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How You Say?

This morning, we have Joe McCulloch’s take on the Week in Comics, wherein he does a quick followup on yesterday’s Jason Karns interview, and we also present Matthias Wivel’s review of Carl Barks’s Donald Duck “Lost in the Andes”. Wivel is also in Angoulême right now, and we plan to begin featuring his reports from the festival later this week.

Speaking of Angoulême, Sarah Glidden will be living in the area for seven months, and recently posted a photo tour of the area.

Tom Spurgeon’s got a good interview with Tom Gauld.

Milo George reviewed the Russ Cochran Sunday Funnies project that was mentioned in the comments of last Friday’s post.

I am the furthest thing from an expert on issues related to SOPA and online piracy, but I found this article in the Register last week to be very helpful, in the sense that it wasn’t just screeching and explained some of the complexities that have been ignored in the general clamor I’ve seen so far.

Not comics (or barely so): Steven Heller digs up a 1932 children’s book full of very stark, black and white photographs of everyday objects, one that claims that a “baby needs to learn about things as they are, and simple, accurate pictures to help him.” I don’t want to come off like the dumb iPad enthusiast of yesteryear by extrapolating too far from my own experience, but I’ve personally been amazed to discover just how readily very young children do recognize objects from drawn and even caricatured versions of them. There’s a reason Richard Scarry’s still in print, and this one isn’t.

 

Seriously Funny

Today we present Jim Rugg interviewing FUKITOR’s Jason Karns.

And we have a guest blog from the great Drew Friedman, who just finished this phenomenal portrait of Harvey Kurtzman, and had this to say about the man himself:

The legendary Harvey Kurtzman (1924-1993) needs no introduction. So here’s one anyway. Cartoonist, writer and editor, he was the founder and creator of Mad, Trump, Humbug, Help, etc. Along with his long time partner, cartoonist Will Elder, he spent 20 years producing the lushly painted comic strip “Little Annie Fanny” for Playboy.

Beginning in 1975, Harvey Kurtzman was also a teacher at the School of Visual Arts (SVA) in New York, which is where I eventually met him. In fact, the main reason I chose SVA as an art school was because Harvey Kurtzman was listed as an instructor in their catalog. Growing up as the son of a renowned writer (Bruce Jay Friedman), encountering and meeting various celebrities, authors and performers was common for me, but I always held cartoonists on a higher level. The fact that my dad was actually friends with  Maurice Sendak and Jules Feiffer (author of…The Great Comic Book Heroes!!) was just astounding to me, as my goal from an early age was to become a cartoonist, and in addition, I already knew my comics history. Attending a Playboy authors convention in the early seventies, my father posed for a giant group photo (taken by Alfred Eisenstadt) along with about a hundred other Playboy contributors. Hugh Hefner was prominently up front, with many celebrated authors and artists scattered throughout. When I saw the photo in Playboy, what impressed me the most was that my dad was standing right next to one of my Cartoon Heroes: none other than Harvey Kurtzman! I have no idea if they even spoke to each other but it was still such a point of pride for me.

As a teenager in the early seventies, I attended many comic book conventions in NYC, where Harvey Kurtzman was a frequent guest, but I never dared approach him, terrified he’d dismiss me as just another geeky fanboy. Seeing his name listed in the SVA catalog a couple of years later would finally grant me access into his world, or so I hoped.

I eventually signed up for Kurtzman’s course in late 1978. When the first class was ending, and wanting to impress him with my opening line, I made my approach. He was sitting at his desk doing some class paperwork and I leaned in and awkwardly stated: “You know my father!” He lowered his glasses and looked up at me with tired, weary eyes, “Who’s your father?”, he asked.  I answered “Bruce Jay Friedman”. Seemingly unimpressed, he murmured, “Oh, the author” and returned to his paperwork. But he quietly did take note, and would always introduce me to visiting class guests by sarcastically announcing “and this is the son of the author Bruce Jay Friedman”.

Harvey has been criticized by some for not being a great teacher, but never by me (after all, I wasn’t a great student). It actually wasn’t important that he wasn’t a “great teacher” — just being in his presence was enough. For some still unknown reason, Harvey chose to teach “gag cartoons” in his class, preparing his students for a career as, say, a New Yorker or Playboy gag cartoonist. Rarely did he bring up the subject of comics, but if a student ever did, particularly referring to his early Mad or war comics for EC, he clearly (to me anyway) took great pride that anyone still cared and was interested in that work. But most of his students just thought of him as their amiable cartoon instructor “Mr. Kurtzman,” some perhaps knowing he had some vague connection to Mad and that he wrote that sexy comic strip in the back of Playboy (During one of Gary Groth’s extensive interviews with Kurtzman for TCJ, he asked Harvey about teaching at SVA and what the students were like, “They don’t know nuthin’!” was Harvey’s dismissive reply, which sadly, was basically true). But to me and many others, he was the droopy, turtle-faced Living Legend in our midst, and once a week for 3 hours it was our ground zero, the main meeting place for like-minded young cartoonists, future humorists, comics writers and editors, plus you never knew who might drop in. A constant stream of guest cartoonists could show up at any given time, among them were Robert Grossman, Rick Meyerowitz, Neal Adams, Jack Ziegler, et al. The first time I ever encountered Robert Crumb was when he appeared at the class unannounced. Just as I had avoided approaching Kurtzman at the comic cons, I didn’t dare approach Crumb.

Harvey encouraged chaos in his class. At the beginning of his course, he’d hand out balloons and ask everyone to blow them up till they exploded, simulating the “surprise” you should get from a cartoon punchline and leading to inevitable hysterical laughter from all. I’ve often referred to his class (and SVA in general) as “The 13th grade” or “Clown College.”  As the cartoonist Kaz has mentioned, “Drew went into SVA knowing what he wanted to do and left SVA the same way”; meaning, I was hard if not impossible to “teach.” As far as classroom insanity, Harvey usually enjoyed and encouraged the Three Stooges noises and the endless insanity, often instigated by me. He once even quietly took me aside during class to “thank me” for keeping things so lively. But Harvey was also very sensitive and fragile, and sometimes prone to tears, especially at that point in his life when things perhaps hadn’t worked out as he had hoped, and Little Annie Fanny was his main bread and butter. Some days he’d arrive at class and was clearly not in the mood for the hi-jinx that would surely ensue. Oh, and let me go on record and address one particular false rumor that has plagued me for years. I did not hurl a desk out the window during a class! It was a fellow student I hurled.

I’d like to think Harvey and I were friends, or at least as friendly as a wise-ass student could be with his teacher. I was frequently asked to join him along with class guests and certain chosen students (among them, Mark Newgarden, Dave Dubnanski, Phil Felix and Mike Carlin) at the after class get togethers at his favorite Irish bar, The Glocca Morra, around the corner on East 23rd St,  where he could finally unwind and reminisce about the old days at EC, Bill Gaines, Will Elder’s practical jokes, his theories about coke bottle design, politics (he admired Ronald Reagan!) and women.

I was proud that Harvey always seemed to “get” my work or at least appreciate what I was doing and the painstaking detail I was putting into it (he referred to me once as the “new Wally Wood”… Yikes!). He seemed to take pride in the fact that after I graduated I was getting attention and being printed in mainstream publications like Heavy Metal, National Lampoon and Spy. He even wrote a foreword to one of my books. After SVA, I saw Harvey only a few more times. One summer he called me out of the blue and asked if I’d like to edit a humor magazine for him. I was floored by the offer and said “Of course!!”, which is when he earned one of his nicknames, “Harvey the Vague.” That’s the last I ever heard anything about editing a magazine for him. Harvey died in 1993 after suffering for several years from the ravages of Parkinson’s disease, but his legend has by no means diminished, in fact it continues to grow. Aside from the recent coffee table book about his career from Abrams and the deluxe Humbug box set from Fantagraphics, a massive biography is in the works, which will cover in detail his SVA years, as well as a film documentary. During my recent interview (along with Gary Groth) with Jack Davis at the Brooklyn Comics and Graphics Festival, Jack continually brought up Harvey as the best editor he ever worked for,  giving him full credit for pushing him in artistic directions that would eventually make him one of the top commercial illustrators ever.

It was after our talk with Jack that I was inspired to create this portrait (based on a mid-seventies photo by E. B. Boatner) of Harvey Kurtzman, posed in his attic studio at his home in Mount Vernon, NY.

 

In the Context of No Context

Today we say goodbye to Leslie Stein, with her fifth contribution to the Cartoonist’s Diary column. We also present Ken Parille’s newest GRID, in which he evaluates many of the comics of 2011, including Habibi, Holy Terror, The Death-Ray, and many others.

One of the comics Parille discusses is Adrian Tomine’s Optic Nerve 12, which I happened to finally read just a few days ago, though I purchased it the day of its release. (Not until this past year, after making a sincere effort to read as many comics of interest as possible, have I realized just how many solid comics there actually are being published, and how easy it is to fall behind. I read comics every day, and still haven’t gotten to several of the books on Parille’s list, for example.) Anyway, this is a very strong issue of Optic Nerve, which I enjoyed enough that it makes me want to go back and re-examine some of his earlier work—his earliest minicomics were raw and very funny, but somewhere along the way, his comics stopped clicking with me on a regular basis. Despite Tomine’s obvious artistic command, his characters, plots, and situations seemed so low-stakes, yet were apparently taken so seriously, that I found it hard to relate to what was going on. I wonder now, after enjoying this last issue so much, as well as large portions of Shortcomings, if I was simply misreading him—the story I like best here, “Hortisculpture”, is also sort of slight, but the character interplay and dramatic situations are handled so lightly, and his storytelling displays a subtlety so far beyond most of what’s being published at the current moment, that the parts end up seeming strong enough to redeem the whole. (Of course, I’ve only read it once so far, and new facets may reveal themselves on a second or third go-round.)

Parille makes it a point in his column to focus on the key formal aspect of “Hortisculpture”: the way its scenes are planned to resemble individual episodes of a daily newspaper strip. This is becoming an increasingly popular strategy — Clowes did something similar in Wilson, Tim Hensley in Wally Gropius, Seth, Ivan Brunetti, David Heatley, etc. — and it produces an interesting effect. In Wilson, portraying the title character’s life in discreet strips not only allowed Clowes a formal excuse to experiment with different drawing styles at appropriate moments, but also served to recast the often disturbing incidents of Wilson’s life as temporary and humorous situations. A character being sentenced to prison reads differently in the context of a long-running comic strip than it does as the middle section of a more traditional graphic novel. (Is it too early to apply the term “traditional” to graphic novels?) In Wally Gropius, it makes the often perverse goings-on even more unsettling. And in “Hortisculpture” it somehow manages to add a melancholy tone to what is an essential comedic storyline — exploiting not only the reader’s natural inclination to fill in the narrative gaps “between the gutters,” but also his or her tendency (trained by exposure to so many decades-long strips) to imaginatively extend a comic strip’s storyline in all directions. A more traditionally organized story would seem more settled, more complete.

These effects are everywhere in comics these days, and not always created consciously. In their most recent collected editions, Prince Valiant and Gasoline Alley and Little Nemo read differently than they used to–and we see their creators differently because of it. Frank King is revealed as an early graphic novelist; for the first time in decades, readers can begin to experience the wonders inspired by properly printed strips from Foster and McCay, published at or close to their originally intended size.

Of course, we are still not reading these strips as the original readers did. Simply being collected into books changes the strips’ context dramatically. When Fantagraphics divides the constantly reprinted EC stories into artist-specific books later this year, it will undoubtedly similarly change our understanding of the work, whether we notice it consciously or not. Sometimes reading the lavish new collections of Terry and the Pirates or Popeye or Dick Tracy or Little Orphan Annie, I wonder what it would have been like to experience these strips as they were published, one daily installment at a time. All of these great proclaimed masterpieces were not intended to be read in large gulps, but in daily sips over decades. Barring accident or disease, I’ve probably got five or so decades of good vision left, so if I want to try out one of our classics the “real way,” I need to get started soon.

 

Downtown

On the site:

It’s Day 4 of Leslie Stein’s Diary, in which we learn about happy family time. And, hey, Joe McCulloch snuck in a full scale review of the much-discussed new comic book from Brandon Graham, Prophet #21. No fair Joe, you’re making us look like slackers. Even more than you usually do! And Kristian Williams contributes a review of a recent edition of “Conversations” series: Alan Moore.

Elsewhere all around the web — Kim Thompson sent me this email with the following text, so like a good soldier, here ya go: “Kim Thompson forwarded this oldish link to an excellent interview with Asterix translator Anthea Bell: ‘I was toying with the idea of asking her for an interview someday,’ Kim notes, ‘but this little piece does the job beautifully. She’s been my comics-translating idol since 1976, when my dad, who worked as a professional translator, brought home a translator’s newsletter that compared Asterix translations and specifically cited her and her co-translator’s work as outstanding.’

I love when someone else does my job for me. Let’s see, Michel Fiffe has a phantasmagoric blog post from Michel Fiffe, taking in many a topic and vision. Here’s a fine post about the great classic illustrator Howard Pyle and his students. Pyle being the foundation of the modern adventure illustration genre of drawing. That’s a mouthful. This post about a new Seth project is incredibly enticing. Order placed.

And I leave you with this blatant conflict of interest: A really awesome video by Black Pus, which is Brian Chippendale’s one-man-band mode. Warning: may cause motion sickness and lazy interpretations.

 

Get to Work

It’s day three of Leslie Stein’s week at the wheel of A Cartoonist’s Diary. Mike Dawson’s TCJ Talkies returns, and Sammy the Mouse creator and La Mano honcho Zak Sally is taking questions. And finally, Chris Mautner reviews the other Carl Barks collection from this winter.

Elsewhere, it’s SOPA Blackout Day, as many of you may be vaguely aware. Here’s a basic link explaining some of what’s going on.

Cartoonist Zack Soto and former TCJ editor Milo George just took their new Study Group magazine online, and it looks very promising.

Evie Nagy reviews Tarpé Mills’s Miss Fury at the L.A. Review of Books.

Annie Nocenti gets the HiLobrow tribute treatment.

Judge Dredd artist Brett Ewins has reportedly been injured and arrested after an encounter with police. (via)

The BBC Channel 4 followed Alan Moore to Occupy London to meet protestors wearing the V for Vendetta mask:

And Inkstuds has posted its newest video interview, this time with David Lasky:

 

Following a Thread

On the site today: Leslie Stein brings it with Day 2 of her diary; Joe McCulloch takes us into the Week in Comics; and Sean T. Collins reviews Kramers Ergot 8.

No links today, just blathering:

If I was going to pinpoint something I’ve been interested in comics lately it’s something along the lines of sensuality and regularity. This is not a category of thing I’m looking to fill, but rather a tendentious link between different books. Last month I read, for the first time, Milo Manara (The Manara Library 1: Indian Summer and Other Stories, Dark Horse, 2011). Manara, as written by Hugo Pratt in “Indian Summer” is a kind exploitation fetish cartooning monster. He is both filmic in his attention to elemental detail (grass, dunes, fire) and some sort of classicist in his staging (Piero della Francesca with a sense of humor). Everything important seems to play out across a wide expanse, figures posed just-so to convey maximum narrative per panel. But it’s Manara’s line that counts the most It’s erotic in and of itself. There’s a frisson to it that is unmistakable – it functions like the literal air in a film, enhancing the mood. Everything in a Manara drawings is fluttering ever so much. This also extends to the ugliness of violence, sexual or otherwise. The women being raped by lithe youths or decrepit old men are always in some state of ecstasy. There’s no consequence, no horror at work underneath that shimmering beauty. And that’s where Manara and Pratt perform a kind of tripling. On the one hand, they are inviting you to participate in the crime, to get off on it and implicate yourself. On another they’re satirizing your revulsion at being aroused, and on another they’re simply tweaking 1970s Italian Catholic culture, fitting in just right with Dario Argento on the “Ok, just how serious is this” scale. Manara’s almost uncannily beautiful artwork raises it up to such an immaculate level of craft that it confuses the matter even further. It’s all so perfect, so un-comic book like, in the American sense.

Speaking of which, I’ve also been spending some with Alex Raymond’s Flash Gordon and Jungle Jim, 1934 to 1936 (IDW, 2011), which arrives with an introduction by Bruce Canwell that takes a startling weird turn very early on; he rightly assumes that most readers can do with just a gloss on Raymond’s life, which has been extensively detailed elsewhere. So instead he goes in depth on the life, writings, and contributions of Don Moore, who wrote Flash Gordon (usually uncredited) from sometime in the 1930s through the 1950s. Moore is one of those pulp-era characters about whom the more your read the shakier your standing might seem. Canwell does a great job of sussing out the very murky origins of comics, showing all the various factors at work, from genre-popularity to syndicate edicts to artistic ambition. It’s a great and holistic examination. Canwell also gets at one of the primary frustrations of studying this stuff: For a lot of it we simply don’t know, and probably never will, for reasons of records, relative egos, and the status of the material itself.

The book begins with the first Flash strip, with Raymond still in a more standard adventure-comics mode: crude, muscular, a little cramped. We watch Raymond learn quickly  on the job as he figures out how to make the fantasy work for him. During 1934 he goes from a cramped 12 panel grid, packing in far too much information per panel, to a 9 panel grid in which he seems to find his scale. By autumn he stops going for big scenes in each panel, and instead opens up the panel to focusing on figures alone. And in 1935 he’s using dynamic figures offset by well-composed plays of shadows and shapes; then in the summer the famously sensual Raymond lines come in (As an aside, I wonder what triggered all those lines? A chance discovery of William Blake? Virgil Finlay is more likely. Maybe Franklin Booth?) By the end of the year he’s down to as few as five panels per strip, each a full-fledged narrative illustration, and by 1936 he’s there, in his prime. The lines stand in for water, shadow, air, fire… anything elemental. There are few concretely delineated shapes – just forms described by swirling lines. Raymond can’t put a line down on the page without sexing it up. All those swooping lines, long, vivacious strokes.

No one would ever accuse him of subtlety, but more than anyone else he understood the sheer fleshiness of fantasy. Buck Rogers was more graphically inventive and schematically precise, but Raymond had sex on his side. He kinda had to make it that way, because he wasn’t much of a designer. The costumes, guns, creatures and planets are generic pulp stuff, with none of the sophistication of Calkins and later Keaton on Buck Rogers. Raymond’s Flash is the idea that it’s basically space-age Tarzan, or medieval space-age. Our hero is usually just in a swimsuit and a cape. Raymond makes no real attempt to invent – it’s all in the drawing. I like that, of course, and I can see why so many others did, too. In a lot of ways, Raymond is the crude version of Hal Foster, who was all restraint and, even when cutting loose, is classy. Not Raymond. When a damsel collapses at the villain’s feet, she falls into a vulnerable pose. She awaits ravishing. Every figure in a Raymond comic is doing something to another. No one just stands there. And in these strips lurks most of Frank Frazetta, all of Al Williamson, a chunk of Wally Wood, Bill Everett, and so many others.

This particular edition of Raymond’s Flash is not my first, but I would call it the best, short of seeing isolated black and white proofs reproduced in a few 1970s Russ Cochran tabloids. The repro here is superb, and having the topper strip, Jungle Jim, just above Flash is instructive. It foreshadows the close-quarters action Raymond would work with in Rip Kirby.

Y’know, there’s something to be said for these professionals. Manara is one of them, cranking out his stuff year in, year out (to the point of hack-dom, really). Raymond certainly did over there in Connecticut. So did Milton Caniff. I’m thinking about these guys these days maybe because they offer such solidity. They created complete bodies of work that, sure, contain pockets of mysteries, but mostly progress along fairly neat lines. Neither lived to see themselves displaced or forgotten (though Caniff’s politics embarrassingly fell out of step with his times). And that’s reassuring. There’s a finite quality there. McCay, Herriman… these guys died before they could be fully known. Not these others. It spills from the subject matter, too: Adventure – the dominent fan-supported comic book/strip genre from the late-1920s onwards. And why not? Deep in the depression it makes perfect sense to go for a ride, man. There’s been a spate of Caniff books lately, not least the complete Terry and the Pirates and, last year, Caniff: A Visual Biography (IDW, 2010). This was one of my, as the saying goes, favorite books of the year, because his visual autobiography is not so much what you might think — paintings, diaries, secret stuff — but rather his career, en toto. Caniff’s art really is his comic strip work, and by extension the work that happens around the art: Ads, promotions, endorsements, etc. It’s the stuff I always liked in Cartoonist PROfiles, the stuff the was necessary to be a good comic strip man. Caniff doesn’t stretch out or, to use a Santoro-ism, “riff”. His non-strip drawings are scenes of characters interacting, or gathering of characters, but it’s not like he’s telling you something new. You won’t learn something new about Caniff in the book, and that’s why I like it. Instead you have a perfect encapsulation of an immensely popular cartoonist’s career work: It’s the other stuff, and in sifting through 50 years of it one can see the artist and the world and industry change, all reflected in an imaginary teetering pile of paper.

Some of that other stuff is also contained in Male Call (Hermes Press, 2011), which collects the entire strip Caniff drew from 1942-1946, distributed to military papers for stations all over the world. It’s odd to see this most macho of artists – all thick line and shadow and chunks of shape, take on sex. With Raymond it’s all in the contours and the organic lines of bodies. For Caniff it’s all “tee-hee” oopsy poses (Miss Lace fixing her garter; a waitress leaning forward with a drink), facial expressions and “whoah nelly” reaction shots. It’s unsubtle, sanctioned sexy. That’s not to say it’s not great cartooning. It actually really is, reminding me a ton of Harry Lucey’s 1950s Archie work, when Betty and Veronica were acting at their sexiest. This is a looser line than Terry, less grave, maybe faster.

The other thing Caniff: A Visual Biography made me think of is that, like Raymond, no one gets hip points for liking Caniff. It’s not like Crumb was going on about the poetry of the 1940s Caniff line. No way. By the time the 1960s rolled around, younger artists were getting Caniff via EC Comics or, for that matter, the Lee Elias and Mort Meskin of DC SF titles. I also found the book curiously sad in a sense, because Caniff and his creation are so forgotten by the culture (non-comics) now. It’s not like other great cartoonists whose work at least lives on through their characters (Popeye, Prince Valiant, Annie, et al), even if the protagonist obscures the artistry. Nope, Caniff’s story, and his character’s, is over. That’s a strange thing. It’s sealed in a way — you can still see Snoopy, even if it signifies something else now. But Caniff and his tribe are frozen.

And for my last act, I have to pay homage to Richard Sala’s incredible and overlooked book, The Hidden (Fantagraphics, 2011). Sure we reviewed it here on the site, but I only just read it, and it’s really quite incredible. Sala’s kind of a pro himself, turning out at least a book a year (much like another visionary, Gilbert Hernandez), and this twist on Frankenstein reads, not unlike that gothic romance, as an allegory for artistic ambition gone wrong, or, maybe because I’m currently reading Simon Reynolds’ Retromania, like a tale of collector psychosis. Victor collects and then creates a monster out of various parts, that monster does the same, and, in the end, after killing his creation, Victor can’t help himself, and saves just one last specimen — collecting just one more thing to work on. Just one more project… It read to me like a story about making something that does harm, and perpetuates that harm, but taking such pleasure in the process of the making that it borders on self (or in this case, species) destruction. Yep, it’s a gothic romance all right, and all the better for it. Sala’s tale could not be any further from the mentality of the artists above, but somehow, Sala’s lush visuals and perfect sense of pacing seems to dovetail with that work. It is a fully formed professional statement, even as it splits off into another comics world all together. It’s there, I guess, that my thread really unravels.

 

A New Week Begins

In honor of today’s U.S. holiday, we aren’t presenting a full blog post this morning. However, I did want to quickly alert readers to Frank Santoro’s recent review of Eddie Campbell’s How to Be an Artist (which he created in the form of a comic), Jeet Heer’s review of Gahan Wilson’s Nuts, and the first day of Leslie Stein’s week as a guest columnist for our Cartoonist’s Diary series.

Chris Marshall at Collected Comics Library has found links to two online Martin Luther King comics. If you’re up to a prose book, today’s a good day to get started with Taylor Branch.

 

Froday

Today on the site: Rob Clough on two relatively new London-based publishing houses: Blank Slate and Nobrow.

And: Yes Dorothy the Jack Davis audio is a little wonky. We’re trying to pinpoint why. No, it’s not that simple and no, you don’t know the answer. Yes, we’re trying.

Elsewhere, the internet is aflame with excitement. There is the excitement of Damien Hirst’s 11-gallery multi-country show of his spot paintings, detailed & reviewed by a bemused Roberta Smith at the NY Times. I kinda wish an artist in comics had his combination of ruthless business acumen and shamelessness. Plus, he makes pretty and hollow things. It’s bad form to be too amused by the epic, almost apocalyptic cynicism at work in this enormo money-grab, but man, what a grab. In comics, we only have epic fuck ups and epically evil corporations. We need more cynical market-manipulating artists to balance it out.

Speaking of grandiosity, Matt Seneca has found the Next Big Thing. If Matt is Simon Cowell, I wanna know who Paula and the other guy are. Oh wait, it’s Steven Tyler. Obviously played by Jog. And squaking about going for it, Marc Sobel will be publishing not one, but two books on Love and Rockets with our corporate masters, Fantagraphics. More publishing news: Titan will release Sci Fi and Horror compilations as part of its Simon and Kirby Library line.

And finally, on a more serious note, Tom Spurgeon posted some well-reasoned thoughts on SOPA, and we should note that Fantagraphics has also issued a statement against it.

Have a good weekend.