Adam & I are attending ECCC 2015!

Hello, and holy smokes it’s been too long since I’ve posted on this site! I’m surprised I still have the domain name, actually. Anyway…


AMELIA COLE writers Adam P. Knave and I will be tabling at Emerald City Comicon this year with artist Vaughn Baker. Stop by tables A-17 & A-18 to say “hi” and get the IDW Publishing AMELIA COLE trades, ARTFUL DAGGERS trade, THE BIGGER BANG issues 1 – 4, and Dark Horse Comics‘ NEVER ENDING scribbled on in permanent Sharpie!


COMIKAZE EXPO! Nov 1 – 3! AMELIA COLE trades, prints, and more!

I’ll be at COMIKAZE EXPO this weekend, table AA826 covered with copes of IDW‘s AMELIA COLE AND THE UNKNOWN WORLD trade, some amazing Nick Brokenshire Amelia and Lemmy prints, my last copies of DO YOU BELIEVE IN NINJAS?, and more! Please stop by, buy things, and spread the word! Thanks!


Luck From Above

It’d been at least six months since my last haircut. For me, this means a Gene Wilder-esque mess of tangled madness floating around my head, barely attached, with the number of gray and white hairs increasing each second, constantly closer to overtaking the brown ones I’m really going to miss. It was time for a cut.

My new-ish apartment is in-between two barber shops in the same chain, about two miles away from each. Normally I’d drive, but my roommate insisted it was a fine walk. While I’d been conditioning myself to spend days at a time indoors, hunched over a computer, internetting my life away, movement is something my body probably needs way more of than I’m willing to give it on a regular basis. Taking this into account, I slathered sun block on all exposed parts of my body and headed out into the world, going the healthy route, despite my fear of sunlight and sweating.

A walk through my neighborhood is a celebration of smells and sounds one normally would not celebrate. So far, my experience is that it’s not a particularly bad neighborhood, but the frequent sirens singing and low flying helicopters dancing, paint a different story. It’s got, uh, character.

That character was even more apparent on the hot summer day walk to get the crazy madness atop my head shorn. Aside from fear of sweating in all the places I really dislike sweating (meaning all the places), it was fine. I’d decided I’d made the correct decision to walk instead of drive when I was upon a street lamp at the corner.

And I felt the air rush past my face, something hitting my messy nest of hair right before sounds of thunder plops exploding about me.

I cursed everything that is curseable and debated running my hands through my mop top. But I didn’t… because I was fairly certain there was bird shit in it. I tried to enjoy the great outdoors, and that quest for joy had been shat upon by nature.

My leisurely stroll became a speed walk. The only fortunate thing was that my destination was a barbershop/salon kinda place. They charged extra for shampooing… I wondered if there was a bird poo charge on top of that.

Now the sweat was really pouring off of me… my unkempt hair all a-crazy, likely now housing the white poop of our fine-feathered fiends from above. Clean, flip-flop and fanny pack wearing tourist gave me the same look I gave that very serene-looking guy I saw walking and peeing down the sidewalk near my neighborhood one time. I was one of those characters who give my neighborhood character.

When I reached the barbershop, there was a wait. Covered in sweat and my version of self-actualization, I went to the men’s room to inspect my hair. While it was a mess, I found no bird poop. Perhaps… I’d just felt the air of it whizzing by? Well, that was a relief.

I was called to a chair, and the hair cutter was a very relaxed, nice lady who loved dancing, talking about how she loved dancing, and who also seemed to have no problem with bird shit. She said it was lucky, but also confirmed there was none on my hair.

As I was sitting, the apron over me, I rested my hand on my leg… and found where the bird shit had hit me. For the first time in my lifetime of getting my hair cut, I asked for a moment to go to the bathroom to wash bird poop off my jeans. She, again, was fine with it, saying she thought it was cool stitching on my jeans when she saw me sitting down. Nope. Poop. From a bird. Bird poop.

When I returned, large wet spot on my pants leg where the dropping had been, hands washed and re-washed at least three times, she kept on chit chatting like it was no big deal. It even turned out she was from the same county of Ohio as I was, which is a wacky coincidence to cap off my wacky non-adventure.

As I left, she reassured me that being pooped upon by a bird is good luck. For me personally, the jury is still out on that one.

Common Sense? Or TRIUMPH?

So, last night, as I do every night, I ate food. This meal is one I call “dinner.” Some call it “supper,” but that sounds like it should only be said with a refined Southern accent to my way of thinking, so I call it “dinner.” Or “din-din.” Or “dying alone slowly alone while watching TV alone… and usually drinking beer…alone.”

Anyway, like I often do, I ordered a pizza. Pizza Hut (or Pizza “Slut” as my bro used to say way back when he worked there in the days of our youth). A large. I usually go with some tasty local places (Victor Jr’s, La Rocco’s) or even Papa John’s (when I get a good coupon via email, because, yeah, I get Papa John’s deal emails), but Pizza Slut appealed to me on that particular evening.

The ‘za (as I sometimes call “pizza” as a joke*, often with “brah” following it for extra humor**) arrived approximately when it was scheduled to, which was swell. And it tasted about how I expected. Now, some folks might make fun, but Pizza Hut was the classy pizza in my town growing up, so I will not make fun of the stuff. I find it delicious.

My usual is to order a ‘za brah, eat about half of it, and then decide to save the rest for later. …At that point, there is always a struggle that lasts about thirty seconds, and I cave, eating the entire pizza pie. The resulting pain and discomfort is something I never remember during the devouring process.

Last night, however, I ate half and… decided to leave it at that. I stuck to my guns. I was very proud of myself, then inconsolably saddened and terrified by the fact that I feel proud for only eating HALF A LARGE PIZZA. Still… my stomach didn’t hurt, and yet I was no longer hungry. I hope to apply this way of thinking to my life henceforth, but I don’t know if I trust myself when confronted with pizza. History will tell if this triumphant bit of common sense was an isolated incident.

I pray it is not, though, as I don’t want to have to buy new clothes and am increasingly unhappy with pictures of me on Facebook. Also, stairs. Good lord! Am I right?

And don’t say I should eat fruit or vegetables or something instead of pizza. I need to work my way to true healthiness slowly and carefully, so I’m starting with trying to defeat my inherent gluttony. Wish me luck. Or don’t. Up to you.

* Like many weird words and phrases I use, “za brah” started as a joke — but I now sometimes say it without remembering I was making fun of it when I first started saying it. (See also: “dude,” “bro,” “dudebro,” and “brovoloni with cheese.”)

** Or “humour” if you are British.

Come see me at the Image Expo February 24-26!

It blows my mind that Image Comics first blew my mind 20 years ago. TWENTY YEARS!!!

In celebration, they are rocking out their own convention, and I’m happy to report I’ll be there! If you’re attending (and if you’re near or able to get to Oakland, love comics, independent spirit, creativity, and good times, you should), please stop by table 304! I’ll be signing and selling what is probably my last batch of the Eisner and Harvey award winning POPGUN anthologies, copies of the AGENTS OF THE W.T.F. one-shot, and, of course, DO YOU BELIEVE IN NINJAS? (All linked for those of you who can’t make it to the Expo.) If that wasn’t enough, awesome ALPHA GIRL, DARK HORSE PRESENTS, and POPGUN artist Robert Love will also be making a guest appearance at the table, which is even more incentive to stop by!

Celebrate creativity! Celebrate comics! Buy my books so I don’t have to lug them back home!