almost). A little over three years to go. Pardon? Yes it's one long story that I started in ... Science fiction? No, no. It isn't really a... well, Cerebus did do a tour of the solar system in one of.. Fantasy? Uhh. Yeah. I mean, not as much as there was early on when it was mostly a Conan parody. Conan. Well, before the movies, Conan was a ... No, I'm not really interested in Hollywood myself. You mean, like a Cerebus animated cartoon or something? No, I really... Well, the loss of control. See, when you sign a contract with a studio, they... Pardon? Well millions of dollars if everything goes right. But, you see, it only goes right once in a great while. Like with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but then you have to stop writing and drawing and become the CEO full-time of whatever you... Well, I don't know how many millions the Turtles made, exactly. But millions and millions, yes. Definitely... See, to me, when you self-publish your work, as I do with Cerebus and as John Kovalic is now doing with Dork Tower, the idea is to reduce the amount of outside interference and to limit the business side to turning the artwork into printed comic books and getting them to the...
   No, comic books. The ones in the newspaper are comic strips.
   Yes, it was very sad that Charles Schulz died.
   JOHN KOVALIC GOT A LETTER FROM HIM ONCE.
   Yes, that's right. The Charles Schulz. Oh, many millions of dollars ... maybe even a quarter of a billion.
   Yes.
   Yes. It is hard to imagine, Well, I think what impressed John was more the quality of the strip and that was why getting a letter fro its creator was such a big deal to him... why he has the letter framed and up on his...
   No. A lot of cartoonists do that, but Schulz didn't have ghosts. He wrote and drew and pencilled and inked and lettered every Peanuts strip that ever...
   Yes, wasn't that great? Yes, I watch it every Christmas myself. And when Linus goes out into the spotlight and starts reciting from Luke's Gospel...
   Well, it was first aired in 1965, so I guess it's made a lot of money since then. I don't really know how those things work. Whether the studio paid every time it's aired and pays Schulz's estate (now), or if someone bought the rights to it, you know, some big corporation like Time-Warner or ABC or something offered a lot of money for it at some point and Schulz (or whoever owned it) just decided...
   A Dork Tower movie?
   Well, I don't know. See, that's one of the funny things with self-publishers. Some of them are interested in Hollywood and some aren't. It seems to me that you don't really know which one you are until you get an actual offer from...
   ... Pardon?
   Well, I did--years and years ago--get a call from Lucasfilm... Yes. Star Wars. Definitely. Star Wars has made millions and millions of dollars... Well, no, just the one phone call. As I said, I'm not interested, so, you know, there wasn't much reason for them to call back. Regret it? No. No, uh, exactly the opposite.  As I said, I don't really have any interest in Hollywood. As I said, the loss of control just...
   Danny DeVito as Igor?
   Well, Danny DeVito has got to be... what? Late forties, early fifties by now. I always got the impression that the characters in Dork Tower are... Well, yes, you're right. There are gamers who are in their late forties and early fifties. Yes, that's true. If you have characters of different ages, they do like that in Hollywood. Hit the different demographic groups. You could cast same hot twenty year-old as Matt and get that older brother-younger brother thing. Make Igor the sloppy one and Matt the neat one. Yeah, like the Odd Couple. No, no--exactly. The first Odd Couple movie or even the Odd Couple television show. Or you could make Matt a girl. Jenna Elfman and Davvy DeVito. Wouldn't that be something? Yeah, they're both really funny.
   Speaking of really funny, have you ever read Dork Tower? The Dork Tower comic book? No?
   You really should.
   Yes,
   Yes, it is.
   It's very, very funny.
Dave SimKitchener, Ontario
3 June 00

Dork Tower #9 (2000) Art by John Kovalic & Dave Sim (Also, "AARVAK VANHEIM"?!?)

Hi, Everybody!

Hey Look! It's P. Craig Russell:

 

The Singing of P. Craig Russell

a short introduction by Dave Sim

The question arises -- as it often does -- alongside the "Art of..." volume: How did P. Craig Russell come to be one of the great unsung heroes of the comic-book field? As you are about to bear witness, it is an illustrious and near to flawless career that goes back thirty years -- more than thirty years. 

Don't take my word for the longevity, though: there's a photo herein of Craig with Don McGregor ca. Killraven, War of the Worlds (first taste of the margins of comic-book stardom, what Gil Kane described as the "small fame" of comics). 

Might as well ask: How did 1974 come to be thirty years ago? 

We owe, as it turns out, a debt to Dan Adkins and his studio (as, in turn, we owe a debt to Wally Wood for Dan Adkins), a tip of the introductory chapeau to CBG back when it was still TBG, back when the weekly cover slot was often a first stepping stone to prominence, to making a name for one's self or...to becoming unsung. 

The readily identifiable style arrives full-blown on page 30 and, after that, it's a relentless parade of "eye candy", sufficient to induce the ocular equivalent of a sugar rush. 

Why didn't we hear more about this stuff a) at the time b) in the interim and c) since? The perhaps more apt question: Why didn't we say more about this stuff? Then the personal self-indictment: When was the last time I mentioned Craig's work in conversation? I had worked P. Craig Russell and "Therimbula and the Sea" into Going Home (page 186). Metaphorically, I posed the question to myself: What could an archetypal Princess Diana and a F. Scott Fitzgerald derivation have found common ground in discussing, had they been contemporaries? He, urgently desirous of getting on her good side, she, wary of his alcoholism and the egregious theatricality of his marital woes...the answer was immediate. 

Night Music by P. Craig Russell ("I aDORE Therimbula and the Sea"). 

I didn't write to ask Craig's permission. With some people you would have to: you would be taking your life in your hands using something of theirs without a signed contract. With Craig (I knew) all I would be doing is spoiling a nice surprise. 

Wonder Woman on page 38...Tom Swift 3000 that became Robin 3000...how did I miss that one? Why wasn't everyone...singing...about it? 

An amazing collection. He's even an accomplished book designer. He hasn't got his photoshop pilot's license, but peering over Joe Pruett's shoulder he calls his plays right at the line of scrimmage. That Robin 3000 cover would look great at the top of that column of type. 

And it does. Of course it does. 

...The National Library Association poster (lucky Association!)...The Spectre covers (how did I miss those Spectre covers?)...the house on the first page of Gone...the Insomniac page...the "up shot" of the house in Coraline...Shere Khan on page 106...Chapter 7: Opera (will there ever again be a comic-book creator with a chapter of his "Art of" book devoted to Opera?)... 

Weighty subject matter? By contrast with Craig's contemporaries? To be sure...but leavened with acerbic wit worthy of an Upper West Side cocktail party. "Here's your share of the artwork." I can't remember when I've laughed so hard. 

What Craig needs isn't an introduction by the Pariah King of Comics (what was he thinking? Make no mistake, the loyalty is appreciated. Craig is no fair weather friend like so many in the field, but...what WAS he thinking?). 

What Craig needs is to have Jill Thompson in her Brunhilde helmet to ride Lucky the Horse right down to the footlights...stage center...to extract...with harsh metallic theatricality...her sword from it's scabbard...to then brandish it... 

"P......CRAIG.....RUSSELL!" 

She would cry (a fortissimo)...her gaze and her sword point then passing slowly from right to left...then from left to right...the crowd, a deer in Jill Thompson's metaphorical headlights...letting the moment build to a climax... 

And then...to the opening strains of Twilight of the Gods (gotterdammerung)...the row of white floodlights behind her shoot skyward... 

'EVERYBODY! SING!" 

Oh, well. This will just have to do.

Dave Sim

Kitchener, Ontario

11 June 07

Which was my 28th birthday.

Hi, Everybody!

Hey Look! It's The Flaming Carrot:

BOB BURDEN

The Man Who Proved the Earth is Flat

by Dave Sim

Snapshots in the eighteen-year kaleidoscope: Marching to the beat of an indifferent drummer.

 

"I know how to fly- even if it is straight down." Is Bob Burden a position or a vector? Is the carrot-on-fire the beacon on the hill or a first glimmering of the devil's eye socket glimpsed behind the infernal gates? "I need a bigger bucket or less sand." In Alan Moore's Thought Space, Bob Burden is the migrating bookmark, selling mercury leashes to unwary periodic-table owners. "Look- it's a miniature Abraham Lincoln." "Aww- he's so cuuute." The universe is askew, but it never knew how to tie a decent Windsor knot anyway.

 

Flash forward to the present. A Flaming Carrot movie? Picture Eraserhead sensibility with "Animal House done with super-heroes" as the template. When Bob Burden is a position, Hollywood is a vector. "What's you vector, Victor?" I can't see anything, says the candy store with it's nose pressed up against Bob's glass. 

[picture of a flying saucer] 

To the new reader: you're either going to "get" it or not. No elitism should be inferred. Bob Burden's Flaming Carrot exists in a comic-book no-man's land that will put you under only if you had the right kind of breakfast this morning.

 

As with any creative work, the Carrot is out of Bob's hands once it is done. I look through the eyepiece, and each successive work moves into and out of focus- sharp, an almost excruciating clarity, then soft, indistinct. Everyone has an eyepiece, but Bob's the one doing the adjustments. I don't know what it is Bob sees. I. Do. Not. Know. What. It. Is. That. Bob. Sees.

 

As a host of angels disco dance on the head of a pin, an insanely dressed super-hero eats lunch at the bowling alley, while in the background: kissing dogs, a woman breast-feeding a dictionary, a baby-headed politician, and the assassination of the leading members of the Chihuahua In A Teacup Fan Club! The chair is not my son!

 

I. Do. Not. Know. What. It. Is. That. Bob. Sees. Call it "Bob's Burden."

 

Bob's Burden.

 

In person, this mercurial talent's personality and appearance are like the Van Allen Belt around the terra firma- the largely terra incognito- of his glimmerings of genius. He was once described as Dr. Zhivago and Gabby Hayes rolled into one.

 

He shifts his weight sideways in a chair in a honky-tonk bar, clearing his throat with a rumbling sound that calls to mind the phrase, ancient of days ("I've been around the block so many times, I feel like my turn blinker got stuck"). The band blares out a dubious rendition of "Reverend Blue Jeans" that sounds like Perry Como on crack. We are surrounded by the kind of people who'd rather curse the darkness than light one candle. Gerhard is talking to a woman with lipstick on her teeth and a dress that looks like it was just hit with a dessert tray.

 

Bob cannot be kept on the subject. "I'd rather pay retail than go through this." "Suggested retail?" "Yes." Is he talking about the band or the conversation?

 

Ionized particles coalesce behind the cool, brown-gray eyes as his inquisitor (me) tries to corner him on a specific point. Even as the argument's endgame reaches its climax, the last avenue of escape closed off, the radiation flares, and he says, "You see that girl at the table over there?" And he relates an anecdote- something written about Thelonius Monk, or something William S. Burroughs said to him in a dream. The story seems to end, but I'm left wondering who really put the overalls in Mrs. Murphy's chowder. I eye Burden suspiciously. A sudden insight dawns- like white sheet lightning on the horizon- that anecdote applies to the discussion. Tangentially. No- not tangentially, but rather it inhabits the authentic core, is a thematic distillation, a small key, a cake with a sign that says "Eat me"; it is a rocket-powered pogo stick that has carried Bob to safety. ("Yes, Mr. Death...I'll play your game! But not chess!!! Bah...Fooey! My game is WIFFLEBALL! HA! HA! HA!")

 

One gives up. But only temporarily. Even as you walk away from the chessboard, you cant's shake the feeling that whiffleball makes more sense. Bob was telling me something- or, more exactly, something inside Bob was telling me something- and I'm just too stupid to see it. 

[picture of a flying saucer] 

Scene 18- "The Making of 104: Ten Days that Shook Atlanta"

 

Ext. The Back patio of Bob Burden's Atlanta estate. Bob is seated at a card table with a manual typewriter of 1903s vintage. It is a clear, warm day in late October.

 

ME: (operating the video camera) Look. It's Bob.

 

BOB: (wary, squinty-eyed) Good morning.

 

ME: Whatcha doing?

 

BOB: (clearing his throat noisily and getting up) Writing a script for the next issue of the Carrot. (sits down again, reads) "Flaming Carrot! Flaming Carrot! You better come quick! Uncle Billy's new mail-order bride arrived and she's a...WILD WOMAN!" (standing up and indicating his shoes) Pan down and get a shot of these.

 

ME: Very nice. What are they?

 

BOB: Penny loafers. With Canadian nickels in 'em.

 

ME: In honor of our visit?

 

BOB: In premonition of this visit These have always been there! For fifteen years I've worn Canadian nickels in my loafers. Good things come to those who watch and walk around...

 

ME: Well, sit down. Let's get a shot of you writing.

 

BOB: (sits down) Let's...see here. Page 29. "Hey! It's that crazy dame again!" (begins typing)...the Jungle Girl jumps down and hits the bad guy and says...she s-a-y-s..."Gwaloompas Go Away" (smiles broadly at the camera) Hey! Why not? (types it furiously, smiling the whole time)

 

In the final version (issue 18), the Jungle Woman says, "Gwaloompas pugi! Go Away!!!" Bob's Burden. Why is "Gwaloompas Go Away!" wrong and "Gwaloompas pugi! Go Away!!!" right? It is no small matter, though the reader can be forgiven for thinking it is. Bob's Burden. In the realm of the surreal, where even the term surreal is inadequate, how do you know when what you're doing is right? Insight, instinct, gut reaction, craft, winging it- all wrestle together at the doorway of creation. And after that comes the reaction, and Bob's reaction to the reaction, and Bob's reaction to Bob's reaction to the reaction. But all I have is my eyepiece, and Bob's the one doing the adjustments. Bob's Burden 

[picture of a flying saucer] 

 Bob has finally consented to allow the early issues of the Carrot to be reprinted. For at least ten thousand people in the comic-book industry, we are finally (finally) able to stop breathing through straws from below the surface of a pond. What does this bode for our industry? Commenting on these times, Bob reminds me that if you graph the incidence of Flaming Carrot publications and compare it to the comics industry's health and volume over the last fifteen years, there is a direct correlation. When this information is then set against the statistics of sunspot activity, UFO sightings, and the number of women reported to be seen wearing rubber dresses in the Balkans, you have more than ample proof of the one conclusion we can draw from these specious but interesting facts. Within these calculations, he claims, lies the secret formula to a legendary, fifth basic food group he has referred to all these years as the source of his arcane creativity. "Wild horses will not drag the secret from my lips; a thousand dollars will not by it. But since you freely gave me the most guarded secret of all Aardvark-Vanaheim, the secret of Gerhard's last name..."

 

As he leans over to whisper in my ear, my mind scours the clues. Like Citizen Kane's Rosebud, it all makes sense to me. Life is a circle. The rise and fall of tides. A whispered secret from lips that have always been a mystery even unto the owner of the lips. A secret I have always known but always wanted to know better. A secret whose clues lie in pages and pictures. 

[picture of a flying saucer] 

 It looks like the Flaming Carrot is getting ready...I think I saw him getting up...you always say that...no, really, I think he's really getting up this time...he's moving around- he hasn't moved around in a while...that's gotta be a good sign, right?...you would think so...I'll believe it when he actually gets up...maybe we shouldn't talk about it- maybe talking about it is the problem...he's getting up...yeah, right...he's moving around more than...no, look...

 

LOOK!!!

Copyright 1997 Dave Sim

 

Reprinted by the permission of Sponge Boy


 Next Time: Sunday!