A Night Out With Protagitron(...'s Overwhelming Stage Fright)

Slide 1 Of My Presentation

Sorry for my sudden disappearance. Duty called. Duty, in the form of a presentation for Toronto's Nerd Nite. Yes, in spite of the crippling stage fright I've struggled against since my childhood, where an annual speech competition meant an annual anxiety attack, I decided I should really get up in front of a roomful of strangers and talk about something. Anything! It could be anything once I got up there, because I would be too nervous to remember what I was actually supposed to be talking about.

However, I had told the organizer I would be talking about comic book films, so I figured I should at least try and give a presentation that was at least 95% about the promised content, and only 5% blank looks and vomiting.

So I dutifully prepared, even through a cold that made me sound like The Thing for a week. Dan made me all of the film clips I requested (awwwww) and I shoved them into Powerpoint (or, rather, Apple's "interpretation" of Powerpoint, Keynote).

Finally, it was go time. But not before ingesting a pint of liquid courage at Tequila Bookworm. Which unfortunately wore off right when I arrived at the venue. Which fortunately was licensed.

The buzz from my gin and tonic was good until I realized I would be following Tyler Irving's excellent and very funny talk on chemophobia. The bar was set high, and guess what was one of my other regular childhood failures - the freaking high jump. Hooray!

Hands shaking, I let the host, Lauren, plug in my laptop, and faced the audience. I opened my mouth. And somehow, magically, most of what I wanted to say tumbled out.

There was applause, and people asked interesting, attentive questions. My one regret was focusing too much on superhero comics with my answers (Stray Bullets would make an excellent TV series! Saga an incredible series of films! And Fatale as well!) but you can't do everything right.

I didn't vomit, and that was enough for me.

If you're in Toronto and have a topic you're passionate about, think about attending a Nerd Nite, and then signing up for a talk. It's not as terrifying as the speech competitions of your youth, and twice as manageable as the high jump. 

Greetings from the BiMonSciFiCon

I was in Montreal on Saturday, and I'm here in Guelph on Monday. But where was I on Sunday? Considering my proximity to LeVar Burton, Patrick Stewart and Jonathan Frakes, it must have been the command deck of the U.S.S. Enterprise. But really, it was the basement of the Toronto Convention Centre. And there was a rotund man in a leopard thong somewhere over my left shoulder. 

My ex-roommate (and preferred friend) Basement Joe had invited me to Toronto's Comic Con. I went because, in spite of my nearly impeccable nerd credentials, I had never been to a real convention. I had been to zine shows and the Toronto Comic Arts Festival. But actual conventions were a step too far. Even though I could name an X-person for nearly every letter of the alphabet. Because I could name an X-person for nearly every letter of the alphabet.  Angel! Bishop! Cannonball! And so on, until X-Man. That's knowledge best left to wither in the brain.

 

And yet, as the years go on, you become more comfortable in your own skin, or at least your own X-Men t-shirt (XL, little boy's department, Zellers, 2004.) Which had unfortunately gone missing before this weekend, but mentally I was ready. And so I took the long ride to the convention centre. The closer I came, the more costumes I saw, so I didn't even really need the address to find the building. The assorted Stormtroopers and Catwomen made a trail to its doors. And then down the escalators, to the basement, where we belonged. You could get the cast of Star Trek: TNG to sign your stuff, and you could definitely buy that stuff, but sometimes the con seemed as much about being seen as not. Like some sort of pop Bois de Boulogne, the crowds shuffled around the centre, admiring and being admired at how accurately they had dragged their favourite fandoms into reality. 

At the ComicCon, signs get flipped. Dress up like a sexy lady TARDIS with a phone booth hat and wander around the Eaton's Centre, you'll get looks. Dress up in a plain skirt and shirt while almost buying a Golden Age crime comic, and you'll get more. I was a part of this group, but not, and when I checked the price on the polypropylene bag, I just felt poor. 

Drawing Catwoman: Too Big Not to Fail

Image credit: Tucker Stone, The Comics Journal

That... thing comes from Catwoman #8. Now, I have a few problems with the image, but somehow it's the little ones - and not the glaring, anatomically incorrect ones - that niggle most. WHY ARE THERE TINY CAT CHARMS ON THE STRINGS OF HER BIKINI BOTTOM? First of all, the strings. The strings. Why? Now, I may not be a sexy cat burglar myself, but I think they might pose some practical issues. For example, they might unravel right over a laser sensor. That's both embarrassing and unprofessional. Then, the charms. I always figured Catwoman was a confident thirty-year-old woman with some BDSM tendencies, not somebody with the same tastes as a teenaged girl. On the other side, are there charms that express her dedication to chess club and marching band? And oh yes: I almost forgot about the breasts.

Now, talking about the depiction of women in superhero comics isn't the freshest topic in circulation. It's been so churned over, that critics and artists have reached some kind of uneasy detente over the matter. Women will continue to be drawn like they don't need rib cages, and people who don't like it can pass over the spandex for any D and Q title. That's not the point of this post. Rather, I wanted to figure out why this image bothered me more than some of the first drawings of Catwoman I saw as a young, fresh comic book fan. Those were dark years. Those... were the Balent years. For the uninitiated, Jim Balent was the main artist on Catwoman's solo title back in the late '90s, and a firm believer that female anatomy included beach balls embedded just below the neck. Here's an example of his sensibility:

And yet, swimsuit issue Catwoman irritates me more. Jim Balent's vision was so ridiculous that it could be interpreted a clever parody if you were feeling generous, harmless silliness if you weren't. But this Catwoman is just realistic enough to irritate, just realistic enough that it doesn't seem patently ridiculous. It seems achievable. Furthermore, the artist, Adriana Melo, is a woman. Female writers or artists are still a minority on mainstream titles, but when we do get representation, this is the product? I know I should take a deep breath and give Melo the benefit of the doubt. I can't fight for more female creatives, only to dictate what they can produce. And I'm not so naive as to forget Melo was probably working under certain (DD-sized) expectations. But still. At least give Catwoman a form-fitting wetsuit and lose the girly charms. Otherwise, we might have to call Balent back in, that is if he's not too busy haunting vaginas.

Getting Over Dykes to Watch Out For

For the past few years, I've been carrying a torch for a few things: Alison Bechdel, Dykes to Watch Out For, and the notion that one day the former would go back to creating the latter. Bechdel started DTWOF in the early '80s, and continued expanding the cast and their increasingly tangled relations right until 2008. In 2006, she also published Fun Home, which was Time's book of the year and enjoyed a run as the acceptable graphic literature of the bookish set. There isn't an award for that, but if there was I think it should be called the Mausie for Spiegelman's enduring legacy to the genre. Anyway, as much as I enjoyed Fun Home, I feel that DTWOF should receive an equal amount of attention and even more critical praise. Though published in serial form - first as comic strips in alt-weeklies, then mostly on Bechdel's blog - it's more of a graphic novel than half the stuff filed as such on bookstore shelves.

I'm talking novel in the sense of those 19th century novels, where a large cast and complex interwoven plots take up a brick's worth of paper. Think Middlemarch, but with the American Midwest instead of the British Midlands, and more on lentils, tempeh and the Iran-Contra affair. Bechdel wrangles a huge number of characters over nearly three decades. They're mostly lesbian, largely queer, but diverse in race and earning potential, each one developed sympathetically. The Essential Dykes to Watch Out For collects most of the strips, so you can see the characters grow and Bechdel's art evolve, all in one convenient volume. A note about the switch: according to The Indelible Alison Bechdel, her linework thickened after she collaborated on a project for the Village Voice with Howard Cruse, whose Stuck Rubber Baby is also worth reading. She found that her drawings disappeared next to his.

Then 2008 hits, and they all stop, before Obama could even be inaugurated. I've been waiting since then for Alison Bechdel to write more, though I know she's working on a sequel to Fun Home. What did the characters think of the Obama presidency? The death of Osama Bin Laden? The extended recession? Somehow, I care more about Mo would think than what real-life columnists do think. But, almost four years later, I've decided it's time to let go. I keep on hoping Bechdel will come back and give readers a big epilogue so we know if Clarice and Toni got back together, if Mo and Sydney ever broke up, if Sparrow ever made Stuart get a real job. But I suppose it's more in keeping with DTWOF for it to end without a finish, just like a visit with friends. Read it!

A Tribute to Alpha Flight: Fighting for Peace, Order and Good Government

Alpha Flight. Northstar is on the far left, Guardian is second from the right and Puck is the little guy at the bottom.

Whatever may happen under the new Canada-US border agreement, we will still be sovereign when it comes to superheroes. You don't know about Alpha Flight? Think Captain Canuck is our only hero? Please, Alpha Flight is like ten Captain Canucks. Or at least one Captain Canuck (Guardian, aka James MacDonald Hudson) and nine other assorted Canadian stereotypes. Created by John Byrne in 1979, Alpha Flight first tried to retrieve Wolverine for the Canadian government, as they probably had to cut 30 arts grants to afford that adamantium skeleton and wanted it back. Eventually they branched out of cameos in X-Men and into their own series, which waxes and wanes in and out of existence as the circulation figures permit. They're in an off period at the moment. Alpha Flight's latest series was canceled in October. But it's a team worth looking into, to see which Canadian traits are deemed essential for consumption by our neighbours down south. These traits include, apparently, short, hairy bouncers from Saskatchewan named Eugene (Codename: Puck). I'm not sure what to make of that. But I will take pride in Northstar, aka Jean-Paul Beaubier, who was one of the first openly gay characters in mainstream comics. Although a separatist could argue that he was Québécois, and not Canadian, I will maintain that Alpha Flight is one of those rare places where the two solitudes are reconciled.

Guilty Graphic Pleasure: Frankenstein Agent of S.H.A.D.E.

Is it possible to describe something as a "guilty pleasure" without condescending to the object you find so pleasurable? I ask because I have been searching for a better term to describe Frankenstein: Agent of S.H.A.D.E., one that makes it clear that I both acknowledge its silliness while deeply respecting Jeff Lemire's writing. Yeppers, R-E-S-P-E-C-T even though it contains such gems as:

"Khalis took out the spider-like forms on this continent, but we still need to take care of the ogres and the sea monsters before this thing makes it to Earth!"

In fact, especially because it contains sentences like that. Frankenstein: AoS is smart in the way Raiders of the Lost Ark is smart- it distills something essential about old-fashioned entertainment, tempered with enough modern humour so the result is something fresher than a simple pastiche. Think Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos, with the cast of the Munsters instead of human soldiers. Max fun.

Domestic Thursday: Squid, Cables and Ginger Beer

Whoah, did another week really go by? It seems that today is Thursday, which means it's once again time to get domestic in here. My week hasn't been too eventful, the highlight (or lowlight) being a botched interview Wednesday morning. Everything I learned in the past year fell out of my head and slithered away halfway through. Only a slimy trail of shame was left. I would dwell upon it all- what am I saying? I do! I do!- but as the saying goes*... "Onward and upward with the arts."


First up: this year's Christmas card theme is "A Squid Fails at Christmas." Also, pink. More specifically: "Shades of Holiday-themed Papers My Mom Wouldn't Use, and So Donated to Me." So far the series has four cards with four different doodles. They confuse my Mom, which means I'll be giving her the oddest one (I'm seeing 3D flocked tentacles) for Christmas.

Also, the back of my Beatnik sweater is finished and in the process of being aggressively blocked. If it's still too small when it dries, I might just concede defeat on this New Year's Resolution and start my Owls sweater.

Finally, more domestic beer fun: Mill Street Brewery's Traditional Ginger Beer. Not to be confused with the Jamaican kind of ginger beer that you use to make a Dark and Stormy (the drink of champions.) Instead, it's beer first, with a kick of ginger second. It's not nearly as distinctive in its ginger notes as the version you can buy from Phillips, seasonal whims permitting. But it's still a well-balanced spicy beer, and I'm sad I tracked it down just at the end of its annual run.

*Yes, I already said this on Twitter. It's like "Keep Calm and Carry On", but it doesn't appear on so many throw pillows.

Goddess of the Longbox: Brian Azzarello's Wonder Woman

Up until two months ago, I thought of Wonder Woman more as a brand than as a book. She could be bought on journals, t-shirts, wallets and more. But not so much in comic books I wanted to read. I knew about her first, bondage-heavy incarnation thanks to a collection of golden age Wonder Woman stories which randomly appeared in my grade 8 classroom. Everything I could find at the library told me we then passed through a Lynda Carter/George Perez heyday, only to get bogged down in the 1990s with convoluted stories and low sales numbers. After that, good things could have happened. But so did The Dark Knight Strikes Again. Wonder Woman having sky-shaking sex with Superman was bad enough, but the digital colouring job gave it a particularly mind-searing quality. I decided I no longer had the fortitude for her. Who could guarantee I wouldn't see her boffing Darkseid, printed on glitter paper? But the big DC 52 reboot brings renewed faith, in the form of Brian Azzarello's Wonder Woman.

Issue #2 has just been released, which means it's still simple and fiscally responsible to catch up on the series. So far it's shaping up to be less about typical superheroics than Maury among the gods. Zeus has been fooling around on Hera again, and Diana and Hermes try to protect his latest mortal conquest and the unborn demigod she carries. The family tree gets further complicated at the end of issue #2. Strife lets slip that Diana is also Zeus' daughter, instead of clay brought to life.

Perhaps my Maury comparison is unfair. Wonder Woman aims higher than that- Apollo, Hermes, Hera and other superstars of Greek mythology all make unannotated appearances, for example. For a truer ancestor, something about the dense, allusive writing reminds me of the Sandman series, Azzarello sounding as much like Neil Gaiman as his earlier, 100 Bullets self. Cliff Chiang's pencils are worth noting too. Although all of the female characters are drawn within society's set parameters of female beauty, Diana gets to look more athletic than pneumatic. It may be too early in Azzarello's run to get excited about his Wonder Woman. But there's something exciting about a book that aims for Mount Olympus while so many others settle for the gutter and a pretty thin conception of grit.

I feel as if a link to this Dresden Codak comic about Wonder Woman's costume is only appropriate: Why Cleavage Is Bad For Crimefighting

A Very Merry X-Oween

It's not an original sentiment, but... the X-Men the Animated Series intro is just balls out awesome, isn't it? Seriously, I want to loop that song and play it for 20 minutes whenever I run. Things would quickly go south however when I confuse myself with Rogue and attempt to fly off the curb while punching the air, but with the healing powers of Wolverine (or my delusions of such) I would quickly recover and finish my run. Or at least limp home to the X-Mansion, aka my house.

On a related note, I am strongly considering making Rogue my 2011 Halloween costume of choice. Unfortunately, one thing is kind of stopping me. Three syllables, starts with a vowel, heavily featured in American Apparel catalogues... no, not areola. That's four syllables. I'm talking "unitard." I mean, for 19.95 I can buy a green unitard from Value Village that promises, somewhat sinisterly, "one size fits most." Judging from the model photo though, a more accurate description would be "gives cameltoe to all." Oh well, slap some yellow spandex patches on it, add some superfluous belts, bleach a streak in my hair, and I'll be cooking like early '90s classic Rogue.

Lucille by Ludovic Debeurme- Review

The teenager, whether as subject, intended audience or both, has been well-served by graphic novels. Well, well-served in quantity, at least, but not so much in quality. Nearly every adult superhero team has a youth league (Teen Titans, Generation X, Young Avengers, etc.) but when Batman angsts more than a sixteen year old, the actual teens can seem like toddlers. Which is why Ludovic Debeurme's Lucille is so surprising and necessary.

Originally published in French by Futuropolis in 2006, Lucille appeared in English earlier this year through Top Shelf Comics. If you were expecting, based on its continental heritage, lush backgrounds and smoothly symbolic figures, you'll be disappointed. This isn't that kind of bande dessiné. But if you've read King Cat Comics and liked John Porcellino's minimalist, sketchy illustrations, you'll probably enjoy the kind of style Debeurme is working with. And it's a good fit for the story, allowing readers the space to mix their own experiences with those of the characters.

That kind of projection will be more effective if you're either still in, or still reeling from, your that time. Hopefully, few of you are as put-upon as Vladimir (né Arthur) and Lucille though. Vladimir is the scion of a long line of suicidal Poles and Lucille is an anorexic French girl. But this isn't an issue-driven YA novel, with no hotline phone number on the back page. Lucille and Vladimir are written like plausible, intelligent and troubled teenagers. That is: As people who are more articulate on the interior than they can express to the exterior. It's not surprising then that Debeurme leans heavily on interior monologues instead of dialogue, but pages completely free of text are common too. Coupled with Debeurme's aversion to the square, thickly bordered look of the traditional comic panel, Lucille feels like a graphic novel that's fighting against traditional expectations of the form while still having to work within some of them. And that's not unlike your average teen's life experience, helping this book to become one of the truer, sadder looks at those in-between years.

On a related note for Toronto folks, two events of note are coming up:
Canzine Toronto, which should have some great indie comics for sale, among other artifacts of the zinely sciences (October 23, 2011)
Toronto Draws Tintin, in honour of everyone's favourite Belgian, which features history, local artists, and provides support for the Comic Legends Legal Defense Fund. (November 2-27, 2011)

I Love Legends Comics

Pictured: Nerd Alley

There's a particular section of Victoria's Johnson Street, from Douglas to, say, Government that I've taken to calling Nerd Alley. It features two comic book stores, a collectible store (in other words, a toy store for items that are not to be toyed with), two stores for WarHammer figure painters, and one used bookstore. Even the bookstore focuses on the occult, SciFi, and Ayn Rand. If they only added a bubble tea place to the block, it would be possible for any nerd to live, quite happily, in a block-square area of town.

Or at least it would be possible for me to live in a one-block radius, if I didn't hate Ayn Rand and her brand of cuckoo con-objectivism so much. But, from 5:15pm to 5:40pm on Wednesdays, I do anyways. That's because it's New Comic Book Day, and I have an unofficial appointment to be at my preferred of the two comic book stores at that time, begging for the latest issue of Sweet Tooth. Legends Comics is the best, because there are no action figures or licensed T-shirts, just comic books and graphic novels crammed into every conceivable corner and surface. The one area which doesn't have some kind of literature on it is only there, so you can park your coffee and not spill anything on the paper that's everywhere else.

Along with their stock, Legends also has Gareth and Lloyd, the owners. Gareth knows my name and always tells me that I'm awesome. Lloyd, on the other hand, still asks me if I live in town. This is in spite of the fact he's heard Gareth say I'm awesome at least a half-dozen times, so he should know that A. I live in Victoria, and B. am awesome. You might think this means I like Lloyd less than Gareth, but that's not true. Okay, so Gareth does have an edge, but that's as much for his expert lettering on The Perogy Cat as for his weekly validation of my worth. Really, G and L are the yin and the yang of customer-proprietor relationships. On the one hand, the soothing mother's milk where somebody knows your name and the books you like. On the other, the bracing two buck chuck of mild indifference that you yearn to impress away.

I might even be making progress on the latter: Lloyd now knows my name, and even dug through boxes to find an issue of this month's The Unwritten for me. This is a book I've found uneven in the past, alternately gripping and perplexing, but this month's instalment had my complete attention. There's a plot featuring an intelligent, brittle pulp fiction writer, blessed with a schnozz, and the hard-boiled man who loves her. For self-evident reasons, I'm a sucker for those.

Straight White Girls Drinking Coffee #5: Marty Trail in Magnificent Marmots

Yes, the place who scanned this cut off a few words. No, I can't bring it back. Why? Because I damaged the original. Just make up your own words, okay?

Anyway, if you don't know why Mark Trail is, now is the time to brush up on everyone's favourite smuggler-punching park ranger, and his hideously-skulled family. Check out the Comics Curmudgeon's archive here.

And find out more about the Vancouver Island Marmot here.

(Click to enlarge)

Please Check Out Criminal: The Last of the Innocent

Those waiting for that gritty Archie reboot had two choices, up until this year. Either read so far into their Double Digests that even university professors would shake their heads, or try to track down a copy of Return to Riverdale, the live-action TV movie that featured a ten-years-older Archie, Betty and Veronica in dueling lingerie, and a sexy Big Ethel. Unfortunately, Return to Riverdale also showcased rapping single dad Jughead and his hellspawn*, so few ever chose the latter.

God, why?

However, Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips heard their prayers, or at least read their fan fiction, and so the newest story arc of Criminal was born. Criminal: The Last of the Innocent has only released one issue so far, but I would recommend buying that first book and any others. Phillip's art transitions easily between his usual hard-boiled chiaroscuro and a more cartoonish, Dan DeCarlo-inspired look. Brubaker's writing, in contrast, keeps to a straight, bitter line. Richie Richards/Archie Andrew's youth is as full of sex and lies as his adulthood, even as the stakes have gotten higher, leading to the intriguing- if depressing- conclusion that the innocence of childhood is more a matter of perception than reality.

*I know this because I own Return to Riverdale on DVD. Thank you, Canadian Tire $2.99 movie bin.

Paying For It: The Hidden Costs of Chester Brown

There's some R-rated content in this post. Please stop reading if you're underage, squeamish, or my Mom.

I bought Chester Brown's Paying for It when it came out a few months ago, read it in a night, felt dirty, showered, tried writing about it, showered again and then palmed it off a friend so he could read it as well.

So, I've had a pretty good excuse for not writing about it (no source text to refer back to), and it's not like I really need to anyway- reviews appeared everywhere, from the expected likes of The Comics Journal, to the more pedigreed pages of the New York Times Review of Books. Thirty years ago, the NYT would have never run a review of a graphic narrative, much less one about a john waxing autobiographical, and particularly not one that would move the reviewer to describe the author as looking like "a praying mantis with testicles." That reads like progress to me. Comics: Not just for kids! ... SERIOUSLY, the children will be traumatized.

Mostly, I found that the reviews spoke more to Paying for It's merits as a polemic, and any conclusions to the reviewer's own position on prostitution. Compare this negative review by Matt Seneca to the positive one in the Times, "But I would hope that righteous, human indignation at Brown's exploitation of a pre-existing problem will flare up and remain as long as it can..." versus "Mr. Brown’s illustrated memoir is exactly what it sounds like, a frank and guileless account of his predilection for paying women to have sex with him."

Likewise, my ambivalence about Paying for It could be a reflection of my own ambivalence about prostitution. As a good quasi-Third Waver, the kind who has picked up at least one copy of Bust, I know I'm supposed to be pro-sex work, but practically I remain suspicious of the actual power dynamics in many sex-for-cash transactions.

Sidenote: This is an ambiguity that was strengthened by my year spent toiling in one of the dustier reaches of the smut world. Not as a sex worker (or, as Brown so charmingly calls them, a whore), but as a porn reviewer. I would go from reading some porn star's bio, where she would claim how liberating her career was, to seeing videos of her getting brutally DPed. Now, those guys, like most male pornstars, would have been paid significantly less than our busty babe for that scene. But all that- the salaries, the personal manifestos, the hopes, the anti-itch creams, form a context that is likely uninteresting to the average viewer. Because, if you ponied up 40$ a month for a site called DoubleStuffedSluts.com (or whatever), you know what you want. And that's not a fully actualized woman- it's what's in the sitename.

Even if I could suppress my personal shudder factor though, I doubt I would like Paying for It any better. The 40$ cover price in effect buys you two books- the graphic memoir portion, and the hand-written essay on why prostitution should be decriminalized in the back, but neither justifies forty bones. Or even twenty.

Let's start with the Appendix. It's a frustrating read, showing that Brown has done his research, and documented it in full. However, that documentation is also a map of a certain kind of logical thinking, the kind that blazes a path straight through any uncomfortable conclusions to a self-serving destination. For example, Brown works through every experience he had with foreign-seeming prostitutes, just to see if he was somehow involved with trafficked women. And of course, he decides that he never was. The most irritating piece of evidence was that one of the brothels had an ugly prostitute, which in Brown's mind meant they were necessarily all voluntary employees, because why would sex traffickers pick up an uggo? That's not his exact wording- Brown often strikes a tone of stilted chivalry- but is his general point.

I would say it's perfectly likely that, while sex traffickers would prefer conventionally attractive women, they would still find a use for a "monster in a miniskirt." Some guys need a cheaper lady. Some genuinely like women who look like that (please see above for how I would know this.) Either way, they're going to be able to exploit someone. I have no evidence that was the case when Brown paid them a visit, but at least I will admit that I don't know, unlike Brown, who knows he is right all of the time, and would like you to know that too.

Few policies are wrong, or misguided in this appendix-they're all EVIL. It seems to be one of Brown's favourite words after "whore." And even when he's found some individual cases of evil outcomes- like the abuses in Nevada's system of legalized prostitution- he extrapolates from these incidents to write off more general ideas. Just because it's done one way in Nevada, does it follow it would have to be the same way in Ontario? Brown says yes- next point please.

Even if you skipped the last half of the book and focused on the part with pictures, Paying for It disappoints. In Louis Riel Chester Brown's simplified faces and frozen forms seemed epic, allowing the reader to impose and explore their own interpretations of the Métis hero in their blankness. Here, they just feel small and unfinished. The decision to obscure the prostitute's faces is more problematic, even if it is understandable. Few of the women could probably be found at this point to give their consent to be drawn, and it seems like those Brown actually asked, didn't. But it's hard not to see the parade of prostitutes as anything but tits and ass when that's all you see of them.

Oh, Chester Brown, I love The Playboy and Louis Riel so much, that maybe I'm seeing too many flaws with Paying for It in comparison. Or maybe I just resent making a contribution to the Chester Brown Gets Laid Fund. Either way, I'll be shelving this one in the back, covered by better books, but at least not by a brown paper bag.

Straight White Girls Drinking Coffee #4

Click to make readable.

This one is dedicated, with love, to my brother and his girlfriend.
But seriously, you know your relationship is in trouble if you're thinking of watching Arli$$. Shudder.

Straight White Girls Drinking Coffee #3: I Was Almost a CBC Star!

Ah, finally. The comic strip I promised two weeks ago. I know it's a little wordy, but there was a lot of exposition to get out in this strip. If you're not Canadian, or neglect to tune your radio to CBC, you might be confused. Here are some references, should you require them:

• The Next Chapter, with Shelagh Rogers (book show)
• Q, with Jian Ghomeshi (Canadian arts magazine show)
• Peter Mansbridge (The Voice, The Pate, The Man)
• On the Island (Vancouver Island morning show)

Click to make readable.

The stuff about Ghomeshi and I reproducing is (mostly) a joke. Please no restraining orders. And congrats to Lindsay Cochrane of Toronto, who'll be talking about Guy Delisle's Pyongyang on The Next Chapter. Kick ass and get the good word about graphic novels out there!

Straight White Girls Drinking Coffee #2

Errr, evidently I didn't erase my pencil marks completely before getting this scanned. And I'm not at work, so I can't borrow their Photoshop for the duration of my break for a quick fix. Just ignore the ghostly pencil marks, then. It's meta-commentary. About the physicality of the strip.

Next week: True Confession: I Was (Almost) A CBC Star!

Comic Strips!

A few months ago on this blog, I was complaining about "Straight White Guys Buying Milk" comics, my term for indie comics that revolve around the purchasing habits and general sadness of some scruffy, beleaguered cartoonist. Then I made up a joke script, which I finally got around to illustrating in my own awkward drawing style (I call it: Canadian Primitive. Canada Council Grant, please!)

But then I started to wonder- I am white, straight-ish, and the occasional purchaser of beverages. Just because I am a girl, would that make my navel-gazing comic strips any more insightful? So, I drew one (of a true story that happened to me just a few weeks ago) to find out. And the answer? No. Which should be a surprise to no one, although I certainly put more effort into drawing it.

You can judge for yourself which side of the indie comics coin is the best, below. Click on the strips to make them bigger. Then, vote in the poll to the right. I'll only cry a little bit if you choose A.

It's Election Time: Picking Graphic Novels for Canada Reads

"If we pick the wrong book, and they read it, they don't like it, they will never read again."

-Georges Laraque on Canada Reads

In the National Post article I posted yesterday, editor Mark Medly asks an interesting question of the comic book cognescenti: “Can you think of another comic or graphic novel that might have been better received by the Canada Reads panelists?” All three conclude that it was the type of book, and not the title- and that any graphic novel would have had a steep climb winning the affection of Debbie Travis.

I say Cooke, Heer and Butcher are giving up too easily. They need to learn from the way Americans do politics: with dedication and a firm belief in magical thinking. I'll leave the attack ads down South, but will adopt the American way of bloviating about "electability." For the uninitiated, that means focusing not on the inherent qualities of a candidate, but whether they're a candidate the public will vote for.

Now, I can't poll the judges of Canada Reads, but I have gleaned the lists of past nominees and winners and listened to a couple of this year's debates. I even thought about reading a few of the past winners, but when I saw Rockbound (2005 winner) described as "The Classic Novel of Nova Scotia's South Shore", I figured I would rather light my hair on fire. I also followed the format of Canada Reads and picked five candidates: quasi-Canadian Joe Matt's Spent, Chester Brown's Louis Riel, Jillian and Mariko Tamaki's Skim, Seth's Clyde Fans and Julie Doucet's My New York Diary.

Joe Matt- Spent:
Ah, the first sacrifice. While picking books for Canada Reads, I have to keep in mind that these must be books my Mom (a CR devotee) would read, and my Mom does not want to read about masturbation. Joe Matt wallows in his sex life and porn habit. And while it would be a treat to see some Canadian icon (or, at the very least, CBC host) talk about these issues, it will never happen. Furthermore, Joe Matt was only an illegal Canadian.

Jillian and Mariko Tamaki-Skim:

I rather like Skim, and think it did a great job of making the teenaged protagonist sound wry and intelligent instead of precious. But it wouldn't win Canada Reads. For a start, it's too short- and as Cooke pointed out, Canada Reads panelists love getting reading value, which I think they calculate by dividing the number of words by the book's trade paperback price. And I think the judges would also ghettoize it as a Young Adult book. What's the difference between YA and "real lit" books that happen to have a young protagonist? They're YA if the protagonist interacts mostly with people their own age, and "real lit" if they only observe adults.

Julie Doucet- My New York Diary
The Canada Reads folks love books with a strong sense of place. It needs to telegraph that it's a Montreal book, or a salty Maritime tale, or set in a Mennonite farming community in Ontario, to make the cut. And Doucet's book is definitely strong on place- too bad it's an American place. Sure, there are parts in a very recognizable Montreal, but Canada Reads is a little xenophobic. Doucet would get a few points for being French-Canadian, but she briefly defected to our Great Southern Enemy, and is thus dead to the jury. Also, her drawings might make some of the judges feel icky.

Seth-Clyde Fans
If Clyde Fans was a novel, it would probably win. Small-town Ontario, vintage setting, depression seeping from the pages like sebum from pores? That's CBC gold, baby! And Seth already has mad CanCon cred with all those Vinyl Café covers. However, Clyde Fans doesn't offer enough on top of its manifest sadness to overcome its graphic novel status- and Book 2 still needs to be collected.

Chester Brown- Louis Riel

One thing that struck me while listening to the Canada Reads debates is how seriously the judges take their mission (see above quote.) In the first debate of this year's competition, they worry endlessly over whether this or that book is essential. "Essential," I gather from the judges, doesn't have to do with the prose style, but whether the books deal with Important Issues that are Key to Canada's Past, Present, Future or (ideally) D. All Of The Above. And so, The Birth House can be used to comment on modern technology, per Debbie Travis, and The Best-Laid Plans will rescue us from political stagnation, per That CNN Guy.

Well, Louis Riel is a book full of Important Issues. There's the Important Issue of the Métis, the Important Issue of Riel's fraught place in Canadian history, the Important Issue of the fine line that divides madness from inspiration. Also, it's definitely a Manitoba book, and it's fairly hefty for a graphic novel. Length and a sense of place? That feels good in your hands while you're catching up on The Current on CBC. So, if you want a graphic novel with electability, vote for Louis Riel in '12.

Rumble Between the Panels: Canada Reads and Essex County

If you're Canadian and care about comic books, you might have heard: A graphic novel was one of the Canada Reads nominees this year, then was knocked off by the panel on the very first day. And although Essex County still won the People's Choice award, the way the book was treated on air has caused some consternation among comic books fans.

Then again, if there is one group of people known to consternate to the extreme, it's comic book nerds. A certain amount of distemper is to be expected. What is fascinating, though, is how mainstream the debate has come. In a panel printed in the (shudder) National Post, writer Darwyn Cooke gets testy when describing this year's judges:

"There was a British interior designer, an ex-pat CNN talking head, a Native Canadian fifth billed sitcom star, a pop singer/songwriter and so on*. It seems obvious the CBC was more interested in making the group seem like whatever Canadians call a hip celebrity jury than recruiting relevant or critical thinkers."

Cooke and the other panelists (store manager Christopher Butcher and journalist/critic Jeet Heer) shouldn't rend their garments just yet, though. Getting to read this kind of comic book talk in a national newspaper shows that graphic novels are, at least fitfully, seen as something more than raw material for Hollywood blockbusters.

Perhaps denying Essex County the big award is better for graphic novels than slapping that 'winner' sticker on the cover. A win can be seen as an anomaly, barely mentioned and forgotten after a year. Cooke mentions in passing that Fun Home was Time's Book of the Year in 2006, but I doubt that many Time subscribers have picked up a graphic novel since then. By inciting a debate that's picked up by popular media, Canada Reads might have just proven, in spite of itself, that graphic novels are as interesting and valuable as their prose-only relatives.

Tomorrow: I pick up on a Jeet Heer comment from that same article to discuss the "electability" of various other Canadian graphic novels. For the rest of tonight: I go to a concert.

*As my co-worker rightly noted, Cooke left out "energy drink-shilling, Haitian-Canadian hockey pugilist and Green Party member." Or maybe Cooke realized that George Laraque's credentials made him seem kind of righteous.