Joe Average #3

I don't recall sending issue #2 off to anyone and I have no evidence that I did, so it's right on to #3, where I've obviously invested a little more effort in the visuals:

Joe Average #2

Besides handing out copies of Joe Average #1 to friends, I had also mailed off a couple of them. One went to a publication called Small Press...somethingsomething, a newsprint fanzine that ran reviews of all of the comics that they were sent.  In the end they said they had a handful of submissions that were so "visually dreadful" that they weren't even going to bother to read them. Listed there was Joe Average #1.  Ouch?  Oddly enough, some people read that and sent me money for an issue anyway, proving that even among the small press there were rebels bucking the system, no matter how tenuous that system was.

The other issue went to Matt Feazell, who responded in a much kinder fashion:

This was pretty cool, considering I was blatantly and nearly totally ripping off his "shtick".            
(!(OOOOF!!!))

So then it was on to the next issue, a little cleaner and a tiny bit more ambitious:

Joe Average #1

Apparently it was 1987.  I had been reading and collecting comics for a while right around the time that the medium saw its great surge into the pop culture consciousness.

Among all of the things that rose with that ocean were the independent creations, including minicomics.  At some point I received a how-to minicomic from the king of stick figure minicomics at the time, Matt Feazell, creator of Cynicalman.  I decided to give it a go and throw my hat into the giant and, at the time, still-growing ring.

Keep in mind that this obviously wasn't much more than a go at simple execution.  I surely wasn't trying to be the Picasso of the small press...not yet.  The ugly mistake on the cover that I didn't bother to actually redraw proves that:

To Art Or Not To Art

As I once again tilt at the great windmill known as ART, something that I've been doing off and on again throughout most of my existence, I occasionally wonder what it is that keeps throwing me off the path.  Hearing about others' experiences it seems that the causes tend to be external, that someone else puts the squash on their dreams, sometimes by only being unsupportive.

I can't say that was the case with me, certainly not early on.  When I toyed with the idea of being a visual artist my parents bought me one of those tilting drawing tables (still have it) and rolling chairs (sittin' on it).  But at some point I flattened that fucker and have only used it since as just a table.

But today as I thought back to those days I was reminded of what (little) I had accomplished seated there, and that made me dig out the archives and realize that I should share this stuff here.  So starting tomorrow I'll be showing some early output from that period:  mini-comics!

Though this is an obvious avoidance of the question first raised here, it should be fun!

Epilogue

As the years rolled on and more Intelligence Heads took their place as the great, sleepless machine maneuvered them into place, it was a common mental exercise for them to pull the files on this particular case and puzzle over what had gone wrong and what ultimately took place.  None of them got very close to an answer.

However, decades after the actual incident one did pay some added attention to an item that had barely been seen by most, a letter that was written from the subject to his brother shortly after those events beyond his control and understanding had suddenly taken hold of him and begun to shunt him into his intended slot.

It was a confessional of sorts, where he made many apologies for more than he was responsible for and grasped in a rather random fashion at many different possible excuses for things that needed none.  Nested in all of this was what could be taken as a type of philosophy, an underlying theme that seemed to the reader to suddenly crystallize a new meaning to the events that transpired.

He wrote of what was a fundamental need to rebel, and not just against the authorities around him, who he could easily see had been invested with arbitrary powers enforcing senseless laws for little reason, but a rebellion against whatever was running the entire show.  And it was clear to the reader in this case that he was not only calling out the machine and its workings, but even beyond that, to any authority in charge of the universe itself.

It seemed he resented the very setup of the whole, that being unaware of what the goal of life in general was could be taken as some sort of wicked abuse of power on the part of whatever wielded it.  And more, if there were some way to, as he put it, read the writing on the stars and know what the true purpose of this insane existence was, he would feel the need to do all that he could to do otherwise, to reject the very laws of reality, for he felt that inevitably they were written by someone or something with a narrow vision who never understood the whole of the thing and so the law that they had written was biased and ignorant regardless of how lofty they may hold it.

And then the key grew more solid with the next bit:  that if the point of life was simply to be, to experience whatever may come, be it good or bad, he would then do whatever he could to not live it at all, to not participate in any of it to the best of his abilities, simply to put a thumb in the eye of whomever came up with the twisted game as it stood.

So, as others had speculated about the unknown details of what had taken place, as to how he had not only rejected the path that had been laid for him but had actually disappeared altogether in a world where it was impossible (even if he had executed himself there was no evidence, no body, nothing), and they ran their minds in circles trying to discover the how of it, this Intelligence Head, having read this letter many times and absorbed its deeper message, realized what is was that he had accomplished.

It was as if he had been a character in a book and instead of following the handful of (limited) options offered by his tale, had simply walked off of the page entirely.

Where Was She?

It wasn't as though she was his favorite waitress of all time.  There had been that one conversation early on that flirted with the downright hostile which could have made everything very uncomfortable ever after.  But a man's relationship with his server can run deep, what with the whole mothering aspect of it, taking care of the needs and wants and such, and she was good at it, she had a handle on what those needs were.  The substitute this morning was definitely lacking in that regard.  She had no eyes for his empty coffee cup, no matter how close to the edge of the table he placed it.  It was lamely frustrating on the whole.

He was reading, as usual, but at some point found himself unable to absorb the words.  It was a while before he realized that it was because of the conversation in the booth next to him.  There was something about, what?  A rarity around here, some horrible murder?  He listened as they described what had happened including some odd little detail that made it all the more outstanding for the teller and listener alike.

That detail sent him off into memory immediately. What was it?  He had heard something similar once.  Where had it been?  Then he remembered. It was a conversation that had grown out of the waitress acknowledging his reading habit, something that no one else indulged in at the diner.  She decided to share with him her preferred type of books, ones about true crime murders, and usually ones with some extra twisted attraction about them.  She had shown him one of the books that she had checked out from the local library, with those odd pictures of the victims and perpetrators, where their black and white, old-timey nature tended to contrast with the seemingly modern wickedness of the deeds.  It wasn't really his thing, so he had just scanned quickly through, looking at those evocative shots, but there was that detail in one of the crimes, the same exact thing that had just apparently happened here in this usually quiet town.

And now the question took its first little turn down that dark road which it would continue upon, getting blacker and more terrifying as he kept up its pursuit.

Where was she?

Suddenly....

Winter descends like mishandled ladle of thick gravy from the heavens.

Move along.