I try not to give unsolicited advice to people.  I think if someone wants to know something then they'll ask.  If you simply volunteer information that you know in the form of advice, I feel like you're setting yourself up for resentment.  It's rude to assume that you know something and that other people don't know.

However, I do get a lot of questions from people looking for advice on what they should do if they want to draw comics.  It's enough that I'd rather post something instead of repeating myself.  

But please, feel free not to read further.  These are only my opinions and things that have worked for me.  And it's I would do if I had to do it all again.

1. Work on your craft.  Always work on your craft, even after you feel like you might have "made" it.  Trust me, you've never "made" it even when it seems like you're set.  Never be too stubborn to try something new.  Never be afraid to try something that doesn't work.  Take chances.  Allow yourself to draw poorly.  If you're finding it hard to stay motivated by working long hours alone or you're easily distracted by your XBOX then comics might not be for you.  

(Another note: most people who read comics want to draw them as well.  Plus there are those who want to draw them that don't bother buying them anymore ((like I was)).  So think of it like this: most people who buy your comic are looking to use your style and storytelling to learn from so that they can, basically, compete with you one day.  There's so much competition, in fact, that it allows publishers to pay you practically nothing.  You may spend a lot of time in the stage of indy press working with small time people and their small time drama.  It has nothing to do with art and it sucks…but that's the way it is.)

2. Surround yourself with people that do what you like.  Go to shops.  Go to cons.  Make friends.  Create history with other artists and writers.  It will fuel your motivation and keep you sharp and sometimes even help your style.  Don't make friends with people whose stuff you don't like.  Don't be dishonest and use them to help you get a leg up.  But it's good to make friends with people whom you respect who are already getting published because they can help you out in many ways.  And maybe one day (but don't expect it) they'll pass on a gig and mention YOU to their editor.  But regardless, we can all use more friends.

3. Get out of the basement and move to the city.  Comic are (should be considered) art, and art is about being influenced by your surroundings.  Art is in reaction to things that happen, and things don't happen in your mom's basement.  Move to a city, get a roommate, sweat your bills, make connections, go to parties and spread yourself around.  It's all about odds and the odds are against you if you move home after art school.

4. I'm bigger on this one than most artists are but I strongly believe it: learn how to write.  Even if you don't plan on being a writer, it can help you recognize a bad script, improve your own storytelling or give you ideas toward doing a creator owned book one day.  It can only increase your odds.

A lot of "writers" in comics don't know how to write.  If someone wants to pitch something and pay you back end then that means you won't get paid until the writer finds a publisher, puts the books out, sells the book and then receives money after he subtracts the cost of publishing.  It could take a long time to get your money (whatever money there is) and there's always the chance the writer will screw you and not pay you anything.  Any why would you split the profits 50/50 with someone when it takes them a week to write a script when it takes you two months to draw it?  You're taking the risk, not them.  And if they're serious about their story idea then they should offer you something.  Even if it's $100 for a whole book.  Come on, ANYONE can afford to pay you SOMETHING if they really believe they'll make money eventually anyway.  If they don't want to then something's wrong.

Or, if you know how to write (at least better than the "writers"), why not spend a week on something of your own and cut out the middleman.  There's less chance of drama if you're the only one involved.

5. It's good to have influences but be careful about ripping people off.  Looking at another artist from time to time to see how they handle drawing hands is fine, but if you constantly have a Travis Charest book open while you work then you're only hurting yourself.  

Drawing from someone else means you're making an interpretation of an interpretation.  Art should be an interpretation of real life.  Use your thoughts and experiences and make something that no ones else can.  Even if you do manage a really good Charest style your career will only be on the tails of Charest and what kind of legacy is that?  Other artists won't respect you, although a lot of young readers might. Readers will like you or hate you but don't think about it either way.  You want respect from yourself and the artists that YOU respect (because they're like a mirror of you).  

6.  Save your money.  Cut down on your bills.  Make it last.  Money from comics comes in waves so you should be good with money.

7.  It's tempting to draw and post and get that instant feeling of accomplishment from your friends on Deviant but that's not enough to make a career.  Your success will depend on your entire plan of attack and on how much you're willing to sacrifice in order to make it.

Hope this helps.  Sorry to get preachy.

Han Solo v. Indiana Jones

Such a fight wouldn't be possible.  Once the two Harrison Fords touched they would "timecop", a phenomenon from the movie Timecop that shows the impossibility of the same person in different times being able to occupy the same space.  Basically the Fords would mash together in a jelly-like motion and die.

Chewie v. Bigfoot

This is ridiculous.  Bigfoot doesn't exist.  Those northwestern rednecks have yet to produce one shred of scientific proof.  Ripping the hair off your dog and sending to UCLA with a cast of your cousin's huge foot doesn't prove a thing so give it up.  Let's face it: if Bigfoots existed they wouldn't be as smart as humans because humans are smart enough to build things like guns.  And if Bigfoots existed, a human hunter would have killed one by now, dropping him to the forest floor like the sack of lies he is.  Chewie, on the other hand, existed a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.  So there can never be any proof that he DIDN'T exist.  Therefore he did.

Dr. Grant v. the Loch Ness Monster

Again, this doesn't make sense.  Dr. Grant (Jurassic Park) wouldn't be interested in killing the Loch Ness Monster because he's a scientist, and scientists don't kill things.  Especially things that don't exist.  But, for the sake of argument, let's say the Loch Ness Monster did exist and Grant was in a boat waiting for him.  Grant would lose because the monsters vision would be based on movement, and it's impossible to sit in a boat without it moving around a little, therefore the monster's target would be clear and Grant would be dead.

Picard v. Luke Skywalker

Picard.  All the way.  Luke stands for hope, adventure, and the point of his journey is that he becomes a man.  Now put him up against a man: Picard.  Picard stands for science.  And science is based off of fact.  Fact always defeats things based off of hope.  Picard would manhandle Luke and hit him with his owns fists while yelling "stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself.  Engage!"

Batman v. Superman

I'd like to say Batman because he's the underdog.  I'd like to believe that Bruce Wayne, a symbol for the triumph of what the human spirit can achieve given training, hard work, and exercise, would somehow overpower a kid from another planet who didn't do crap to get his powers (other that drool all over himself in a space pod that his parents put him in to get him to Earth).  But Superman would destroy Batman and there's no way around it.  No amount of startling people or appearing behind someone in the dark would save Bruce Wayne from Superman tearing him to pieces at the speed of thought.

Hey all.  

Just to let you know I'll have a table at the New York Comic Con (April 18-20).  I don't know if I'll be doing sketches (bit tired lately), but I'm always up for a chat or you can check out the original art I'll bring with me.  I don't know the table but I'll be next to Dustin Nguyen.

Also I'll be at Wizard Philly with a table, and maybe San Diego.

I have a baseball bat near my door incase of trouble.  I’m not trying to sound like a badass, but I’m in Brooklyn and, even though it’s better than it once was, it’s stupid to let yourself feel completely safe in today’s world.  I’ve never had to use it—mostly it just falls on the floor every now and then.  Once when I was in LA my power kept getting shut off by high school kids from Fairfax High.  I ran around the back with it, ready to kick some ass (my dog ran out with me which was cool ((in case of a battle one day)) ).  Turns out it was a single mother in the building and one of her kids had hit the button.  I dropped the bat in the bushes before she saw me.

I’m not crazy.  Maybe a little paranoid.  Apparently, I exhibit that sort of behavior often, but it’s not a bad thing.  The more defined we all are, the more obvious our decisions should be.

Now lets leave that for a moment.

There was a show on the History Channel the other day about comics.  Like most things on that channel, I think it was done really well.  They interviewed a lot of guys from Miller to Eisner and covered the entire gamut of comics since it all started back in the 1930s from comic strips.

The most interesting part was how it covered the different movements in art and writing in reaction to the changing times throughout the decades.  Things like World War II, Vietnam, racism and communist fear sparked a lot of different reactions in the art world, including comics.  And it got me thinking: how will history view THIS TIME in decades to come?

After the comic crash of the 90s things have been rough, for sure.  I never bought a whole lot of comics and personally think that people are right when they write comics off as being for kids.  BAM!  BOOM!  TWAP! Is what most comics are, unfortunately.  Corporations pump out more of the same each month, rarely allowing a character to truly change.  Yet somehow it goes on and there’s still money to be made.  Currently I’m between both Marvel and DC negotiating exclusive contracts on both sides.  Admittedly, the money is really good for each.  But what surprises me is that they have that money to spend?  Apparently it’s not as dark as it seems.

Fortunately, once in a while something great comes out which re-inflates my passion.  A few times a year books come out that uses the medium in a new, inventive way and whose message is unique and specific.  These books are usually put out by a few people with the most honest intensions and are done so with very little financial return.  And with books like that you can really feel their love of the craft.

But only rarely.

How will history view post 9/11 comics?  Has anything new really been done?  I think so.  Like the rest of the country, the industry took the events of that morning square in the chest and did they best they could to recover.  After the 9/11 charity books came out the companies (Marvel in particular) really incorporated the events into the stories.  Joe Q was actually on the History Channel program talking about how Marvel’s books are primarily based in NYC, therefore Marvel needed to have a response.  And Marvel’s newer line of books really do seem to reflect the reality of terrorist fear and violence, even if it’s below the surface.

But the further away you get from the “big two” the sadder it gets.  Indy guys and small time press is like a drama department from your high school.  New artists don’t want to tell stories, they want to be rock starts and sit on “the other side of the table” and sign autographs.  I rarely meet a new artist who really feels a calling to do something great; something beyond the heaps of small time press.

But I did when I tough at the Joe Kubert school, and once in a while I’ll meet someone new who has that same lost look in their eyes and that void of hope in this new world.  So what should he/she do?

What kind of artist are you?  How can you take your experiences and fears and use them in a creative way to make a story that will bring change?  Once you’ve paid your bills and taken the “money gigs” and sold out a little in order to survive (something unavoidable), what will you do then?  What will your legacy be?  

It’s post 9/11 and there’s a TON of material out there.  People are beginning to vote in record numbers because they’re tired of the same old politicians and realize, in this new internet age, that things could get really bad if humans don’t start bucking up and sacrificing for the greater good of our planet.  Are you going to dive into the swamp of small time press and start slap fighting with the wannabes or are you going to rise above?

Now the disclaimer:

Doing this for a living means I have a lot of time to think about this stuff.  Without kids and a wife and very few bills, it’s easier to me to survive that way and preach this stuff.  It would be nice if all the artists could follow through with their ideals and throw caution to the wind.  But, of course, the real world isn’t like that.

Still, I think the point is valid.

Once, when I was a kid, I got my braces stuck in my sock.

Here's how it happened.

I was in 5th grade at the time and, like the pimp that I was, I was wearing those cool tube socks that rolled up to my knees.  The top of the socks where marked with two thick, red bars.  The only reason I remember those bars that clearly was because I got a good, long chance to stare at them as my teeth were ensnared between them.

But there were two stories that I began to tell people: one that made it seem like I wasn't such a dipshit but rather the victim of circumstance, and another one that was actually the sad, sad truth.

I'll start off with the lie.

There I was, sitting in my chair during class.  But I didn't sit normal.  If I had, I might have been saved.  Instead I sat with one foot between my butt and the top of the seat with the other foot on the ground.  At one point during history I dropped my pencil, so I leaned over to pick it up.  It was a little out of reach so I really had to strain my body to retrieve it.  I didn't want to get out of my half-pike position, so I strained harder and harder, pulling my lips back as the desk began to tip.  Suddenly the guy in front of me pushed his seat back and slammed my desk into my head, which pinned my face against my sock.  (The guy in front of me was actually Greg from my comic Off Road, whom I unfairly blamed for years after this incident.)

I tried to pull away but it was too late.  The cotton of the sock was knotted around the metal of my teeth and I couldn't seem to pull away.  I looked like I had tried to suck my own balls and got caught halfway down.  I tried to quickly pull free but it didn't work.  Instead I started sweating as I panicked.  I tried pulling free again, but it hurt my mouth.  The drool from my mouth made it hard to try and unhook myself from the soaked fibers.  I remember staring at the floor wondering when people were going to start noticing.  I didn't realize that the teach had stopped teaching and was staring at me along with the other 29 students in the class (it's America, people).  Instead of trying to break free, I began to instead think of an explanation for the day I finally got unhooked.

I don't remember how long I was stuck, but it was enough for everyone to start laughing.  The worst thing was, NO ONE CAME TO MY AID for what felt like 5 minutes.  Finally, the "nerd of the classroom" (soon to be replaced by me) handed me a pair of safety scissors and I was able to cut myself free.

Now…I challenge you to try and find a "cool way" to act after doing such a thing.  It's like when you're walking down a hallway and you almost trip.  Everyone who heard the skuff looks over at you at you catch you balance, but then what?  The cool thing to do (clearly) is to pretend that you like kicking the floor, so you do it a few more times and ignore the odd looks people give you.  But with something as bad as what I'd just done, there's really no cool way to act.  I just started laughing along with anyone else while I wiped the sock and drool from my face.

By the end of the day, everyone in the school had heard about it.  Teachers who I'd never seen came into the room over the next week and joked around with me, telling me that I still had some sock stuck in my teeth.

The best I could do was telling them it was all Greg's fault for slamming my face into my desk.  Sure, I was a dork, but really…it could have happened to ANY ONE OF US!!!

Now, the truth…which is far more embarrassing.

I was sitting in my chair in that weird position for some reason, with my sock dangerously close to my face.  I dropped my pencil, and I picked it up with no problem.  But while I was getting it, I noticed how close my braces came to the cotton.  "Whoa…that was close," I thought to myself.

But then I really started to wonder.  WAS is possible to get one's braces stuck in his sock?  I wasn't sure…so I tried it.  And I tried it again.  It wasn't easy, but eventually I did it.  And…you know the rest.

But how many people are going to believe the second story?  No one, of course.  Besides, it only raises MORE QUESTIONS.  Like what the HELL is wrong with me?

But I think the story brings up an interesting point, one that shows the self-destructive  tendency within human nature.  You've heard that mankind will inevitable end up destroying himself, right?  That's one theory.  And I think there are a few psychologists who have suggested that every man has some amount of desire to bring hell down upon himself.  Whoever it was, I think they were right.

And my story proves it.

I have a new website: www.seangordonmurphy.com

It's been YEARS since I created my last website and I was only updating it twice a year, IF THAT.

Tu Nguyen, thank you so much for designing it and doing all the little things with Flash that I'll never understand.  

Hey all.  My IDW book came out for Star Trek Alien Spotlight:  The Borg.  It looks pretty good and Len O'Grady did an awesome job on the colors.  It sold well in pre-orders so there should be plenty out there.

My girlfriend hasn't seen Star Wars.  

She hasn't seen Star Trek: anything.  No 2001, no Matrix, and pretty much nothing else that's considered required viewing in the world of science fiction.  The list goes on even outside the world of science fiction: Forrest Gump, The Godfather, Goodfellas, Amadeus, Casablanca and The Great Escape.  She's seen none of these.  If aliens abducted her and asked her what kinds of movies people on her planet liked, those aliens would attack us knowing they would easily destroy us.  If you're enemy like Legally Blonde, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, The Little Mermaid and Sleepless in Seattle, you wouldn't be scared of him either.

And, yes, he deserves to die.  

But…back to science fiction.

I'm not stupid enough to sit her down and force her to like science fiction because I know that won't work.  I believe that the best way to educate someone is to make him want to learn about it.  Luckily, I sit around and draw comics all day.  And, as most of you know, with that comes an impermeable fortress of science fiction knowledge.

But first, let me say this: there's a lot of bad sci fi out there.  These days, sci fi has become synonymous with action and not with science.  Millions of dollars are blown on one CGI shot, while only thousands are spent on making the script…THE THING THE MOVIE IS BASED ON!  It burns me up when I see how misdirected Hollywood can be.

Star Trek is my favorite.  What got me hooked was Picard and TNG.  The other day I bought the entire series of Voyager, which, although it was hard to admit at first, I like way better than TNG.  I know the original series and I've seen the first seven movies, but I think the heart of what Star Trek is about is best captured in episodic format of TNG and Voyager.  Sisko's voice drives me up the wall so don't ask.

My first attempt was a year ago.  I mentioned how I was into TNG and she rolled her eyes.  But I didn't let up.  

I came at her like ten well executed Battles for Endor with a hundred, million Ewoks.  I told her about how it's not about the science as much as it is about us.  I told her about how hopeless the human condition is and how important it is to look to the future and not just the present.  I told her about how, in Star Trek, everyone works to better themselves and how all the shit that make modern life unbearable (hunger, greed, selfishness, etc) is gone.  I told her about the possibility that everything we experience could very well be a computer program while our bodies are powering machinery.  I told her about the T2 paradox, the brilliance of 2001 and how awesomely bad Queen's music was in Flash Gordon.  Light sabers were flying around, Chewie was doing back flips, and  Han Solo was dodging asteroids behind me as I jabbed my finger into her shoulder while driving my point home.

It didn't work.  Overkill.  So I backed off and went back to my material.  I realized that I needed to find something in sci fi that a girl would be into.  Not a Leia.  Not an Aeon.  Something more respectable and independent.  Like a Captain Janeway.  It was perfect.

Months passed and I didn't mention a thing.  When she brought up something sci fi, I let it go.  I pretended like I didn't care because I wanted to reel her in a little.  If she asked me about what my IDW Star Trek comic was about, I wouldn't tell her and I knew that she'd wonder why.  And that was compelling to her.  Even though she won't admit it today.

Then I endured some of her shows, thus building up points in my favor.  I figured that by watching Gilmore Girls and Sex and the City she would owe me a few shows of my own.  So I started her off on Futurama, the episode where Lela discovered that her parents were with her during her whole life and that she wasn't alone.  And that concept was enough to get me a second episode!  So I showed her the one where Fry leaves his dog in the past, and my girlfriend was crying at the end!  Soon she was watching it on her own, unknowingly getting a dose of sci fi in with her cartoon!  It was perfect.

And then yesterday it all came together in one, glorious moment.  I threw in Star Trek Voyager, the episode where the doctor tries to teach 7 of 9 to date.  Once she got past how large 7's boobs were (something many of us still haven't gotten over), she was into it!  She even laughed out loud!  I think she even nodded her head from side to side when the characters sang "You are my Sunshine"!  But the moment I felt sure victory was when she asked about the holodeck.

"Where are they now?" she asked wondering why there was a dimly lit bar on the ship.

"The holodeck.  It's too hard for you to understand, though, so forgot about it." (me pulling away to create more intrigue.

"What's the holodeck?" she asked.

"I'm trying to watch.  Go away."

"What's the holodeck?!" she jammed her fingers into my armpit and started tickling me.  I finally surrendered.

"It's genius!  It's pure magic!  It's a room where you can create anything you want and it'll seem real!"

"Anything?" she asked.

"Anything!  It's a way for the crew to relax, train, or travel during their off-time without having to leave the ship!" I couldn't believe she was asking.  I've been ready to tell her about the holodeck from the moment we'd met.

She looked back at the television and then back at me.  And then it happened.

"I wish we had a holodeck."

"Me too!  Yes!  I love you so much!  And I can't believe you just said that!" I sang.  She caught her mistake and realized that she had just nerd-ed out.

"No.  No!  That's not fair!" she said trying to back-peddle.  I couldn't start laughing.  Finally I calmed down and put my hand on her shoulder.

"Welcome," I said.  "Welcome to the rest of your life.  What you just said…about the holodeck…about wishing you had a holodeck of your own…that is the essence of sci fi right there."

"But it's such a cool idea!" she argued.

"I know it is, baby.  I know."

When I was 12, I used to draw comics in the attic of an old comic book shop.

The place was run down, nestled into some rainy trees beside an old road in Dracut, Massachusetts, next to an abandoned drive-in and the Merrimack River.  I was joined by about 10 other comic book guys, all of whom were in their 20s and all of whom wanted to draw for a living.

It’s one of my fondest memories, even though none of them liked me much.  I was the one always working, always quiet and a little nervous, usually keeping my head down and listening to them argue about books, movies and heavy metal.  This one guy, Jeremy, would sometimes sit down and prod me about stuff, which at the time, I new nothing about: Pantera, Frank Miller, and The Crow.  He’d stick in tape after tape of his mixes to see my reaction to his tastes in speed metal.  And one day he changed my life forever by introducing me to that artistic/punk rock/anti-establishment/hate-everything-that’s-popular mentality that I’d be dealing with for the rest of my life.

He pulled out Pearl Jam’s album, Ten, and gave me an uncertain look.

“Now, everyone these days is into Pearl Jam,” he said, “which is cool, because they’re a good band and deserve to get played.”  He popped it in and paused, looking at me once again, his finger lingering on the "play" button.  His eyes were looking through me, into my very being.  “Normally I don’t like radio friendly music, but I was into these guys before they got popular.”  I sat there and waited for the tape to play, but he continued standing there and staring at me with that serious look.  

I didn’t know it but I was being introduced to the artistic mentality.

Before they got popular will forever echo in my memory.  When he said it, I didn’t understand what he was talking about, so I filed it away for a while.  Was Jeremy suggesting that it was wrong to like something that was popular?  That didn’t make any sense at all.  I thought it was okay to like “top 40 music” and anything that MTV played.  And my only defense for being so wrong was that I was just a stupid kid.

For those of you who may not realize, what Jeremy said to me is the essence of what the artistic spirit is made of: an unwavering, insensitive, nonsensical, white-hot hatred for things that take away one’s aura of individuality.

Now of course, it doesn’t make any real sense to hate music that’s popular.  Despising Thomas Kinkade paintings will only keep you up at night.  Wishing that Bob Ross fans were burned alive inside a giant Michael’s craft outlet is conducive to nothing.  It’s pointless to smash your TV whenever you see an ad for a Disney vacation.  Walking around in a swarm of hatred with your chin touching your chest and your gaze aimed through your eyebrows with 4 heavy metal records playing inside your head simultaneously is while walking through a rainstorm is, admittedly, pointless.  So why do it?  Why do these artist types do it?

Because someone has to.  Someone has point out that Disney is treating masses of people like they’re the same happy moron who wants to travel to Florida.  Someone has to acknowledge that Bob Ross was a 30-minute hack and that, regardless of the freedom of opinion, it is wrong to like him.  It’s wrong to like Thomas Kinkade, too, along with Boston, Journey, Kansas, and anything that MTV tells you to like.  The laws are made by the man trying to keep us all down, people who go to church are dangerous, and mohawks aren’t supposed to look cool and that’s their point.

Being a demographic is an insult.  And being any kind of demographic is what the artist is against.  So don’t roll your eyes at our unfounded, senseless rage for the things that you like.  And don’t awkwardly cross the street when you see one of us traveling toward you with our feet stomping and our head shaved.  Thank us and our righteous, self-imposed burden because we wear it for you.

It’s been a long time but I still remember the name of the guy who first gave me a wiff of the artistic things to come.  “Before they got popular,” he repeated.  “In fact, a lot of the bands that you hear on the radio, I liked them before they were being played; before other people knew about them.”  Then he pressed play and we hung out and listened to Pearl Jam.  And that’s why I remember that his name was Jeremy.

I don't have a lot of comic art friends because I'm an art snob and I can't be friends with someone if I honestly don't like their art.  I consider Dustin Gnuyen a good friend even though I haven't known him that long.  But I've seen his place in Long Beach, driven around with him in his Jeep (tried to get him to off road), and even helped him pick his kid up at daycare.  I can't imagine living on a comic book budget with kids to think about, so I'm in awe of Dustin and what he's got going: especially his art.

He might totally be lying to me, but our favorite thing to do on the phone is tell each other how awesome we think the other guy is.  And yes, it's as retarded as it sounds.

Sean:  "You're awesome."

Dustin:  "No, you're awesome."

Sean: "Don't be a prick.  We both know you're better.  You have an exclusive contract.  DC knows you're awesome."

Dustin:  "Whatever, dude.  Have you even seen your Punk Rock Jesus stuff?  You're awesome."

…and so on.

But, despite all the things he has going for him, he does have a pretty nerdy office.  There's so much fanboy garbage around that it leaves him only a small corner to draw in.  I have no idea how he does it.  He's got manga here and there, toys of this and that and posters, posters, posters.  But among the stacks of papers and comics books, one thing stood out to me: his Batman Animated actions figures.  Namely the Mr. Freeze one.

The Mr. Freeze episodes of Batman Animated were my favorites because it was the first time that I was moved by a cartoon as a kid.  Yeah, I was into He-Man and GI Joe and all the stuff, but it was all written for kids.  Paul Dini and Bruce Timm wrote Batman Animated for everyone, and the Mr. Freeze plot was a good one.

Mr. Freeze (Dr. Fries) was a doctor working in cryogenics.  When his wife came down with an incurable disease, Fries froze her until he could find a cure.  But when his bosses found out that he was still running the project after they cut his budget, they pulled the plug and almost killed them both.  She remained frozen while he became Mr. Freeze out of necessity because he wanted to live.

Freeze claimed he was dead of emotion and he was mostly right.  The only thing that moved him was this sweeping romance that he had for his frozen wife, Nora, while he attempted to try and save her.  He wasn't really a villain but rather a victim who no longer cared about breaking laws to get what he needed to save them both.  The best part was a snow globe he carried around that had a tiny dancer in it, which was a metaphor for both him and his wife being stuck behind glass and cut off from the world, each one alone.

I'm pretty certain that this is why Dustin likes Mr. Freeze.  Or maybe it's because Freeze's red goggles are such a nice visual and Dustin, being an artistic guy, loves using them as a design element whenever he draws him.  Either way, Dustin is a Freeze nerd like me.

But what takes him to another level is when I noticed the Freeze action figure, the original one, mind you, standing separate from the rest of the Batman, Robins, Jokers and whatnot.  Freeze wasn't standing apart really, or even on a different shelf again the wall.  

Freeze was sitting right in front of where Dustin drew with his little gun pointed right at where Dustin sat.  That way (I imagine), whenever Dustin looked up: he'd see Freeze and smile.  Whenever he leaned back to take a 5 minute break: he could take it with Freeze.  Whenever he got tired of drawing and wondered how he was going to hit his deadline: Freeze was there with his little plastic gun to force Dustin back to work.

If Dustin could draw a Freeze series of cards, he would.  In fact, I think he'd freeze himself, his wife and kids and live inside a glacier in the arctic so he could draw the series in peace and forever be surrounded by snow and people wearing goggles.


The question is this: would he take the action figure with him?

Hey all.

So I've started a blog.  I know, I know, everyone thinks that their blogs and thoughts are worth a shit and that other people should read them.  I won't be blogging here because this is the "art site", but I wanted to do some writing because, techinically, I guess I'm a writer as well.  I could use some friends so if you have one too then let me know.  

[link]

I feel that the condition of the art in comics, although sometimes unbearable, is far beyond the writing.  Many stories in comics, especially mainstream, are embarrassingly bad and we should all feel ashamed.  A compelling story in comics doesn't even need good art.  A strong script can survive just fine with stick figure drawings.

So, in the spirit of that, people who want to do this for a living should become ample writers as well as artists so if you've got a blog then let me know.

Here's my newest post at www.blogger.com.


FOR ROCK GUYS EVERYWHERE
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I used to get the shit kicked out of me in 1st grade when my dad forced me into Catholic school.

I was growing up in New Hampshire which was 110% white and was forced to wear a uniform to school and pray during class. The school was under funded and run by a priest of some kind. There wasn't even a playground outside. Instead we got to run around for 15 minutes in the parking lot and, if we were lucky, allowed to throw a Nerf football around.

My family was from the better part of town while the school was located in the shitty part; a defunct church that, like those who attended, was in dire need of repair. The kids who attended were from the local neighborhoods whose parents forced them to attend out of proximity, not because of God. They were the misfits of the streets forced into grade school-daycare and they hated it. And a lot of them hated me.

I was tall for my age and, apparently, that called for an ass whooping. I was terrified to go there and felt helpless during recess as I was hunted down by kid-sized piranhas with mullets. Not even the teachers gave a shit. I actually looked forward to class because I was less likely of getting killed with a teacher watching.

I tried everything to make it stop. I hung out in a five foot radius of a teacher during recess. I'd pretend I didn't hear someone calling me names to my face. I even tried to not notice my Nerf ball being throttled into the back of my head when some asshole stole it. I even tried to tell a teacher but she didn't want to hear it.

She didn't want to hear that something was wrong. Is this telling of hardcore religious people? I think so.

This one kid in particular was a real problem. He was two years older and was big for a third grader. He had a constantly red stained mouth from the packs of Kool-Aid he'd shotgun before school started. After all, he needed his energy if he was going to pry me away from a fence and drag me across the entire parking lot. I was terrified of him. I was afraid of his Kool-Aid power. When I saw him devouring a packet with hate in his eyes, that only meant that I was next. I didn't even feel safe praying for my life because I was afraid he'd catch me and whip me with my plastic Rosary beads.

The ones who came to my aid were the only ones at the school who I thought were scarier than this bully: the rock guys.

I'll always love those rock guys from the 1980s. The late 80s when monster rock was in full, head-banging glory. Before Kurt Cobain destroyed it with REAL music. To clarify, it's not the rock I like. I hate that shitty music and its fake attitude. But I was a huge fan of the fans.

You know the type, those kids on the street who never want to let the glory days go: long hair, leather jacket, tight jeans, cut off t-shirt revealing tight white-boy abs, unlaced army boots, walkman with a Guns n' Roses or Motley Crue tape inside. They were usually found in pizzerias luring next to Pac-Mac machines or stomping on cans in a back alley somewhere. Today, Rock Guy (as I like to call him) is hard to find but he's still around, pumping Megadeth in his Camero and keeping it real.

So I show up at school one day with my dad. His attempts to walk me to the door to protect me never worked. In fact, the extra ass kicking I got because of dad walking in only made it worse. I waved goodbye to him like I was on the deck of the Titanic after seeing the actual movie.

I walked up to the front door of the school and quickly tried to get in. I was focused so hard on my peripheral vision (to avoid getting side tackled), so I didn't see him coming at me from straight ahead. The bully grabbed me and before I knew it I was being gorged with my orange Nerf ball. It was slightly wet because I had left it out that night in the rain. It was like being attacked by a sponge.

Suddenly Rock Guy and his friends came out the door and saw what was going on. Rock Guy snapped into action and grabbed the bully by the ankles and ripped him off of me. Rock Guy knocked him into the brick wall and held him there while his Rock Friends looked out for Teacher. I couldn't hear what he was saying but Bully tried to shriek away. Each time he fells to his knee Rock Guy would pick him back up and re-plaster him to the brick.

Rock Guy told the bully to leave me the fuck alone while hitting the bully with his own hand (saying fuck usually made me sad because of Jesus and all, but it suited Rock Guy). It was funny to watch because each time Rock Guy leaned into the bully his long hair would fall into his face and he'd have to wipe it back behind his ears. It was effeminate, but still hardcore. Between hair fixings I saw Rock Guy's angry face. He was good looking but was in total rejection of it with his Rock style. When he was done with the bully he handed me my Nerf ball back and told me that the bully wouldn't bother me anymore. And he was right.

At the time I didn't know why Rock Guy did what he did. But I think I do now.

The misfit kids, the kids of the street, the ones who stay out too late and never seem to have anything to do, they all are ready to answer some sort of calling. Rock Guy, the self proclaimed outcast of society (like Rock Guys everywhere) loved doing heroic shit every once in a while just to prove that they still have a good side. Rock Guy wants to prove that Rock Guy isn't simply about beer night and can crushing; that deep inside him is a knight in leather armor armed with a wallet chain that's ready to do the noble thing if he can. Why? Because that's rock and roll.

I was in cub scouts and other clubs and was always a loner, but I remember Rock Guys all over always being nice to me. Once on a trip to DC I wasn't feeling well and one of the older scouts was told to watch me for the day while the rest of the group went out. Rock Guy took me to a mall and we hung out in the arcade. He bought me candy and told me dirty jokes and tried to cheer me up.

As I looked up at him I realized the irony: he was so cool, yet he dressed so bad-assed. I felt safe with Rock Guy because everyone else was afraid of him even though he was so cool. I saw what Rock Guy was on the inside. Rock Guy didn't even wear his scout uniform, because those uniforms are gay. Nothing can contain the glory of Rock Guy, especially not a weak-ass handkerchief and a tiny metal loopy thing.

So, Rock Guy, if you're reading this, or if you're a Rock Guy somewhere and wonder whatever happened to those little kids that you stood up for…thank you. I know your factory job must suck because it's unlikely that you ever went to college or finished high school, I know it seems like you should have applied yourself as a kid instead of playing too much Atari, I know that you know those glory days are over and that people don't understand your Camero-driving ways…but I do. And thank you.

I still get emails from people asking about Kael, and I've been telling them that he's going to be a main character in my next OGN, but I didn't tell anyone more than that. I wanted to get a start on the pages first scene before I posted it anywhere, so here it is.

Right now the book is called Punk Rock Jesus.

Premise:

Ten years from now, a major television network makes a deal with the Catholic Church to use the Shroud of Turin in order to make a clone of Jesus Christ. The media, always looking for the next quick way to make a million dollars, unleashes a billion dollar advertising campaign for its next reality show starring Jesus Christ, called J2.

Needless to say, the world is stunned. People hate the show for a lot of different reasons; religious, ethical, scientific, etc. But they all watch. And the network cashes in.

In order to protect the clone, they film the whole show on a private island off the coast of California inside a compound and provide the best security money can buy. They even hire a security engineer named Thomas McKael, an ex Irish Republican Army operative who, after years in a Belfast prison, is now looking for a way to redeem himself for the sins that put him away.

More and more beings to go wrong as Jesus grows up. Not only is there constant scrutiny from the outside world regarding the morality of what it's doing, the network also begins "messing" with Jesus' life in order to boost rating: false miracles using CGI, separating him from his mother, and doing whatever it takes to force him into a Prince William type role the world in order to give the viewers what they want.

When they kill off his mother, Jesus announces that he's an atheist and escapes the island and hits the street while the Network scrambles to find him. Then he turns up in New York City as the leader of a punk band and starts fighting the corruption that has destroyed his life.