April 14, 2007
Who Needs Robbi?
Emboldened by the flood of positive responses to the illustrations I posed in yesterday's entry (at least I assume this flood will soon be coming), I have decided to post my first two comics here.
The first was penned while sitting in Two Keys bar in Lexington a few weeks back. I cannot now recall why I was compelled to write a comic. As I remember, my system was straining to digest the mega ho triple. Perhaps sufficient blood had been diverted from my brain to aid the stomach in its monumental task. I cannot say. But here it is, a gripping modern parable titled The Problem Remains.
I wrote the second comic lying in bed a few nights back. I had not recently eaten, but it was about 3:00 in the morning, so I can blame fatigue for any fault you might find with this one. The title, though I did not realize it at the time, forms a nice bookend to comic #1. This one is called, The Problem is Solved. Looking forward to my comic writing and drawing career, I should pay heed to the fact that my impulse in conceiving comics seems to be problems and their resolution or lack thereof. Perhaps by waffling back and forth between these two extremes, I could keep my readers interested? The question reamins, would anyone ever tolerate my horribly rendered figures? Would anyone ever be able to read my tortured scrawl.
The Problem is Solved
I showed my comics to Robbi, hoping to demonstrate to her just how expendible she has become to me. I expected to see cold blue fear in her heart. Instead, there was something like pity.
In other news, the Satire and Comedy Festival here at Washington College is in full swing. Which means that I get to go to a reading by the amazing George Saunders today.
To promote the festival, the guy who organized the whole thing ordered a bunch of whoopie cushions printed with the festival logo. We lucked into a handful. Thinking it was probably time to educate Iggy on the virtues of practical jokes, we put a few under her "tuffet", the overstuffed round thing that sits by the front window.
Now, Iggy is such a gassy dog, that I wondered if she'd even notice when the things went off. To the contrary, she was quite terrified, sprang backward through space, leaving us wrenched with feelings of guilt and conflict. Would she ever love her tuffet again?
The answer was yes, though the next time she lay down upon it she was careful, canny. She gave us one of those long sideways admonitory glances. We felt contrite.
In moments, all was forgiven or maybe just forgotten.
Posted by bogenamp at 10:16 AM | Comments (0)