I started putting some more of my old comics stuff online. When I started doing small-press cartoonery, I thought I shouldn't put too many complete stories online because then no one will want them on paper. Well, the few noble souls who covet minicomics are going to covet them anyway, and there are no editors rushing to pay me for these, so what the hell:

This goofy little heap of Zipatone is the first mini-comic I ever made (and the first one I sold: for one dollar, to Nick Bertozzi). It was an attempt to turn heartbroken cynicism into sentimental slapstick and I'm still really proud of it.

Also on there is the zombie story I did for Bogus Dead. Hmm, now I see a common theme of "things chasing you up the stairs". The line "no one can make you do or feel anything" came from an asshole co-worker, who used it to cover for some really amazing verbal aggression.

I know this isn't a big surprise, but today's SF Chronicle had one of those bits where you have to ask: is it propaganda or just laziness?

In this article about Arnold's latest anti-union measure, two extraordinarily trusting journalists quoted one of his enthusiastic grassroots supporters: "Sandra Crandall, a kindergarten teacher at Moiola Elementary School in Fountain Valley and a Teacher of the Year in 2004 and 2005". Apparently, Ms. Crandall's tendency to speak in public-relations-ese ("The issue is so simple that my kindergarten kids can figure it out") didn't make the reporters wonder if, just maybe, this impressive citizen was really not such a random sample of how California voters feel about their unions.

And sure enough, though she didn't say so, Ms. Crandall has a not so typical perspective: she's on the board of directors of the National Right to Work Committee, whose sole purpose is gutting federal labor laws. It took me two seconds to find that out on the Internet, but I'm sure Chron reporters are too busy for such things.

I wrote a nice letter to the editor about the difference between grassroots supporters and single-issue activists. But why should anyone quote me? I'm a nurse, a city employee, and an SEIU Local 790 member—one of those "special interests" you've heard about.

Never trust anything the Chron writes about Arnold (or Gavin). They'll join in when everyone is giving him a hard time, but they pushed hard to get him where he is today.

* title is an inside joke for San Franciscans

A while ago I had one of those big fan conversions where I suddenly "got" Achewood. I don't think I've managed to infect anyone else I know with this appreciation, but I still insist Onstad is one of the funniest fuckers ever. I used to think it was all about the verbiage, because his drawing was so stiff and the humor was just a few degrees above freezing.

But when he started this thing about Cartilage Head (warning: avoid clicking link if you are easily disturbed), I realized that (a) Onstad these days draws pretty damn well, and (b) he's gone way beyond absurdist misanthropy and tapped into some sort of Lovecraftian well of madness... and the fact that this still strikes me as "funny" means I must be a sick puppy indeed. Or maybe it's simpler than that: nightmare visions = creepy, but nightmare visions + Ray Smuckles = funny.

Two years ago I went to Folsom as a tourist—had lived in SF for almost a year by then, but I was still a tourist. And I was kind of lonely and depressed, so when I saw happy kinky folks I just envied them in a schmucky self-pitying way. Last year, I was a lot happier all around, but I had to be at my damn job.

This year I got dressed up, with much help from my pleasantly deranged girlfriend, as sort of a girly goth fetish superhero—not such a traditionally appropriate get-up maybe (not much in the way of black shiny things, nor much skin) but ridiculously fun and well appreciated by the lady. Considering what anxious scatterbrained nitpickers we both are, it was pretty great that we got through the dress-up and getting-to-the-fair parts without any major meltdowns, though I regretted my insistence on walking from the Mission ("look it's such a beautiful day!") when her heels started chafing and a wire fence ripped her crinoline. She was still fatally beautiful of course.

We eventually got there and what do you know, it's a whole lot more fun when you're not a tourist. Didn't see half the people I wanted to see, and didn't stop as long to see some things as I should've, and a big part of our plans for the day got scuttled due to a misunderstanding about which place was open when. I'm not complaining. I love this town and I know some very good people.

By my count, 14 people asked to take our picture. At least that many surreptitiously snapped while walking by. And some did both: asked for a nice pose from the couple, snapped, said thank you... and then while walking away, snapped an extra one of just the cute girl. Heh. In the only one of these pictures I've seen so far, we do look very nice, although as usual I also look totally stoned or at least half asleep (it's just an eyelid thing).

It's no secret that I tend to go gaga for women with a really, really goofy sense of humor, possibly because they're the only ones who'll put up with the endless surrealistic "jokes" that are often my first response to a serious question. But now with B., things have gotten totally out of hand.

First you must know that the bakery down the street has a tasty cinnamon roll that they call a Morning Bun.

Me: "I'm gonna go pick up a morning bun."
She: "Like this one?" (Grabs a buttock—the right buttock—and squeezes fiercely.)
Me: "Ow. Well if you squeeze that one so hard that it dies, then I guess the other one will be mourning."
She: "Because it was left behind?"

AAAARGH

(Now I want to do an ass-based redesign of the cover for this terrible book...)