10 July 2006
15 June 2006
MoCCA Art Festival 2006
Welcome, my readers, to the MoCCA Art Festival
This past weekend I attended the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art (MoCCA) Art Festival. I had a great time chatting with creators and spending lots of money on comics, zines, and some original artwork. I could have easily spent several hundred dollars, but I only brought about one-hundred dollars with me, so I had to be selective.
Had I known how much aural and visual bacchanalia there was to take in, I would have gone both days. There were three large rooms filled with so much talent, books, stickers, pins, patches, posters, prints and other great things. I managed to establish myself as a minion of Bill Roundy almost immediately (an honor bestowed not just on anyone). Next year I will be more prepared.
In attendance were many indie greats and many up and comers: Evan Dorkin, Andy MacDonald, Dean Haspiel, Jim Salicrup, Abby Denson, Ivan Brandon, Fly, the infamous Bill Roundy, and many more.
Mark! had given me a preview copy of MK Reed's Catfight, saying the art isn't great, but the writing is terrific, so I had to hunt down Reed and her book.
Some reviews of the wares I bought will be forthcoming, but in the meantime, photos!
Comics!
- Wrong Turns: Exercise: What's the Point? - Godfrey Chan
- Dumb Jersey White Boy 1, 2, 3 - Mark McMurray
- Hideous - Pat Lewis
- Catfight - MK Reed
- Flummery - Jeff Sharp
- A Taste of Paradise - Megan Baehr
- Vintage Flummery - Jeff Sharp
- I Love You - Justin Fox
- Cliff Face Comics Business Card - Cliff Face Comics
- The Amazing Adventures of Mister Brotherwise - Lauryn
- Caesar I & II - Jeff Sharp
- Mort & Jimithy - Phil Conigliaro
- The Most Horrible Thing in the World - Dylan Graham
- Burning Bush - Memo Salazar
- Abominable - Pat Lewis
- My Brain Hurts 1, 2, 3 - Liz Baillie
- The Dada Detective - Matt Wood, David Milloway, & Stephanie Freese
Not pictured
- Candy Corn Pants
- The Devil's T Table - Eric K Siano
- Good-Bye - Justin Fox
The Prints and Pauper
I have a whole story revolving around searching the show during the last hours for Jeff Sharp's table, because I had seen these "Protect Your Eyes" prints earlier, but could not remember who made them or where on the show floor this guy was located. With only three rooms, I could find him easily. Right...?
My memory had been that these prints had been huge, like poster size, and I went around asking other exhibitors if they recalled seeing them. Describing a print with some interesting looking guy wearing protective goggles, no one knew what I was talking about.
On my way to meet Mark! as the show was closing, I walked right by an end cap table and noticed some really cook stippled art prints of women. I flipped through Erik K Siano's portfolio noticing a great print that reminded me of Natalie Portman in Leon, and bought the thing. Looking at the rest of the table I then saw the "Protect Your Eyes" print and explained to Siano and Sharp how I'd been looking for this table for over an hour.
For the Next Show
My advice to you: Save your money. Be prepared. If you have your own comics, bring them to sell or trade. Many self-publishing exhibitors are "trade friendly," sometimes indicated by a button with a big "T" on it. Go both days. It will be worth it. Whether you're a fan or a creator trying to break in or promote yourself, this is a great avenue into the indie world work of comics and related arts.
This is a 16 October 2008 retroactive revision of my original post on the ArmzRace blog.
30 September 2005
It's that time of year: Lake George Yard Sale! - Friday, September 30, 2005
For nearly two days I lived, slept and died in my small Hyundai. I’d rushed from Longmont to Long Island in less than two days. Fast food, fast driving, fast sleep if any. A month without my immediate family, my friends, and my heart, wherever that was. Who can be sure.
I could have survived without my immediate family for longer. A month. It was nothing. My friends were missed, some of who kept me company via cell phone during long hours in the car. In fact I may have had to had I known what I would come to know. I came back for her and for the yard sale. The situation with her was…uncertain. The yard sale was this weekend and that was certain.
Year after year, we’d gone with few exceptions. Me. Mom. Dad. My sister. My brother-in-law. My cousin. My friend. Some combination of this listing of people had gone for nearly a decade with few exceptions. September 11, 2001 did not prevent our going some weeks later. Live life as normal. Fuck the fear. Spend money. Enjoy capitalism, materialism, orgasm. Aftermath.
Lake George means more than any of those. I have no intentions of spending much money since I am recently returned and without gainful employment. I go to spend time with my family and friends, whoever makes the journey. Lake George usually means Best Western. It means cold nights when Long Islanders are used to humid days followed by still humid nights. It means the lake sparkling under light of the sun and then moon. A continuous luminous cycle. Lake George means waking up before the sun rises. I love it.
The yard sale is actually in the satellite town of Warrensburg, but to us, it’s all simply called Lake George. This weekend in the small Adirondack town means food vendors baking, cooking, sautéing, frying and deep-frying things like pizza, funnel cake, sausage and peppers, popcorn, candy, cookies, hot dogs and hamburgers, homemade lemonade, roasted in the husk ears of corn with a cup of melted butter, corn dogs, French fries, blooming onions (heartburn included), ice cream, and whatever new surprises may come with each new year. It means porta-potties with no toilet paper. Every year, this weekend on the lake means going out to eat at night. Same place as last year (service and food were great last year!), or someplace new (give it a shot!)? These weekends mean threats from Irritable Bowel Syndrome, so watch what you eat!
Lake George in early October means the crisp smell of cold when the sun is still revolving back into the hemisphere. It means the smells of fall and the colors of leaves losing their fill of chlorophyll. Green to yellow. Yellow to brown and then they all fall down. Weeks later, in Lake George, you might hear the crunching of those once lush leaves below your feet, but in early October they exist to please the eye in colors of yellow, red, and orange. This weekend means foot soldiering around town in search of treasures hidden on backstreets. Lake George means walky-talkies bellowing strange sounds and snippets of others’ static-filled conversations. It means pranks and anonymous fake threats carried on radio waves, threats that will never be birthed into existence. They’ll never hurt us, but they’ll make us laugh. This weekend means thriving crowds from out of town. Throngs of people before these crowded streets. It means haggling. It means dirty hands after sorting through other people’s junk. It means finding cheap parking in a good spot, central to the festivities. No one wants to drag pounds and pounds of the good stuff through several miles of the horde to get to the car parked in someone’s muddy front yard, for five dollars. Lake George means a four or five hour drive with my father behind the wheel. It means my mother yelling at my father to slow down or back off someone’s ass. I love it.
Lake George means the arcade where Mom rocks the pinball machines without tilting, playing on fifty cents for a good twenty minutes, much longer than my two coins last. Then we shoot invisible beams of light from rifles chained to the counter. I hit the spittoon and the man plays a ditty on the old timey piano. He never lets me down, year after year. Dad rolls the ball into the slot, hoping to make a Full House and get maximum points represented by paper tickets. What kind of prize can we get this year? One hundred tickets for a bouncing ball that we could have got for fifty cents from a vending machine? It was all worth it. Mother and son, side-by-side, picking off furry varmints and snarling desperados. Father and son playing poker. Mother smoking, walking next to father on the sidewalk behind me. On the lake means the wax museum, and the haunted house. Two-for-One pricing!
The yard sale crowds mean trouble for the ambulance trying to get to someone who must have found that nick-knack they’d been hunting for decades, overwhelmed that they’ve found their holy grail. He turned the water into wine. Weekends on the lake mean somebody might get to the good stuff before you do. Fuck you—It’s mine! Lake George means blankets, tables, tents, tarps and barns. Neon stickers, tags on string, markered up masking tape telling us how much. Negotiate. Bargain. Haggle. Araby. I love it.
Crowds and crowds mean people of varying looks. Check her out; she’s got huge boobs. There’s the guy with the voice box, here every year. Were I a kid, I’d be scared. Lake George means the cell phone rings at least ten times and dad asks you where you are at all of those ten times. If you’re not near a street sign, you tell of some landmark that you forget about all year, but once you get into town, it all comes back to you. I love it all.
Lake George means if you’re a melancholy teen and you sit in one spot long enough, strangers who are your peers may come up to you, you who is sitting there in your headphones waiting for your parents and trying not to look alone. These strangers will ask you if you’re okay. After you tell them yes, but don’t necessarily mean it, you want to go with them when they leave. You have so few friends and fewer good ones and maybe that cute girl with them will make out with you. You’re young enough to be satisfied with that and not desire much more, the way you will in the years to come. You watch them go off and are satisfied that someone, who is maybe like you, has shown concern. They cared enough and it got to me. Hit me in the heart and I loved humanity those minutes after, until my parents came around and I was soon digging through a box of G.I. Joe action figures and hoping they’d have their corresponding weapons.
I love those kids, now adults, somewhere in the world, maybe still there, waiting to invite me for a night on the town, as small as it is. Are they still alive, dead, perhaps joined the Army, or Marines and went to Iraq? Did they go to college and move to the city? Albany, Boston, or New York? Did she get pregnant at eighteen or nineteen and go to work at the grocery store that bears no name that anyone outside of the upstate region would recognize? I hope for only the best for them. I love them.
I’ve been returned for a mere week and I’m off again, but not alone. Not alone. My parents and I are heading up to Lake George, New York in a few hours. World's largest yard sale and all that, every first weekend in October. Miles of wares. Miles to go before we sleep.
Mother snipes some terrorists in Silent Scope.
The world outside of lower New York can be found lacking. Exotic New York foods such as bagels and pizza do not truly exist outside of New York. There are rare pockets in the outside world beyond the intangible walls of civilized New York where these delicacies occasionally form themselves from up out of the earth. Before we leave I'm going to get some bagels, because I've been without them for a month. Real bagels made with New York water. I think that is really the key to many of our fine foods. Pizza and bagels. Bagels and pizza. Thoughts of them bring me to the verge of gastrointestinal orgasm. It's the water that goes into the dough and makes them good. I've only eaten pizza twice since returning, so I must have more of it. Umberto's and then Giuseppe’s with their sweet sauce. A good sauce helps too. Francesco's is next, a family favorite for over thirty years. Mountain Mike's Pizza in Cali is dreadful. I fear Mountain Mike had his balls cleaved off, or perhaps caught in a meat grinder, because he takes no chances with his food. No flavor. None. I might as well go to Sunday mass and eat the wafers coated in flavorless cheese. Is "mass" supposed to be capitalized? I'm agnostic now, so I don't care in the sense that I could go to Hell should that exist, but for grammar's sake I want to get it right.
I just watched Layer Cake (L4YER CAKE on the box). It's a British crime film. The director was supposed to direct X-Men 3: The Last Stand, but "did not want to uproot his family to film in Canada." I think he would have done an excellent job.
I must away now.
I could have survived without my immediate family for longer. A month. It was nothing. My friends were missed, some of who kept me company via cell phone during long hours in the car. In fact I may have had to had I known what I would come to know. I came back for her and for the yard sale. The situation with her was…uncertain. The yard sale was this weekend and that was certain.
Year after year, we’d gone with few exceptions. Me. Mom. Dad. My sister. My brother-in-law. My cousin. My friend. Some combination of this listing of people had gone for nearly a decade with few exceptions. September 11, 2001 did not prevent our going some weeks later. Live life as normal. Fuck the fear. Spend money. Enjoy capitalism, materialism, orgasm. Aftermath.
Lake George means more than any of those. I have no intentions of spending much money since I am recently returned and without gainful employment. I go to spend time with my family and friends, whoever makes the journey. Lake George usually means Best Western. It means cold nights when Long Islanders are used to humid days followed by still humid nights. It means the lake sparkling under light of the sun and then moon. A continuous luminous cycle. Lake George means waking up before the sun rises. I love it.
The yard sale is actually in the satellite town of Warrensburg, but to us, it’s all simply called Lake George. This weekend in the small Adirondack town means food vendors baking, cooking, sautéing, frying and deep-frying things like pizza, funnel cake, sausage and peppers, popcorn, candy, cookies, hot dogs and hamburgers, homemade lemonade, roasted in the husk ears of corn with a cup of melted butter, corn dogs, French fries, blooming onions (heartburn included), ice cream, and whatever new surprises may come with each new year. It means porta-potties with no toilet paper. Every year, this weekend on the lake means going out to eat at night. Same place as last year (service and food were great last year!), or someplace new (give it a shot!)? These weekends mean threats from Irritable Bowel Syndrome, so watch what you eat!
Lake George in early October means the crisp smell of cold when the sun is still revolving back into the hemisphere. It means the smells of fall and the colors of leaves losing their fill of chlorophyll. Green to yellow. Yellow to brown and then they all fall down. Weeks later, in Lake George, you might hear the crunching of those once lush leaves below your feet, but in early October they exist to please the eye in colors of yellow, red, and orange. This weekend means foot soldiering around town in search of treasures hidden on backstreets. Lake George means walky-talkies bellowing strange sounds and snippets of others’ static-filled conversations. It means pranks and anonymous fake threats carried on radio waves, threats that will never be birthed into existence. They’ll never hurt us, but they’ll make us laugh. This weekend means thriving crowds from out of town. Throngs of people before these crowded streets. It means haggling. It means dirty hands after sorting through other people’s junk. It means finding cheap parking in a good spot, central to the festivities. No one wants to drag pounds and pounds of the good stuff through several miles of the horde to get to the car parked in someone’s muddy front yard, for five dollars. Lake George means a four or five hour drive with my father behind the wheel. It means my mother yelling at my father to slow down or back off someone’s ass. I love it.
Lake George means the arcade where Mom rocks the pinball machines without tilting, playing on fifty cents for a good twenty minutes, much longer than my two coins last. Then we shoot invisible beams of light from rifles chained to the counter. I hit the spittoon and the man plays a ditty on the old timey piano. He never lets me down, year after year. Dad rolls the ball into the slot, hoping to make a Full House and get maximum points represented by paper tickets. What kind of prize can we get this year? One hundred tickets for a bouncing ball that we could have got for fifty cents from a vending machine? It was all worth it. Mother and son, side-by-side, picking off furry varmints and snarling desperados. Father and son playing poker. Mother smoking, walking next to father on the sidewalk behind me. On the lake means the wax museum, and the haunted house. Two-for-One pricing!
The yard sale crowds mean trouble for the ambulance trying to get to someone who must have found that nick-knack they’d been hunting for decades, overwhelmed that they’ve found their holy grail. He turned the water into wine. Weekends on the lake mean somebody might get to the good stuff before you do. Fuck you—It’s mine! Lake George means blankets, tables, tents, tarps and barns. Neon stickers, tags on string, markered up masking tape telling us how much. Negotiate. Bargain. Haggle. Araby. I love it.
Crowds and crowds mean people of varying looks. Check her out; she’s got huge boobs. There’s the guy with the voice box, here every year. Were I a kid, I’d be scared. Lake George means the cell phone rings at least ten times and dad asks you where you are at all of those ten times. If you’re not near a street sign, you tell of some landmark that you forget about all year, but once you get into town, it all comes back to you. I love it all.
Lake George means if you’re a melancholy teen and you sit in one spot long enough, strangers who are your peers may come up to you, you who is sitting there in your headphones waiting for your parents and trying not to look alone. These strangers will ask you if you’re okay. After you tell them yes, but don’t necessarily mean it, you want to go with them when they leave. You have so few friends and fewer good ones and maybe that cute girl with them will make out with you. You’re young enough to be satisfied with that and not desire much more, the way you will in the years to come. You watch them go off and are satisfied that someone, who is maybe like you, has shown concern. They cared enough and it got to me. Hit me in the heart and I loved humanity those minutes after, until my parents came around and I was soon digging through a box of G.I. Joe action figures and hoping they’d have their corresponding weapons.
I love those kids, now adults, somewhere in the world, maybe still there, waiting to invite me for a night on the town, as small as it is. Are they still alive, dead, perhaps joined the Army, or Marines and went to Iraq? Did they go to college and move to the city? Albany, Boston, or New York? Did she get pregnant at eighteen or nineteen and go to work at the grocery store that bears no name that anyone outside of the upstate region would recognize? I hope for only the best for them. I love them.
I’ve been returned for a mere week and I’m off again, but not alone. Not alone. My parents and I are heading up to Lake George, New York in a few hours. World's largest yard sale and all that, every first weekend in October. Miles of wares. Miles to go before we sleep.
Mother snipes some terrorists in Silent Scope.
Son, a better shot, gets more headshots than mom.
*****
The world outside of lower New York can be found lacking. Exotic New York foods such as bagels and pizza do not truly exist outside of New York. There are rare pockets in the outside world beyond the intangible walls of civilized New York where these delicacies occasionally form themselves from up out of the earth. Before we leave I'm going to get some bagels, because I've been without them for a month. Real bagels made with New York water. I think that is really the key to many of our fine foods. Pizza and bagels. Bagels and pizza. Thoughts of them bring me to the verge of gastrointestinal orgasm. It's the water that goes into the dough and makes them good. I've only eaten pizza twice since returning, so I must have more of it. Umberto's and then Giuseppe’s with their sweet sauce. A good sauce helps too. Francesco's is next, a family favorite for over thirty years. Mountain Mike's Pizza in Cali is dreadful. I fear Mountain Mike had his balls cleaved off, or perhaps caught in a meat grinder, because he takes no chances with his food. No flavor. None. I might as well go to Sunday mass and eat the wafers coated in flavorless cheese. Is "mass" supposed to be capitalized? I'm agnostic now, so I don't care in the sense that I could go to Hell should that exist, but for grammar's sake I want to get it right.
I just watched Layer Cake (L4YER CAKE on the box). It's a British crime film. The director was supposed to direct X-Men 3: The Last Stand, but "did not want to uproot his family to film in Canada." I think he would have done an excellent job.
I must away now.
26 September 2005
The Hero's Return - Monday 2005 September 26
I'm letting everyone know that I returned Sunday night at eleven. Going through 30 days of mail is harrowing. There are too many bills and other solicitations for money. I have none.
That's all folks!
That's all folks!
24 September 2005
Let's get this show on the road.
I plan on getting on the road tomorrow morning at around six am. Sans stops and work zones, the trip should take about twenty-eight hours via I-80. When I get to Mifflinville, Pennsylvania, I'll have traveled almost all of the continent spanning roadway. However I decide to break up the time is how long it will take me. Mr. Owl, how many days will it take Paul to get home? Let's find out. . . 1, 2, 3, CRUNCH! The world will never know. Not until I get home anyway. It'll be like a big surprise. Big, because I put on about twenty-eight pounds. Not really. That would be kind of funny just to shock everyone.
Anyway, it's almost midnight, and I'd love to get at least six hours sleep before heading out through the cornfields of Nebraska. I wish the midwest was still forested, as I believe it was over 200 years ago, before the days of Ira Hayes. Trees are much more pretty than the nothingness of endless maize. I should leave at four, just do I don't have to look at corn.
Anyway, it's almost midnight, and I'd love to get at least six hours sleep before heading out through the cornfields of Nebraska. I wish the midwest was still forested, as I believe it was over 200 years ago, before the days of Ira Hayes. Trees are much more pretty than the nothingness of endless maize. I should leave at four, just do I don't have to look at corn.
Rocky Mountain National Park - Friday, September 23, 2005 - ENTRY UNDER CONSTRUCTION
I woke that morning to see my cousin had left me with directions and a crude map to travel to the east entrance of Rocky Mountain National Park. With my National Parks pass I would be admitted for no charge.
It would take about an hour to get there and I would pass through Estes, with its huge deer population and scenic lake.
Entering the park groups of aspen stood spotting up the forest in gold through the changing of the seasons.
At times the park road winds up the mountains with drop offs on both sides whose bottoms lay thousands of feet below.
At an elevation of over two miles above sea level clouds blanketed the sky and snow flurries blew about in the biting wind. I spied upon the mountains and valleys until all other the other adventurers had returned to their cars. I had this magnificent view to myself until the next caravan wheeled up the mountain. After taking in the view I walked back to my humble blue chariot where a beautiful girl smiled at me from behind her car window. It felt great to be alive.
Signs along foot trails inform interested travelers of the geological history of the land. Near the apex of the mountain peaks, a sign informed me of the fascinating phenomena known as rock streams. Water seeps into the ground and begins to run downward while underground. Because of waters’ ability to seep into the smallest of spaces, it makes its way underneath rocks as big as melons. Because of the temperature differential between night and day, when it becomes freezing at night, the expansion of the water molecules push the rocks upward until they rest on the surface in streaming patterns. Sometimes two rock streams merge into one. They really are beautiful.
Grand Lake, Colorado
The quaint town of Grand Lake rests past the western border of the park. The main drag runs along the lake and is lined with restaurants, stores and hotels. There are many gift shops selling both typical tourist town kitsch, like mugs with a picture of the lake, or T-Shirts with a painting of the landscape with the name of the town. I bought a few items I thought friends and family would like as birthday and Christmas gifts.
There are many great restaurants and bar & grills. One I went to had great prices. It was hard to believe I got as much food as I did for only six dollars.
After my meal I headed toward the lake to relax for a while and enjoy some homemade ice cream. I walked along the dock peering over the side to see if I could view some fish swimming by.
I then walked onto one of the pontoon style boat docks where I lay down to bask in the sun and let the pulsing of the lake rock me into a sense of peace. I closed my eyes wanting to take a nap.
Deciding it was getting late, I returned, extremely relaxed, to my car and reentered the park at its western entrance. Only a few minutes in droves of cars littered the shoulders meaning only one thing: wildlife. I parked in one of the few open spots and trekked into the tall grass to join dozens of other folk all enjoying a herd of elk. One that looked like a bulky male was wearing a radio collar. Some zoologists were currently tracking the movements of the herd with their equipment and explained to many curious people their efforts.
Back on the road it wasn’t long before I encountered more stopped vehicles, cars, motorcycles and campers. A man was pointing up a steep incline in the trees so I pulled over and walked to where the man was, spotting a huge make elk followed by a small herd. They stuck to the cover of trees and looked amazing amongst the backdrop of endless forest.
Driving slowly along the road there were cars stopped in front of me. A mighty elk commanded respect as he made way across the road.
It would take about an hour to get there and I would pass through Estes, with its huge deer population and scenic lake.
Entering the park groups of aspen stood spotting up the forest in gold through the changing of the seasons.
At times the park road winds up the mountains with drop offs on both sides whose bottoms lay thousands of feet below.
At an elevation of over two miles above sea level clouds blanketed the sky and snow flurries blew about in the biting wind. I spied upon the mountains and valleys until all other the other adventurers had returned to their cars. I had this magnificent view to myself until the next caravan wheeled up the mountain. After taking in the view I walked back to my humble blue chariot where a beautiful girl smiled at me from behind her car window. It felt great to be alive.
Signs along foot trails inform interested travelers of the geological history of the land. Near the apex of the mountain peaks, a sign informed me of the fascinating phenomena known as rock streams. Water seeps into the ground and begins to run downward while underground. Because of waters’ ability to seep into the smallest of spaces, it makes its way underneath rocks as big as melons. Because of the temperature differential between night and day, when it becomes freezing at night, the expansion of the water molecules push the rocks upward until they rest on the surface in streaming patterns. Sometimes two rock streams merge into one. They really are beautiful.There are many great restaurants and bar & grills. One I went to had great prices. It was hard to believe I got as much food as I did for only six dollars.
After my meal I headed toward the lake to relax for a while and enjoy some homemade ice cream. I walked along the dock peering over the side to see if I could view some fish swimming by.
I then walked onto one of the pontoon style boat docks where I lay down to bask in the sun and let the pulsing of the lake rock me into a sense of peace. I closed my eyes wanting to take a nap.
Deciding it was getting late, I returned, extremely relaxed, to my car and reentered the park at its western entrance. Only a few minutes in droves of cars littered the shoulders meaning only one thing: wildlife. I parked in one of the few open spots and trekked into the tall grass to join dozens of other folk all enjoying a herd of elk. One that looked like a bulky male was wearing a radio collar. Some zoologists were currently tracking the movements of the herd with their equipment and explained to many curious people their efforts.
Back on the road it wasn’t long before I encountered more stopped vehicles, cars, motorcycles and campers. A man was pointing up a steep incline in the trees so I pulled over and walked to where the man was, spotting a huge make elk followed by a small herd. They stuck to the cover of trees and looked amazing amongst the backdrop of endless forest.
Driving slowly along the road there were cars stopped in front of me. A mighty elk commanded respect as he made way across the road.22 September 2005
Blogtime in Longmont - Thursday, September 22, 2005
I'm in Longmont, CO, listening to The Who's "Teenag. . . ." I mean, "Baba O'Riley." I wish I had thought to do this blog sooner. It would have been a great thing for those who would want to follow me along my journey into alcoholism. I think I've done more drinking on this trip than I have in all time preceding. I await the song titled Squeeze Box. Somehow I don't think it's about a musical instrument, but an equally moving instrument of a different kind. You just got to play it right.
Where did I get the title for my blogsite thingy, you ask? It's the title given to a bunch of Green Lantern/Green Arrow stories from the 1970's. At the time the stories were very different from the usual comic fare. If my memory serves me correctly, the two DC characters traveled the country together, fighting crime of course, and I believe taking on issues such as racism and other topics, then and sometimes still, considered taboo. Of course, it would help if I read those stories, but I will soon. They might even be out in the car.
I'm going to quit this for the immediate future, as it took me a while to get this far with the blog and setting it up. Hopefully Chris will be home soon and we can go get something to eat. I ate Sbarro's Pizza last night after the movies (40 Year Old Virgin, which was likened to myself, except for the virgin part, and Wes Craven's Red Eye). That is considered good pizza out here. I can't wait to eat some New York Pizza. Soon enough. ...Soon enough. Perhaps later today I will get one of my posts up here.
Where did I get the title for my blogsite thingy, you ask? It's the title given to a bunch of Green Lantern/Green Arrow stories from the 1970's. At the time the stories were very different from the usual comic fare. If my memory serves me correctly, the two DC characters traveled the country together, fighting crime of course, and I believe taking on issues such as racism and other topics, then and sometimes still, considered taboo. Of course, it would help if I read those stories, but I will soon. They might even be out in the car.
I'm going to quit this for the immediate future, as it took me a while to get this far with the blog and setting it up. Hopefully Chris will be home soon and we can go get something to eat. I ate Sbarro's Pizza last night after the movies (40 Year Old Virgin, which was likened to myself, except for the virgin part, and Wes Craven's Red Eye). That is considered good pizza out here. I can't wait to eat some New York Pizza. Soon enough. ...Soon enough. Perhaps later today I will get one of my posts up here.
20 September 2005
15 September 2005
14 September 2005
Alcatraz or Bust: I Wanna be Machine Gun Kelly's bitch. - September 9, 2005
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